Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“Oh, it was fine, just fine,” she said, taking a half-step backward. “Rachel, how are you doing? Really?”
The question hung between us, heavy and laced with a soft, careful pity that made my skin cold.
“I am doing well,” I said, keeping my voice even and measured. “I was just heading to the pharmacy.”
Clara pressed her lips together and nodded slowly, her hand reaching out to touch my sleeve for a fleeting second.
“Everyone in town knows how much David cares for you, Rachel, it must be so hard,” she whispered.
“What did David tell you, Clara?” I asked.
She looked around the sidewalk as if we were discussing a private shame, her grip tightening on her grocery bag.
“Only that you have been having a difficult autumn, and that you need some space to rest,” Clara said, her voice barely audible over the sound of a passing delivery truck.
She did not wait for my reply, turning quickly to walk toward her car at the curb.
I stood on the concrete sidewalk, the silence of the street settling over me like a heavy coat.
