Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
He squeezed my shoulder once, a gesture that looked perfectly tender to anyone watching from the road.
“You told Mrs. Gable I was losing my memory?” I asked, my voice flat.
“I told her we are managing some health concerns,” David said, checking his watch with a quick, defensive flick of his wrist. “She was incredibly understanding, Rachel.”
He turned toward the front door, leaving me standing in the yard with the rusted shears in my hand.
The kitchen was dark when I went inside, the only light coming from the digital clock on the stove.
David was sitting at the wooden table, a yellow legal pad and three medical folders spread out in front of him.
“I called the Millers and the Warners this afternoon,” he said, not looking up as I set my purse on the chair.
“Our friends,” I said.
“They have been asking why we haven’t been attending the Friday dinners lately,” David said, his pen moving across a sheet of paper.
“We missed one dinner because you were working late at the hospital,” I said.
