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It is in the quiet, still hours of the dusk that Constance understands she will not live to see the following dawn. The realization fits under her collarbone, nestled behind brittle ribs and tucked in between frail lungs. Her body, having fought for so long, shall carry her no further.
She is not scared. How can she be, when her Lord is calling her home at last? She will be in paradise, and all the agonies of this world will be eradicated, never to be felt again. She rejoices in the knowledge that she will never have to endure her body slowly killing her from the inside out again. She longs to be with God and leave behind all heartaches and sadness and cruelty. Constance holds no fear of death for she knows where she is going.
No, she will rejoice.
The door creaks on perpetually rusty hinges and she hears the soft patter of small feet trying desperately to avoid disturbing her rest. The comforting weight of another blanket is spread over her and the bed dips slightly by her feet. She hasn’t the strength to move her head, or even open her eyes, but she hums a greeting. Another weight on her ankle, the warmth of a hand seeping through the blankets. Endeavour, her beautiful, wonderful boy, has come to visit her. She breathes in the smell of old books and parchment, and she knows that he spent all day in the library. She smiles, knowing that he is paying rapt attention.
She would do anything for her son.
It is in the quiet of the moment that she regrets that she divorced his father. Constance herself knows the difficulty in witnessing the decline of a loved one, and her boy doesn’t have another parent to give him the support he needs. But life with his father would have made an unbearable time pure misery, and she prays that Endeavour will keep the strength he so bravely displays.
Divorce is a shameful, embarrassing ordeal for a woman, but it is nigh a banishment for a Quaker. Once the papers were filed, she moved the two of them to a far away Quaker community. They passed their days in quiet contemplation and satisfying work. The others here would care for her son, she was sure. Though they are not related by blood, the community had given her a family stronger than any roll of the genetic dice. They would take care of Endeavour and patiently answer his endless, razor-sharp questions and encourage his passion for the truth.
There were no tears left in her to cry.
When she’d first received the doctor’s diagnosis of her condition, she’d gently sent Endeavour away and cried herself to sleep. How could she leave her son? Her intelligent, determined son with too big eyes and too big questions spilling from his mouth. She’d cried herself sick, thinking of the unavoidable cruelty she will force upon him. Watching a parent slowly wither away into nothing was a bitter taste of hell. Perhaps she should have sent him to live with his father to have spared him this. Forced apart while knowing a loved one was dying but being unable to be with them would be worse, and so Constance shoved her selfless (or was it selfish?) desire to send him away down deep and prayed for forgiveness. And so Endeavour is here, watching her disappear a little more day by day. She hates herself for it, but seeing her little boy smile at her makes everything bright again.
He doesn’t smile as much, these days. He flashes a quick grin at her, but it falls off his face just as fast. He has such a beautiful smile, and she thinks it must have been the first casualty of her death. She watches him watch her, sees the anger he can’t hide and the fear he refuses to feel. She sees the despair creep in when he thinks she’s asleep.
Constance can’t do much, not anymore. She can’t sit up, she can barely eat, she has no strength left to talk. Endeavour sits by her side, holds her hands, and tells her about the newest bird's nest he’s seen, the latest batch of flowers blooming, the most interesting facts he learned today. The record player she gave him for his birthday sits in a permanent place of honor on her dresser. They’ll sit in stillness, letting the music wash over them and everything is alright for a moment. He reads her the Bible, often enough that he no longer needs the book to do so. He still turns the pages, and it comforts her greatly.
She prays every hour that he comes to faith. He’s tried so hard to hide it from her, but notices his wandering attention during prayer and sees the intent behind the questions he asks and the motivation behind the ones he doesn’t. She knows her boy, knows him inside and out, and prays that she’ll see him in heaven. He will be a good man, of that she has no doubt. She sees the justice in his heart and knows that he will grow to be the kind of man to right the world’s wrongs.
Right now, though, he is a little boy holding his mother close in an effort to keep her alive.
She will never see him grow up. She will never know how tall he’ll be. She will never know what he’ll pick for a career. She will never see him in a wedding suit, waiting impatiently at the altar for a beautiful bride. She will never see him with a child of his own, never hold a grandchild. She will never see him carefree again, never hear him laugh with delight. That milestone passed some months ago, and she finds that she cannot remember when it did.
She will never see Endeavour again. She knows this bone deep, knows that once he leaves her room for the night he will only see her body, never her, again. She wants to weep, wants to wail and tear her clothes, but she must stay strong. Her little boy is so brave, so strong and grown-up. She may not see the man he will become, but she sees the foundation.
Endeavour. To work with purpose. His name had come to her in another quiet moment, and telling Cyril was a beloved memory. He’d laughed, explained that Endeavour was the name of Captain Cook’s ship and that he’d always aspired to become a ship captain, and they’d both agreed whole-heartedly on the name. She could picture Cyril’s joyful smile as if he were in front of her.
Endeavour’s weight is slowly spreading across the foot of her bed as he loses the battle to stay awake. His breathing is even, and she takes a second to rejoice in his youthful vitality. He is healthy, and has many more years of living left in him. She wants to hold him close, to leave this world with her most precious legacy wrapped tight in her arms, but she is not selfish enough to scar her son by allowing him to wake up to the body of his mother. Scraping the last of her strength together, she breathes, “Endeavour?”
He wakes up immediately, instantly attentive. She savors the feeling. “Yes?” He is so serious, her boy. Always taking on responsibility for things far beyond his control. She grieves for him, knowing that her death will undoubtably pile more weight on his slim shoulders. “May I get you anything? Some water perhaps?” The bed shifts sharply as he moves to get up.
“No, thank you darling.” She listens to the duality of their breathing, listens to his health and takes comfort in knowing that he will be a long time in joining her in death. “It is late.”
He climbs off the bed, oh so careful not to cause her discomfort. The floorboards creak and she senses him in front of her now. If she opens her eyes, she knows she will find him already grieving her. He will hold onto hope until the end, but she knows that he understands deep down that she is not going to recover. She will see her son.
She opens her eyes.
Endeavour is there, glowing with the health of youth and shadowed with the aging of hardship. Constance stretches her hand out and he takes it gently, stilling its shaking. She marvels at the differences in their skin, prays that he too will live to see wrinkles and spots on his own hands. She traces her thumbs along his knuckles.
“I love you, darling.” Her throat swells with emotion and she cannot say anymore. She squeezes his hands in encouragement, in apology, in love, in regret, in everything that she cannot express. He stares at her, eyes wide with the gravity of the moment. She swallows and rasps, “so, so much.”
His eyes are brimming with tears, but her strong, stoic son will not let her see them fall. She drinks in the sight of his face, treasures the feel of his hands. She wishes she had so much more time. Another fifty years would never be enough to spend with her boy. They remain, fingers entwined, suspended in a moment that ends far too soon.
She releases his hands, unable to speak. Her eyes close, too weak to stay open. She hears him swallow, feels him press a kiss to her temple. “I love you too,” he whispers into her hair. He touches their foreheads together, and a warm drop hits her cheek. He pulls away, floorboards creaking as he tiptoes out. The door groans. He heart breaks as she hears him watching her, knows that this will be the last image of her he ever has. A wasted, withered husk of a woman trapped in bed, betrayed by her own body. But she will not take this from him too.
The door latches shut.