Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
His voice carried the warm, rhythmic cadence he used with his favorite patients, the ones who had known him since he was a young resident. It was a voice designed to soothe, to make people agree.
“We were happy then,” I said, setting the skillet on the stove.
“We are happy now, Rachel,” he said, pausing his knife to look at me. “We just have more weight to carry.”
He stepped closer, placing a cool hand on my wrist, his thumb resting right over my pulse. He checked his gold watch with his other hand, a quick, defensive flick of his wrist.
“You have been carrying too much of it lately,” he said.
The warmth in his touch felt incredibly real, a cruel imitation of the husband I thought I knew. I looked at the small gray hairs near his temples, wondering when the man I married had disappeared.
“I am doing just fine, David,” I said, pulling my hand back to reach for the olive oil bottle.
“Of the two of us, I am the doctor, remember?” he said, his tone playful but firm. He turned back to the cutting board.
