“You must understand, though, that this is not entirely about the Duchess. We’re all going her way. We are, not you. We’re not all going to suffer from dementia, of course, but we are dying of old age, in our own ways, in our time. We’ve all come out here to die, for ten or twenty or forty or sixty years. Who knows. This place has a purpose, and it is not your purpose.

“If one wanted to wax philosophical, one might say that you’re dying too, but not like we are. So, my lamb, as warmly as I and Rose and many of us may feel toward you, this is, to put it simply, not your business. This is no place for you. Now I really must go in. You may keep the handkerchief.”

I twist the white cotton and watch her walk away. She’s so small it’s almost like she’s being carried like a piece of pollen in the air.

Sobbing, grimacing, I dig my toe into the dirt. This is how I knew it was going to go. My mind replays it but it doesn’t change. I can’t even force the image of my having said the right thing, granted a seat at the back or space to stand, being allowed to listen, raising my hand when both sides have had their hearing and the motion is finally raised. I can’t see my hand going up to let her go or let her stay and wait.

I head the rest of the way north to the Oceanic. At least, for once, finally, I’ll have a chance to really be alone with her. The sea spreads out beyond the lawn, sapphire blue and sparkling incessantly like a Diana Ross drag queen. I head up the wide staircase and across the big porch, which I’ve never seen empty before, even at night, up the stairs and into the Duchess’s room. White flowers, white walls—the breeze through the big window dilutes the pollen’s perfume. I sit in my chair next to her, listening to the machines that breathe her lungs and beat her heart. I get my body to beat in time with hers, open my mouth like hers, close my eyes. And because I know it’s safe, that all the Swans are eulogizing and yea- or nay-ing down at the chapel, I lift her thin white blanket, and, being careful of her tubes and sacks and things, crawl into bed with her, into the scent of the flowers, and the clack, bleep, suck, drop of her life support, and the breeze, and her soft, warm body. Even she won’t stay with me, not even if I beg.