By the time he returned, Felicity stood beside Arthur’s chair.
The photograph lay face-down.
And his son was asking whether he would be put away next.
After Arthur’s confession about counting the photographs, Elias asked Clara to bring his dinner to the breakfast room.
Arthur looked alarmed.
“Am I leaving?”
The question stopped him.
“No,” Elias said. “We can stay here if you prefer.”
His son glanced around the table.
Eleven adults watched him with varying degrees of discomfort.
Arthur leaned closer.
“Can you come?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma too?”
Beatrice was already standing.
“Of course.”
Clara took the photograph only after Arthur reached for it and then changed his mind because he wanted both hands free.
Elias went with them.
Behind him, Felicity said his name.
He stopped at the doorway.
“We’ll speak after Arthur has eaten.”
“You’re making this look—”
He turned.
“My son is frightened. I’m going to sit with him.”
The breakfast room was smaller, with a round table overlooking the garden.
Beatrice moved a newspaper from a chair. Clara brought Arthur’s plate. Elias poured water and placed the silver frame where Arthur indicated.
Nobody asked him to finish telling the lake story.
For several minutes, they simply ate.
Then Arthur said, “I wasn’t trying to make her cross.”
“I know,” Elias answered.
“She said dinner wasn’t for sad things.”
Beatrice set down her fork.
“Were you feeling sad when you brought the picture?”
Arthur shook his head.
“I wanted to tell you about Dad falling.”
“Then that sounds like a funny thing.”
He considered this.
“But Mum’s in it.”
Elias felt the weight of that answer.
Somewhere along the way, his son had learned that anything containing his mother had to be classified as grief.
Even laughter.
Even a lost shoe.
Even a photograph of a happy afternoon.
“Your mother was funny,” Elias said.
Arthur looked at him.
“She cheated at cards.”
A small smile appeared.
“She said she was making it interesting.”
“She also told me the dog ate the last piece of lemon cake.”
