Free The Gate House by Nelson DeMille Page B

alone in the elevator, which took a long time to ascend one flight, during which I listened to a piped-in minute of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
—“Summer,” if you’re interested. I imagined the doors opening to a celestial landscape of white clouds and blue skies with pearly gates in the distance. I really needed a drink.
    The doors, in fact, opened to a floral wallpapered corridor, in which stood a Lady in White. She greeted me by name, and introduced herself as Mrs. Knight, then said, “Call me Diane.”
    “Hello, Diane.”
    “Follow me, please.”
    I followed her down the long corridor. Mrs. Knight seemed like one of those health care professionals who was both stern and gentle, a result, no doubt, of having to deal with every conceivable human emotion in the House of the Dying.
    She said to me as we walked, “Mrs. Allard is medicated for pain, so you may not find her as alert as you remember her.”
    “I understand.”
    “She is, however, lucid now, and all her mental faculties are intact.”
    “Good.”
    “Her pain is tolerable and manageable.”
    “That’s good.” I had the feeling I was supposed to be asking questions to elicit these statements, so I asked, “How are her spirits?”
    “Remarkably good.”
    “Many visitors?”
    “A few. Including your mother and your wife.”
    “My ex-wife.” I inquired, “They’re not here now, are they?”
    “No.” She glanced at my gift and said, “She’s going to love that Teddy bear.”
    Mrs. Knight stopped at a door and said to me, “I’ll go inside and tell her you’re here.” She added, “It’s very good of you to come all the way from London to see her.”
    “Yes, well . . . she’s a wonderful lady.”
    “Indeed, she is.”
    I wondered if there was another Ethel Allard here.
    Mrs. Knight was about to open the door, but I asked, “How long . . . ? I mean—”
    “Oh, I’d say about half an hour at most.”
    “Half an hour?”
    “Yes, then she gets tired.”
    “Oh. No, I meant—”
    “I’ll stick my head in every ten minutes.”
    “Right. What I meant . . . I’ll be in town for only a few more weeks, and I wondered if I’d have the opportunity to see her again.” Mrs. Knight was either not following me, or didn’t want to address the subject, so I asked bluntly, “How long does she have left to live?”
    “Oh . . . well, we never speculate on that, but I’d say the end is near.”
    “How near? Two weeks?”
    “Maybe longer.” She informed me, “Ethel is a fighter.”
    “Three?”
    “Mr. Sutter. I can’t—”
    “Right. I had an aunt once who—”
    “You have no idea what I’ve seen here. Death is the great mystery of life, and so much depends on attitude and prayer.”
    “Right. I believe that. I’ve been praying for her.” I need her house.
    Mrs. Knight looked at me and delivered what I guessed was a well-rehearsed piece of wisdom, saying, “It’s natural for us to want to hold on to our loved ones as long as possible. But that’s selfish. Ethel has made peace with her condition, and she’s ready to let go.”
    That sounded like one week, and I might need two more weeks in the gatehouse. I’d been encouraged by Mrs. Knight’s assertion that Ethel was a fighter, which seemed now to contradict this report that Ethel was ready to let go. Rather than ask for a clarification, I tried a new tack and said, “I’m also her attorney—in addition to being her friend—and there is some paperwork to be drawn up and signed, so perhaps I should speak to her doctor about her . . . remaining time.”
    She nodded and said, “Her attending physician here is Dr. Jake Watral.”
    “Thank you.” Maybe the key to my continued stay in the gatehouse was less in the hands of God or Dr. Watral and more in the hands of Amir Nasim, whom I should have called when I got here. Which prompted me to ask Mrs. Knight, “Has a Mr. Amir Nasim called on Mrs. Allard? Or phoned?”
    She shook her head and replied, “I’m not familiar with