Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I turned the page, the paper rustling in the quiet room.
“August third,” the log continued. “Rachel asked me three times what we were having for dinner within an hour. Mild cognitive drift is becoming more pronounced.”
My fingers tightened on the edge of the leather cover.
We had eaten takeout from the Chinese restaurant that night, a meal he had ordered and brought home himself.
I had never asked him about dinner three times.
I kept turning, my eyes moving down the pages as the dates marched through September.
“September eighth,” I read. “Found Rachel sitting in the dark in the living room. When asked, she could not recall why she had not turned on the lamps.”
I had been watching the sunset through the west window, waiting for the evening star to appear.
Then my eyes caught an entry from June fourteenth.
“June fourteenth: Rachel appeared confused at the grocery store, took twenty minutes to find her car.”
The page was covered in these small, clinical observations, each one written with the cold detachment of a doctor assessing a patient.
