I wanted to ask if she remembered singing that last night. If she knew Mama’s hand had gone still right as the song ended. But I just sat there.

She patted my knee. “You here for your heart too?”

“Yeah. Just a check up.”

“Same. They keep telling me I’m doing fine for my age. I tell them to let me know when that changes.”

We sat quiet for a bit. I could hear the clock on the wall ticking. I kept thinking about how I should have said thank you back then. How I had practiced the words in my head for years and now here she was and nothing came out right.

A nurse called her name. She stood up slow, using the arm of the chair for balance.

“You take care,” she said. “Hope your heart’s all right.”

I watched her walk down the hall. She did not look back. I still had not told her it was me in that room. I still had not said the words I had carried all this time.

The receptionist called me next. I went in, got my blood pressure checked, answered the same questions I always answer. On the drive home I kept seeing her face when she talked about that girl by the bed. She had not known it was me sitting right there.

I got home and put the kettle on. The stone is still in my pocket. Heavier now, somehow. I keep wondering if I should have followed her down that hall or if leaving it alone was the kinder thing. I do not know which.

The kettle whistled sharp and I turned the stove off quick. Steam rose up and I could smell the tea leaves as I poured the water in. It was the same brand Mama used to keep in the cupboard back then, the kind with the little string tag.

I wrapped my hands around the mug and the heat felt good on my palms after the cold air outside.

I sat there thinking about her sleeve again. It was cotton, light blue with tiny flowers on it, and when I touched it my finger caught on a loose thread. I don’t know why I remember that part so clear. Maybe because everything else was moving so fast in my head.

She had said more than I let on at first. “Couldn’t stay in one place too long back then.” And before that, when I asked about Eleanor, she paused like she was pulling up a picture in her mind. “Her girl sat right there by the bed the whole time. Wouldn’t leave even to sleep.” Her voice got soft on that last part.

I should have told her right then. “That girl was me. And I never got to say thank you for what you did.” The words were sitting on my tongue but they stayed there. I just swallowed instead and watched her stand up when they called her name.