Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
On the small writing desk by the kitchen window, a white envelope from the Maplewood Oncology Clinic sat half-open under a stack of old utility bills. The blue printed invoice inside showed Maribel’s full name, Maribel Vance, next to the billing total for her chemotherapy treatments.
“I just wanted to look like myself for one more day, Clara,” she said.
“You will look beautiful,” I said.
“No,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I will sit in the church, but I am going home right after. I will not have everyone staring at me at that big dinner.”
I reached across the table and touched her wrist, but she pulled her arm back to adjust her scarf.
“We want you there,” I said.
“I cannot do it,” she said.
I left her sitting in the kitchen with the three silk scarves spread out on the table like colored napkins.
When I got back to our apartment, Mason was sitting at the kitchen table with his school grading papers spread out around him. He looked up when I closed the door.
