Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“He wanted to keep this from you,” Dr. Evans said, his voice gentle. “But you need to know now.”
“He told me it was just a winter cold,” I said, my eyes fixed on the blue cotton cloth.
“He wanted to spare you,” the doctor said, standing up and opening the wooden door. “He wants to see you now.”
I stood up, the floor feeling soft and unsteady beneath my shoes as I walked down the narrow, white-walled hallway to the consultation room.
My father sat on the edge of the high examination table, his legs dangling in his faded denim trousers.
His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles swollen and pale under the dim light.
His blue chambray shirt hung loose on his shoulders, the fabric looking far too large for his shrinking frame.
The small room smelled of antiseptic and cold paper, and a single fluorescent tube flickered overhead with a dull, white glare.
His breathing came in shallow, dry rasps that sounded like dry leaves scraping across a concrete sidewalk.
“Nicole,” he whispered, his Midwestern drawl thin and dry. “I am sorry.”
