The summer of Henry's last year was the hottest on record.
The tomatoes grew faster than ever. The basil was thick. The morning glories covered the water tank like a blanket.
Henry couldn't climb the stairs to the roof anymore. His walker wouldn't fit through the door. So Eleanor brought the garden to him.
Pots on the fire escape. Pots on the windowsill. Pots on the kitchen table.
"You're turning the apartment into a jungle," he said.
"It's a beautiful jungle."
He looked at the morning glories climbing the window frame. "They're trying to get out."
"They want to see the sun."
"The sun is outside."
"The sun is everywhere."
He took her hand. His fingers were thin. The bones were prominent.
"I love you, Eleanor."
"I love you, Henry."
---
He died on a Tuesday.
Eleanor was in the kitchen, making soup. She heard him call her name.
She ran to the bedroom.
He was sitting up in bed. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.
"Henry?"
"Hold my hand."
She held his hand. It was cold.
"I'm scared," he said.
"I'm here."
"I know."
He looked at the window. The morning glories were open. Blue and purple and white.
"The garden," he said. "It's beautiful."
"It's beautiful."
He squeezed her hand. Then his grip loosened.
His eyes stayed open.
She closed them with her fingers.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't cry. She just sat.
---
Mr. Chen came up. He had heard her call.
"Mrs. Patterson," he said. "What happened?"
"He's gone."
Mr. Chen stood in the doorway. His hands were at his sides.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Thank you."
"Do you want me to call someone?"
"Not yet."
He nodded. He left.
Eleanor sat with Henry until the sun went down.
---
The funeral was small.
Rose came. She was old now. Her hair was white. She walked with a cane.
"I'm sorry, Eleanor," Rose said.
"He's with his mother now."
"Maybe."
"I hope so."
Mr. Chen stood in the back. He didn't speak. He just watched.
Eleanor's mother had died years ago. There was no one else.
She stood by the grave. The casket was in the ground. The priest said words.
She didn't hear them.
She just stood.
---
She went home. The apartment was quiet.
The pots on the fire escape. The pots on the windowsill. The pots on the kitchen table.
The morning glories were closing. The day was ending.
She went to the roof.
The water tank was there. The painted eye was there. Faded. But there.
She sat on the milk crate.
"Henry," she said. "I'm alone now."
The water tank hummed.
"I don't know how to do this without you."
The city hummed.
"I'm going to keep gardening. I'm going to keep painting the eye. I'm going to keep living here."
She looked at the sky. The stars were coming out.
"I love you."
She sat until the stars were bright.
---
The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months.
Eleanor kept sewing. Kept gardening. Kept living.
Mr. Chen checked on her. He brought her soup. He fixed things that broke.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
"You were kind to me. I'm kind to you."
"That's not how the world works."
"It's how I work."
She almost smiled. "You're strange."
"You're stranger."
---
One day, she saw the young woman from 4C on the roof.
Maya. The artist.
She was drawing the water tank. The painted eye.
Eleanor watched from her window.
The young woman drew for a long time. Then she left her sketchbook on the milk crate.
Eleanor went to the roof after she was gone. She looked at the sketchbook. She didn't open it. But she saw the cover. Drawings of the bridge. Drawings of the garden.
She left a note. You dropped this. — A neighbor.
It was a small thing. A kind thing.
She didn't know that it would start something. A friendship. A story. A garden that would grow back.
She just knew that the young woman reminded her of herself. Young. Alone. Trying to make something beautiful.
---
The years passed.
Eleanor grew older. Her hands shook. Her back ached. But she still climbed the stairs to the roof. Still watered the garden. Still watched the sun set.
Mr. Chen retired. A new super came. His name was Mr. Chen too. Different man. Same name.
The building changed. New tenants came. Old tenants left.
But Eleanor stayed.
She stayed for Henry. She stayed for the garden. She stayed for the roof.
And then one day, Maya knocked on her door.
"Mrs. Patterson? I'm Maya from 4C. I wanted to thank you for the note."
Eleanor looked at her. The young woman with the sketchbook.
"You're welcome."
"I brought you some soup. I made it myself."
"It's probably terrible."
"It is. But I wanted to say thank you."
Eleanor took the soup. "Come in."
Maya came in. She looked at the yellow walls. The crooked shelf. The pots on the windowsill.
"Your apartment is beautiful," Maya said.
"It's old."
"It's home."
Eleanor looked at her. "Yes. It's home."
---
They became friends.
Not right away. Slowly. Over soup. Over coffee. Over conversations on the roof.
Maya told her about her art. About her mother. About her father who left.
Eleanor listened. She didn't offer advice. She just listened.
"Mrs. Patterson?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you stay in this building? It's old. The landlord is cheap. The heat doesn't work."
Eleanor looked at the window. The alley. The brick wall.
"Because Henry is here. In the walls. In the floors. In the garden."
"That's sad."
"It's not sad. It's love."
Maya was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I want that."
"You'll have it."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're stubborn. Like me."
Maya almost smiled. "Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
---
The last time Eleanor saw the garden was the spring before her heart attack.
The tomatoes were small. The basil was thin. The morning glories were struggling.
She knelt in the dirt. Her knees ached. Her hands shook.
"Grow," she said. "Please grow."
The plants didn't listen.
She sat on the milk crate. She looked at the water tank. The painted eye. Henry's eye.
"I'm tired," she said.
The water tank hummed.
"I'm ready to see him."
The city hummed.
"Not yet. But soon."
---
She had the heart attack in the fall.
Maya found her. Maya called the ambulance. Maya held her hand.
"Mrs. Patterson, stay with me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You're bleeding."
"It's just a scratch."
It wasn't a scratch. It was a stroke. Then another.
The hospital. The facility. The wheelchair. The brick wall outside the window.
Maya came every week.
"You don't have to come," Eleanor said.
"I want to."
"You have your own life."
"You're my life."
Eleanor squeezed her hand. "You're a good kid."
"I'm not a kid."
"You're a kid to me."
---
The last day.
Eleanor woke up. The room was grey. The brick wall was grey.
She picked up the notepad. The pencil.
She wrote.
Maya –
The garden will grow back. The building will stand. You will be okay.
I love you.
— Eleanor
She set down the pencil.
She closed her eyes.
She saw Henry. Young. Standing on the roof. The water tank behind him. The painted eye above him.
"Eleanor," he said. "Come."
She took his hand.
The garden was full. The tomatoes were red. The basil was green. The morning glories were blue and purple and white.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"I planted it for you."
They sat on the milk crate. The city spread out below them.
"I missed you," she said.
"I missed you too."
"Every day."
"I know."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Don't leave me again," she said.
"I won't."
The water tank hummed. The painted eye watched.
And Eleanor smiled.
---
End of Chapter 70
End of Flashback Series