I use the guest bathroom to wash my hands before I administer her eyedrops. Whenever I go into that bathroom, I always want to linger, just to admire everything. The high arch of the gold faucet, the leaded glass of the window. The curtains are like nothing I’ve ever seen, some sort of translucent fabric, a pale gold in color. They are so full of presence they might as well speak. The marble floor is richly veined; the soap at the side of the sink always unmarred and delicately scented; the towels so plush.

Mrs. Peters uses a floral handkerchief to wipe her eyes delicately after the drops have gone in. We are sitting in the breakfast room: French decor in the traditional colors of blue and yellow, murals of the countryside on the walls.

“Have you ever eaten at the Four Seasons?” Mrs. Peters asks.

“No.”

“Really? Never?”

“It’s not exactly my kind of place.”

“Oh, but it’s wonderful. Really, you must try it some time. I’ll tell you what, I’m very good friends with the hotel manager. I’ll arrange for you and a friend to have dinner there, on the house. In fact, let me give you a weekend.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you. But I really can’t accept.”

She straightens, sits back in her chair. “I would like you to notice something, here.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You’ve been so kind to me. I’ve so much appreciated everything you’ve done.”

I laugh. “But that’s—”

“Myra.” She puts her hand over mine, looks directly into my eyes. “Please don’t make me explain how much your company has meant to me. Your care. I’m afraid it would be rather embarrassing for me.”

Before this moment, if you’d asked me if I mattered to this patient, I would have laughed and said no. But now I think of the times I’ve spoken to one or the other of her children, neither of whom has time for her. I think of the photographs I’ve seen in heavy metal frames in her house: no one sitting too close to one another; no one smiling from the inside out. I realize now that perhaps I am the one she’s most comfortable with, and it breaks my heart.

“This is much too generous, Mrs. Peters. But … all right. I’ll take you up on it.”

“I’m so glad. You’ll get a call from the concierge later today. I’ll arrange everything for you. You’ll just need to let him know the dates you want to come.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“I’m thrilled to do it for you, Myra.” She looks at her watch. “And now, I think my driver must be waiting.”