The Whitlow Record

The ice was going out.

Mara heard it before she saw it, getting out of the car in the staff lot at a quarter to seven on Monday evening: a low, restless sound from the direction of the lake, like a crowd murmuring in a big hall, rising and falling. All winter the lake had lain white and silent below the bluff. Now, in the third week of April, a south wind had broken it into plates, and the plates were grinding against each other and piling up on the shore in heaps as tall as a man, clinking and groaning and sighing, glittering in the last of the light. The air smelled of wet earth and meltwater. Somewhere a gull was complaining.

Above the lot the old sanatorium stood as it had stood for a hundred years: four storeys of dark brick, the cupola, the long porches where patients had once lain wrapped in blankets breathing the lake air. It looked the same as it had looked on Mara's first night in September.

Except for the fence.

It ran around the east wing in a long silver line, eight feet of chain-link on concrete feet, hung every twenty yards with orange signs: DANGER. DEMOLITION AREA. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Inside the fence, on the torn-up lawn, a yellow excavator sat with its long arm folded, like a heron asleep. Beside it stood a green dumpster the size of a boxcar, empty, waiting.

On the glass of the staff door someone had taped a notice from the parent system. Mara had read it a dozen times over the past month and read it again now, because it was impossible not to. East Wing demolition will commence Friday, April 24. Asbestos survey and interior inspection Wednesday, April 22, 4:00 p.m. Staff are reminded that the east wing is closed. We thank you for your patience during this exciting transition.

Exciting. Mara looked at the long dark flank of the east wing, the tall blind windows, the old green copper gutters. Somewhere in there, past the fire door at the end of the second-floor corridor, past a stub of storage and a plain white wall, was sixty feet of building nobody had walked in thirty years. By Saturday it would be in the dumpster.

The door opened before Mara could reach for it, and Noreen came out.

She was dressed for spring already, in a lilac raincoat over her cardigan, with her knitting bag on one arm and her car keys in her hand, and when she saw Mara her whole face lit up, the way it always did. "There you are, dear. I left bars in the lounge. Lemon." She glanced past Mara at the fence, and at the yellow machine, and her smile stayed where it was, but something behind it went still. "Isn't it awful. A hundred years." She patted Mara's arm. "Well. We'll all be glad when it's done."

"Will we?" said Mara.

Noreen looked at her for a moment, kindly, carefully. Then she laughed her warm laugh and said, "Mind the ice on the steps. It's still out there in the shade," and went down to her car.