Mother and son were alone in the car. Claude stared at the front of the stern gray building.
"There are lots of trees around, though," his mother said softly, as if she could read his mind. He laughed without mirth. His nostrils twitched with the ache of holding back his tears. Irene stared at him from under her sunglasses, worn to cover up the redness from days of crying.
"It really is the best thing. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes."
"I'll come to visit you. All the time. We'll have good times, I promise. Better than now. These past few years…" She looked back at the building, avoiding his glance.
"Yes. I know." He took Irene's hand in his own and squeezed it with affection. "Promise me something, Mom."
"Of course."
"Leave Elaine."
"I was going to. I told you that."
"No. I mean it. Not just 'going to', you know? Do it." He listened to her sigh, almost a wheeze of weariness.
"I promise."
"Good." He forced a smile. He was satisfied.
"It's all right if you don't want to go in with me. You've signed the papers, so you don't have to, I guess. They're…" He hesitated and then laughed before finishing the sentence. "They're expecting me."
"All right. Maybe that would be better. I'd cry, I know." Her voice broke.
"Oh, Mom, I'm sorry…" His face was wet as he buried it in her hair. Irene pressed her lips to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he said again, squeezing her tight before drawing away. His hand went immediately to the handle of the door. There was a clicking sound, and the door opened. A rush of cold air filled the front seat in a gust. He squeezed her hand again as she looked at him, her lips drawn tightly together.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, Claude."
"Still."
"Still."