“No, Walter,” I said. “You already did that.”
“I don’t want you struggling, hon.”
I laughed once. It sounded older and sadder than I felt.
“You should have thought of that before you traded me in for her.”
At the door, he patted his pockets, searching.
“Your blood pressure pills, Walter,” I said.
“I don’t want you struggling, hon.”
He turned.
“They’re on the counter.”
For a second, shame crossed his face. Then he tucked the bottle into his pocket and left.
I waited until Marcy’s car pulled away before I took the bank card and put it in the cookie tin above the stove.
Then I washed my teacup by hand because once I started crying, I was afraid I wouldn’t stop.
Shame crossed his face.
For five years, I learned how to stretch grocery money, fix a running toilet with a video on my phone, and smile when people at church asked if I was “adjusting.”
Adjusting sounded so polite.
My children called often.
Adele always listened too closely.
“Mama, you sound tired.”
“I’m seventy-four,” I told her. “Tired comes with the receipt.”
Jeremiah tried and failed.
My children called often.
“Need me this weekend?”
“For what?”
“Nothing. Just to check the gutters. I heard we’re expecting some rain.”
“My gutters are fine.”
“Mom, last time you said that, a squirrel had moved into one.”
Chanel called every Wednesday night while making dinner.
“Did you eat today, Mama?”
“Of course.”
“Toast is not dinner.”
“Did you eat today, Mama?”
Next »»“I never said toast.”
“You didn’t have to.”
They knew me too well. I loved it and hid from it too.
***
Last month, Dr. Evans held my chart in both hands and stopped smiling.
“Say it plainly,” I told him. “Please.”
He sat down. “Your heart valve has gotten worse, Sylvie.”
“How much worse?”
“We need to schedule surgery.”
I loved it and hid from it too.
I gripped my purse. “Can it wait?”
“Sylvie.”
“I’m asking because I have things to arrange, Dr. Evans. I know the risk, and I know my age, so I have to tie my affairs together.”
The word hung there.
I patted his cheek. “I’m stubborn. That’s not the same thing.”
Before they could push harder, Mrs. Bell from choir leaned in with a paper plate.
“Did you hear about Walter?”
My stomach tightened. “No.”
“Are you sick?”
“The senior golf club is honoring him Friday,” Mrs. Bell said. “Some family award.”
Jeremiah’s face changed. “For Dad?”
“Fundraisers, committees, all that,” Mrs. Bell said.
Adele’s mouth went flat. “How nice for him.”
Chanel said, “Family award. That’s rich.”
