The hymnbook felt cool against my fingers when Pastor Hill said Eunice Mercer was at County General and not expected to last the week. It slipped off my lap and hit the floor, but I didn’t bend to pick it up. Eunice had sat beside me in the third pew at Grace Baptist for forty years. For the last three, she’d sat across the center aisle. We’d sung the same hymns twenty feet apart and acted like that was all right.

Pastor Hill read the prayer list slowly. “Eunice Mercer, at County General, not expected to last the week.” He paused before the next name. I heard it, I think, but I couldn’t tell you who it was. I just kept looking at the place where Eunice used to sit. The red hymnbook on the carpet was open to “Blessed Assurance,” the one we always sang when either of us needed a little help. I sat through the whole service with my hands folded and my mouth shut.

I had spent three years telling myself our falling-out was over something small. A casserole dish, maybe. A word said wrong. The truth is, I couldn’t name it anymore, and that should have told me something. Pride can keep a person from remembering the first hurt, while somehow making sure she remembers every Sunday she didn’t speak.

I don’t know why I noticed the smell of the church that morning, but I did.

Lemon oil on the pews and coffee from the fellowship room. It was the same as always. So was the empty space beside me. For forty years, Eunice had leaned over to ask whether I’d heard from my sister, or if Toby had passed his driving test, or if I wanted the last mint she kept in her purse. That Sunday, I didn’t have her mint or her whisper. I had the hymnbook on the floor and a name on the prayer list.

When the service ended, I waited while people filed past. A few touched my arm and said they were sorry. I said, “Thank you,” because it was what I could manage. I was ashamed that I’d let three years go by without so much as asking after her. I was also ashamed that a part of me was still waiting for Eunice to make the first move.

Even now, with Pastor Hill saying she might not have a week, that old foolish part was there.

Toby drove me to County General that afternoon. He was patient about it, which made me feel worse. I sat in the passenger seat with my hands on my purse and watched the Sunday streets go by. I remember a plastic bag caught on a low fence near the old pharmacy. It puffed out and fell back, puffed out and fell back. My mind kept going back to the third pew, then the aisle, then the door to Room 214.

Toby didn’t ask why I had waited so long. He knew enough to let me sit with myself. Near the hospital, he said, “Do you want me to come in with you?”

“I think I have to do this by myself.”

“Okay. I’ll be right outside.”

He parked, came around, and gave me his arm. I took it, though I could walk.

At my age, there are days when accepting help feels like good sense and days when it feels like giving something up. I’d made Eunice feel the same way once, and I hadn’t understood it.

We went in through the front doors. The hospital had that clean, sharp smell that gets into your clothes. I asked at the desk for Eunice Mercer. A woman with a badge pointed us down the hall and said, “Room 214.” Toby walked beside me until we got there, then stopped.

I could hear a machine from inside the room. Not loud. Just a steady little sound that made the door seem heavier than it was. Toby touched my shoulder once.

“Take your time,” he said.

I stood outside longer than I meant to. I had a good hand on the door handle. I could have turned it. I could have gone in. I could have gone home and told myself she was sleeping. All those choices passed through my head, and none of them was worth another minute of silence. So I pushed the door open.

Eunice looked smaller than I remembered. Her hair was combed back, and there was a line from the pillow on one cheek. The sight of her in that bed made my mouth go dry. I noticed her Bible on the bedside stand before I noticed anything else. It was worn at the corners, and a frayed floral ribbon marked a page inside. I knew that ribbon. She’d had it for years.

I walked to the bed. My hand hovered over hers for a second, which sounds silly now. Then I took it. Her fingers were cool and so thin I could feel each little bone. I was trying not to squeeze too hard when her hand moved against mine.

Her eyes opened a little.

“Eunice,” I said.

She blinked and looked at me. Then her fingers tightened around mine, not much, but enough.

“June,” she whispered.

I leaned closer. “I’m here.”

There wasn’t anger in her face. I had prepared myself for anger, though I don’t know why. I’d brought an apology, and I expected her to refuse it. Instead, she looked tired. She looked like my friend, only worn out in a way I had never let myself see.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” I said.

She closed her eyes again, then opened them. “You came.”

I started crying. Not loudly. I didn’t want to make her work to comfort me. I wiped my face with my sleeve, which was not very graceful, but I had no tissue in my hand and I wasn’t going to let go of hers.

I asked if she wanted water. She shook her head. I asked if her children had been there. She said they had gone to get something to eat. I asked if she was in pain, and she said, “Not right now.” Her voice was a little rough. I could hear how hard it was for her to talk, so I stopped asking questions.

For a while, I held her hand. The Bible stayed on the stand, the ribbon showing beside it. I thought of the hymnbook on the church floor and then of the forty years we had shared books without asking. One of us would open the hymnal and the other would find the page. That had been so easy. It was the other things we made hard.

I told her I’d missed sitting with her. That I’d missed her asking about my sister, and saving me mints, and leaning over when Pastor Hill said something too quietly. I told her I had no good excuse for waiting. I said, “I kept thinking you’d come back across.”

Eunice moved her head against the pillow. “I thought you’d come over.”

There it was. The plain little truth we’d both known and neither of us had been brave enough to say. I let out a laugh that was mostly a sob.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was proud and hurt, and I acted like those were reasons.”

She rubbed my thumb with hers, a small motion. “I was too.”

I knew what I wanted to ask. I had been asking myself for three years, but I’d never been willing to ask her. I didn’t want to make her spend what little strength she had on old trouble. But the trouble was already between us, and there wasn’t a better day coming.

“What happened?” I said. “I can’t even remember what started it.”

She was quiet for a bit. I watched her eyes move toward the Bible and that frayed ribbon. Then she said, “You told me I looked frail.”

I remembered the church luncheon. Not a casserole dish after all. The tables had paper cloths, and the coffee was weak. I’d been carrying two plates when I saw Eunice resting one hand on a chair. She’d seemed tired. I knew it now, but I hadn’t known then that her heart was failing.

I’d said something thoughtless. I remember the exact shape of it more than every word. “You’re slowing down, Eunice. You need somebody keeping an eye on you.” I meant it as care. I thought I was being helpful, in the way people say things when they don’t know what else to say. But I had said it where others could hear.

She looked straight at me. “I can look after myself.”

I should have said, “I know.” I should have asked if she was all right. I should have found her later and apologized for speaking like I was her keeper. Instead, I got defensive. I remember saying, “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Like that fixed the sting.

She told me she’d already learned her heart was failing. She hadn’t told me. She hadn’t wanted to be treated like a patient, or have every person watch her lift a plate and ask if she was tired. She had spent her life making sure she could manage her own affairs. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing that in front of everyone.

“I was scared,” she said. “I didn’t want you looking at me like I was already gone.”

I gripped her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked away, and I let the words sit there. I wanted to explain that I hadn’t known about her heart. I wanted to say I had only meant to help. But she had already told me what she needed me to know. I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I had hurt her anyway.

“After that,” she said, “I couldn’t come back to the same seat.”

“So you went across the aisle.”

“I could still see you.”

I didn’t understand at first. She swallowed, then tried again.

“I listened for your voice every Sunday because it was the only way I could keep going.”

She said it quietly. Not to make me feel bad. Not to win anything. She had stayed across the aisle because watching me from a distance was all she could manage without breaking down. She hadn’t moved away to punish me. She had been frightened of what was happening to her, and she was trying to keep one piece of her life under her own control.

The room seemed to get very still, but I could still hear the machine making that steady sound. I had spent three years thinking she’d shut me out. She had spent three years looking across twenty feet of carpet for me. We’d both been right there. We’d both been too proud to cross.

“I should have come over,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I loved my pride more than I loved you.”

Eunice’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

I squeezed her hand and then loosened my grip, afraid I might hurt her. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to.”

I lowered my head and cried against the edge of the bed. She kept her fingers around mine. I was seventy-eight years old, and for a while I cried like I had no sense at all. I cried for the years we’d sat apart. I cried because I had thought there would always be another Sunday to fix it. I cried because she was here and I could still hear her speak my name.

When I could talk again, I asked if she remembered the hymn we used to sing when one of us had a hard week. Her eyes moved to the Bible.

“Blessed Assurance,” she said.

“Shall I?”

She nodded.

I started softly. I’ve never had a fine voice, but Eunice always said I could carry a tune well enough for church. I sang the first line and felt the words catch in my throat. I stopped and started again. My hand stayed around hers.

She joined me after a moment. Her voice was thin and rough, but it was there. We got through the first verse slowly. At the second, I had to pause to breathe, and she gave my hand a little squeeze as if to say keep going. So I did.

Toby came in once to check on me. He stood by the door, saw our hands together, and didn’t interrupt. He set a paper cup of water on the stand and went back into the hall. I stayed until the afternoon had gone by and the nurses had asked me twice if I needed anything. I kept telling them no. I had what I needed then.

Before I left, I promised Eunice I’d come back the next day. She said, “I’ll be here.” I didn’t ask how long. I didn’t make her promise anything she couldn’t promise. I bent down and kissed her forehead. Then I told Toby I was ready to go.

The next day, I sat beside her again. Her children were there for part of the visit, and one of them brought me coffee. We talked about ordinary things. I told Eunice the church ladies had sent their love. She said, “They always did like to fuss.” I laughed. She smiled. We didn’t have to settle every memory or say every word. The main thing was done.

On Tuesday morning, Pastor Hill called. Eunice had died quietly with her family beside her. I stood in my kitchen holding the phone long after he finished talking. I’d known it was coming. Knowing didn’t make it easy. I asked what time the service would be, then wrote it on the calendar even though I was sure I’d remember.

At the funeral, Grace Baptist was full. Eunice’s children thanked me for being her oldest friend. I didn’t know what to say to that. I had been her oldest friend, yes, but I had also been the person who sat twenty feet away when she needed me. I thanked them and held their hands. Pastor Hill spoke about fellowship and forgiveness. He didn’t point us out, and I was glad. Our friendship was ours.

The Sunday after the burial, I went back to the third pew on the left. I sat in the place where Eunice had sat for forty years. The seat beside me was empty. I had her Bible at home, with her children’s permission, and I brought my own hymnbook that morning. When the congregation began “Blessed Assurance,” I opened it and found the page.

The aisle looked the same as it always had. Twenty feet, perhaps. Not a great distance. I understood that now. I held the hymnbook in both hands and sang the second verse toward Eunice’s empty seat across the sunlit aisle.