Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“Maribel?” I called out, stepping onto the worn yellow linoleum.
The house was unusually quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the old refrigerator in the corner. I set the basket on the laminate counter next to a pile of unopened junk mail and a yellowing grocery list.
My eyes fell on a glossy trifold pamphlet tucked beneath a box of chamomile tea. The top of the page featured a logo of a stylized green leaf next to the words Maplewood Oncology Clinic.
I reached out and touched the edge of the paper, turning it slightly to see if there was a patient name printed on the back.
The floorboards in the hallway creaked. Maribel stepped into the kitchen, her blue silk scarf knotted tightly under her chin.
Before I could speak, she slid the morning edition of the local newspaper over the pamphlet, covering it completely.
“You should not have walked all this way for muffins, Clara,” she said, her voice small and breathless.
“Well, I wanted to see how you were feeling today,” I said, my hand still resting near the edge of the newspaper.
