The paper was still warm from the hospital copier when I took it from her. I kept it flat against my thigh as I walked out, ensuring nobody in the lobby saw what she had given me.
By eight the next morning, the report was tucked into my handbag under the booth at the Oak Creek Diner.
Martha adjusted her thick knit scarf and stared at her coffee cup, which cost two dollars and fifty cents.
“The family is talking, Clara,” Martha said, checking her gold wristwatch. “You do know they think you are being completely blind about this man, don’t you?”
I cleared my throat, a habit that always gave away my reluctance to speak of difficult things. “Ben is fighting for his life, Martha.”
“Is he?” Martha asked, her eyes narrowing as she set her spoon down. “Or is he just fighting for your eighty-five thousand dollars?”
I twisted my silver wedding band around my finger, the metal cool against my skin.
“The doctor says his treatments are incredibly expensive,” I said.
Martha checked her watch again, a nervous habit she had kept since our mother died.
“Doctors can be wrong, or they can be bought, can’t they?” Martha said, leaning across the laminated table. “We all think he is using you.”
The waitress set down our plates of toast, the clatter of heavy ceramic cutting off my reply.
I did not touch my food.
“He is my husband,” I said, though the words felt heavy in my mouth.
“He has been your husband for exactly six days,” Martha said. “And the court deadline to release your father’s estate is November fifteenth.”
“I have to go to the hospital,” I said, sliding my handbag out from under the booth.
“Clara, do not sign anything today,” Martha said.
I walked out before she could ask another rhetorical question.
I arrived at Room 312 at two in the afternoon, the smell of institutional floor wax heavy in the corridor.
Ben was sitting up, the yellow legal pad resting against his thighs as he stared at the wall.
“Dearest,” he said, his voice raspy as he reached out his hand. “I was beginning to worry.”
I did not take his hand, choosing instead to adjust the silver-plated water pitcher on his bedside table.
“Ben, Gary found three outstanding foreclosure notices under your business name,” I said.
Ben rubbed his left temple with his middle finger, his eyes dropping to the blue hospital blanket.
“Those are old accounts, Clara,” he said. “They are being settled.”
“They are from last month,” I said, keeping my voice quiet so the nurses in the hall wouldn’t hear. “The bank says the debt is over forty thousand dollars.”
Ben’s shoulders shook, and a tear rolled down his cheek as he clutched the yellow legal pad tightly.
“How can you ask me about money when I am counting my final days in this bed?” he sobbed, his voice cracking with emotion.
I stood there, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks as the weight of my own suspicion turned into a heavy, suffocating guilt.
“I am only trying to understand our finances, Ben,” I said.
