Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“The treatments are no longer helping your father, Nicole,” he said, his voice flat and quiet.
“He just needs the new prescription from the pharmacy,” I said, my voice rising in the quiet room. “The brown bag we got last week was almost empty.”
“The scarring in his lungs has reached the final stage,” Dr. Evans said, turning the yellow chart over in his lap.
“But he was just sweeping the hallways yesterday,” I said, my fingers gripping my pinky ring so hard the metal bit into my skin.
The yellow walls of the waiting room seemed to tilt, the fluorescent lights overhead humming with a sharp, metallic ring that made my ears buzz.
My hands felt cold, and I gripped the edge of the vinyl seat to steady myself against the sudden spinning of the room.
“We are looking at weeks, perhaps only days,” he said, setting the blue handkerchief on the small wooden table between our chairs.
I stared at the frayed corner of the fabric, remembering how my father had tucked it into his pocket before we left the house.
