Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
David buttered his toast with the slow, deliberate precision he used when closing an incision. The silver butter knife slid across the crust without making a sound, leaving a perfectly level yellow layer.
“The car keys were in the pantry again, Rachel,” he said.
I paused, my hand resting near my coffee mug. I did not remember going into the pantry with the keys, but David was rarely wrong about the small details of our house.
“I must have dropped them when I brought in the groceries yesterday,” I said, speaking slowly, keeping my voice as even as possible.
“Of course,” he said, offering his reassuring bedside manner smile. “Just keep an eye on things. We do not want you getting stranded out on the county road.”
He checked his gold watch, the polished metal catching the morning light. He had a habit of looking at the time whenever he pointed out one of my small lapses.
“The locksmith is coming by at ten to put a deadbolt on my study door,” he added, wiping his fingers on a linen napkin.
“Why do you need a locksmith for the study?” I asked.
“Patient files,” he said, standing up to grab his leather briefcase. “The new federal privacy laws are very strict about home offices, and I cannot leave medical records unsecured.”
He kissed my cheek, his skin smelling faintly of cedarwood shaving soap, and left for the clinic.
At one o’clock, I walked through the sliding glass doors of the Oak Creek Community Hospital lobby to drop off the chicken salad sandwich he had forgotten on the counter. The lobby was quiet, the air conditioning drafts rustling the silk ferns in the corners.
David was standing near the reception desk, talking to Dr. Aris, the senior surgeon. When he saw me, his smile was warm and immediate, though his eyes lingered on my purse.
“Rachel, you remember Dr. Aris,” David said, stepping closer to put a heavy, comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Of course,” I said, nodding to the older physician. “It is good to see you, Dr. Aris. I hope your wife is doing well.”
