Chapter 23: Henry's Door

The nurse manager on the labor ward held the first card against the wall with two fingers.

"Higher?" she asked.

"Eye level for a woman on her feet," I said.

She moved it down an inch.

It was a white card in a clear frame, and I had written the words myself, in my own hand, on the back of a sketch.

You never need permission to come in.

Under that, in smaller letters, was the name of the fund.

Henry's Door.

Patricia's check had paid for the first forty frames.

The sale of the house would pay for the rest.

A lawyer had said I could keep my money and walk away from the ward.

I had told her I was not walking anywhere.

"One for every room on this floor," the nurse manager said, "and the triage desk."

"And the waiting room."

She pressed the frame flat, stepped back, and read it again.

When she turned around her eyes were wet.

"We get so many who stay home too long," she said. "Because someone told them it was too soon."

"I know."

"Thank you for this."

I nodded because I could not speak.

I went out into the stairwell and sat on the third step until my breathing evened.

That evening, Miles came to the apartment I was renting.

It was one room over a bakery in Venice, with a bed, a table and a window.

He stood in the doorway with a paper bag.

"Dinner," he said. "One kind of pasta."

"Come in."

He set the bag on the table.

He did not unpack it.

He looked at the sketches taped to the wall, the cards I'd drawn for the fund in different colors.

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