Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
Evelyn did not stop her work. She picked up a satin ribbon and threaded it through a cream card with a silver border.
“She told me she was fine when I called her on Monday,” Evelyn said.
“She had a brochure from the oncology clinic on her kitchen counter,” Mason said, his voice flat.
Evelyn’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, her fingers tightening around the ribbon, then she pulled the knot tight.
“People read all kinds of things,” she said, setting the card into the finished pile. “It does not mean anything.”
“Her name was written on the front of it, Mom,” Mason said.
“This is my son’s wedding, Clara, and we do not need to whisper about illness during his big day,” Evelyn said, looking straight at me instead of her son.
“We are not whispering,” I said. “We are asking if she needs help.”
“My mother has always been a private woman,” Evelyn said, her voice rising slightly. “She has a cold, and she is tired from the autumn dampness.”
“She had her favorite hairbrush hidden under a peach towel,” I said.