I shoved the folder into my canvas tote bag, dropping my grey knitting project over the top of it just as Ben stepped back into the room.
“Are you staying the night, Clara?” he asked, his hand still lingering on his temple as he reached for the bed rail.
“I should go home and feed the cat, Ben,” I said, my voice shaking slightly as I cleared my throat. “I will be back first thing in the morning.”
He nodded, climbing back into bed with a heavy sigh that filled the small space, his eyes closing before his head hit the pillow.
The hallway was bright and smelled strongly of pine cleaner when I stepped out, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
I carried my tote bag close to my side, the weight of the green folder pressing against my hip like a solid block of wood.
Near the nurse’s station, Dr. Paulson was standing with a metal clipboard, talking to a resident in blue scrubs.
As I approached, he looked up, his face tightening for a fraction of a second before he smiled. He tapped his gold pen against the edge of his clipboard, the metal-on-metal sound rhythmic and sharp.
“Ah, Clara,” he said, stepping away from the resident and greeting me with a nod. “Heading home for some well-deserved rest?”
“I am,” I said, clearing my throat. “Dr. Paulson, I wanted to ask about Ben’s latest bloodwork from Tuesday.”
He stopped tapping the pen and clipped it to his pocket, his expression becoming instantly serious.
“We are monitoring his hematocrit levels closely, of course, but the cellular morphology remains highly complex,” he said, using his hand to gesture vaguely in the air.
“But what do the numbers actually say?” I asked, stepping closer to the desk. “Are they getting better?”
“These proprietary electronic charts are locked under strict security protocols at this hour,” he said, his voice dropping into a smooth, soothing register. “It is far better for you to focus on his comfort right now.”
He patted my shoulder, but his hand was cold, the gesture quick and dismissive.
“We will discuss the treatment options on Monday morning,” he added, turning back toward the resident before I could speak again.
I walked toward the exit, my grip tightening on the strap of my tote bag. His refusal to give a straight answer felt like a wall of water rising up in front of me, cold and impassable.
The parking lot was mostly empty, the yellow streetlamps casting long, thin shadows across the asphalt.
My faded blue Buick LeSabre sat under the furthest light, its hood dusted with the first fallen leaves of autumn.
The squeaking brakes let out a high whine as I came to a stop in the dark corner of the lot.
I got into the front seat, the vinyl cold beneath my thighs, and locked the doors with a solid click. I did not start the engine, wanting to keep the parking lot quiet.
Instead, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Martha’s number, my fingers clumsy against the glass screen.
