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relief.” She had been looking out at the pool, but now she turned. “Even though I was terrified, I thought, ‘It will be good to die and get this over with.’”

      Analiese realized her concern must have shown, because Charlotte hurried on.

      “I would never, never take my own life. You have to understand that. But when I realized living a long full life was probably out of my hands? I just wanted to close my eyes and wait for the end. My grandmother used to tell me death was the last mountain we have to climb, and just before she died, she opened her eyes and looked toward the window in her bedroom as if she were viewing a miracle.”

      “That must be a good memory.”

      “When the doctor told me my diagnosis? I thought about that day and about the look on her face, and I found myself hoping that she hadn’t really been looking at the gates of heaven, that there really wasn’t anything waiting for any of us except eternal sleep. That’s when I realized what a loss my life has been.”

      When she didn’t know what to say, Analiese knew not to say a thing. She was almost certain this was not the moment for reassurance, although it felt wrong not to give it.

      “I have to change things,” Charlotte said at last. “I realize whatever time I’ve been given, whether it’s months or years, I can’t die knowing I’ve made so many mistakes and never tried hard enough to set them right. I realize dying’s not about what comes next, because no matter how great or poor our faith, we really can’t know what’s waiting, or at least I can’t. For me it’s about what came before. The impact we had. The love we gave. The hearts we left intact…” She cleared her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. “Or broken.”

      “I hope you aren’t saying that you’ve done nothing important with your life until now. Because you’ve given generously in many ways.”

      “Too often for the wrong reasons.” Charlotte held up her hand to stop Analiese from continuing. “I realize nothing’s that cut and dried. I’ve done things because I knew they were important and right, and sometimes they were. But I’ve done so many things that seemed right and were terribly, terribly wrong. Like moving poor Minnie off her land. And here’s how I know. When I found out I was dying, I realized there wasn’t one person in the world who would really care. That I’ve lived fifty-two years, and while some people will feel conflicted, or even a little bit sad, no one will really miss me. Not because people are cruel, but because I haven’t given them a reason to.”

      Analiese would have given almost anything to be able to contradict her, but not only wasn’t that the right approach, she was afraid what Charlotte had just said was true.

      Who would miss Charlotte at the Church of the Covenant? The council and committee members whose opinions she had too often ignored or overlooked? The staff who winced whenever she approached with a new list of jobs or, worse, helpful advice on how to do their present ones?

      And what about the rest of Charlotte’s contacts? She was said to have an iron grip at Falconview, with an annual exodus of staff who fell out of favor or disagreed with her one time too many. She’d served on boards all over town, but despite the advantages she brought of insight, financial support and prestige, she routinely tried the patience of administrators and board members alike.

      Then, of course, there was her family, who were never mentioned, despite the fact that they lived right here in Asheville.

      “Why haven’t you?” Analiese asked. “Why haven’t you allowed anybody to get close?”

      “That would take longer to tell than we have now.”

      “But it sounds like you understand, at least a little?”

      “I had nothing but time when I was hooked up to those IVs at Duke. Everybody should be shut up alone in a room for weeks, with nothing to do but reconsider their lives.”

      “And it wouldn’t hurt to have an actual death sentence to urge them on.”

      “It’s quite the motivator.”

      Analiese felt for the right words. “I admire you. I admire this—this desire to set things right, to reevaluate, even though your life could be nearing its end. But, Charlotte, are you trying to make a bargain with God?”

      “No, I think God’s better than that.”

      “This is a lot to admit to, especially to someone you’ve butted heads with in the past.”

      “That’s what makes you perfect, Analiese. Because if you ever had anything to lose by being honest with me, you’ve lost it already. So I think I can count on you to continue being honest, to pull me up short if I go off half-cocked, to help me live out whatever time is left in a way that won’t come back to haunt me on my deathbed. That’s what frightens me most. That one day in the not so distant future I’ll have only moments to look back on my life and nothing I’ll see will give me comfort.”

      Charlotte leaned closer. “I know I’m asking a lot, more than I should. You’ve probably already guessed one thing I want to try to set right before I die.”

      “Minnie? You tried to give me money for the animal shelter….”

      “When I got home that night I wrote a check in her honor and sent it off, anyway. But you were right, that’s not what she would have done. It’s a worthy cause, and I’m glad I did it, but she would have acted in a way that mattered personally, reached out without thinking about the consequences. So I’ll be looking for more ways to do that myself. To honor her.”

      Analiese took Charlotte’s hands. It felt natural, although before today she could not have imagined touching Charlotte Hale spontaneously and with affection. “Do you want me to look for ways to help?”

      “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I think I’ll know the right things when I see them. I just wanted someone to know what I’m feeling. And I guess I just needed to say this out loud.”

      Analiese nodded, but she gripped Charlotte’s hands a little tighter and felt them soften in hers. “What else can I do?”

      “Will you let me tell you about my daughter?”

      Chapter Ten

      First Day Journal: April 30

      Each day at the park is like a human lifetime. Early in the morning everything sparkles with promise. Dew glistens on blades of grass; the sidewalks are empty pages sneakered feet have yet to write on. The air is still, as if a puff of breath from an angel’s lips is needed to set the day in motion.

      As morning progresses, the park begins to waken. Birds sing on branches, and young lovers walk hand in hand. On benches like mine, coffee’s consumed, newspapers unfolded, cell phones pulled from pockets for casual conversations. Two mothers push strollers and chat. The sun peeks through the leafy canopy.

      By afternoon balls whiz through the air and children shout commands. On the playground, mothers keep careful eyes on preschoolers who beg to swing higher. The climbing dome becomes a spaceship, the monkey bars an obstacle course over teeming pools of barracuda. The sun beats down on baseball caps and the open pages of books.

      When evening comes, stragglers take their time departing, as if sorry to move on to other things. Some scoop up trash and toss it in bins. Others scuff feet in newly planted grass, as if making sure to leave their mark. Darkness is kept at bay by strategically placed lights.

      In this way only is a day at the park different from a lifetime. No one and nothing can keep our darkness at bay, no matter how hard we try. I learned this in the hospital from a woman named Gwen, a powerful and uninvited lesson that haunts every step I take.

      It’s morning now, and I’ve been waiting an hour. Maddie isn’t here, although she often comes to the park on Saturdays. I wonder how many friends she has. Are other children frightened of her seizures? Do they shun her to avoid the possibility of witnessing one?

      Edna is here with her mother,

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