just as the boy descended into a full tantrum. “Bye,” said Nora. “Yeah. Bye.”
And Nora wondered what the difference had been. What had forced Mr Banerjee to go to the care home he’d been determined not to go to?
She was the only difference between the two Mr Banerjees but what was that difference?
What had she done? Set up an online shop? Picked up his prescription a few times?
Never underestimate the big importance of small things, Mrs Elm had said. You must always remember that.
She stared at her own window. She thought of herself in her root life, hovering between life and death in her bedroom – equidistant, as it were.
And, for the first time, Nora worried about herself as if she was actually someone else.
Not just another version of her, but a different actual person.
As though finally, through all the experiences of life she now had, she had become someone who pitied her former self.
Not in self-pity, because she was a different self now.
Then someone appeared at her own window. A woman who wasn’t her, holding a cat that wasn’t Voltaire.
This was her hope, anyway, even as she began to feel faint and fuzzy again.
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