“You think I am a thief,” Ben said, covering his face with his hands. “Your own husband, who wanted nothing but to share his last moments with you.”
The shame of my own doubt settled deep in my chest.
“No, Ben,” I whispered. “That is not what I think.”
“Then sign the power of attorney tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice muffled by his palms. “Let me clear these debts so we can focus on the time we have left.”
“I need to talk to the doctor first,” I said.
“Dr. Paulson is busy,” Ben said, his hand dropping from his face. “He does not have time for your doubts.”
I waited in the hallway until Dr. Paulson made his evening rounds at seven.
When he stepped out of Room 312, his clipboard in hand, I blocked his path near the linen cart.
“Dr. Paulson, I have some questions about Ben’s recent blood panels,” I said.
He stopped and tapped his gold pen against his clipboard, the metallic clicking sharp in the quiet hallway.
“Mrs. Cole, Ben’s oncological profile is highly complex,” Dr. Paulson said, using his deep, reassuring doctor’s voice. “The myelosuppressive markers are fluctuating daily due to the aggressive nature of his cellular degradation.”
“The lab report from three weeks ago showed no active malignancy,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The pen tapping stopped.
Dr. Paulson looked down at me, his eyes cold behind his thin wire-rimmed glasses.
“Where did you get that report?” he asked.
“It was in his file,” I said.
“Patient records are protected by strict federal guidelines, Mrs. Cole,” Dr. Paulson said. “Any unauthorized access is a serious breach of hospital policy.”
I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “I am his wife.”
“And I am his physician,” Dr. Paulson said, leaning closer. “If you continue to agitate my patient with financial questions and administrative disputes, I will have no choice but to restrict your visitation rights for his own physical safety.”
“You cannot do that,” I said.
“I can, and I will, if it protects his remaining cardiac function,” Dr. Paulson said, turning away.
He walked toward the nurse’s station without looking back.
I drove home in my faded blue Buick LeSabre, the squeaking brakes echoing through the quiet streets of Oak Creek.
Gary was waiting for me in my kitchen, his yellow legal pad already spread out on the formica table.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his tie, pausing for several seconds before he spoke.
“Clara,” Gary said, his voice slow and deliberate. “If you sign that estate transfer tomorrow, the eighty-five thousand dollars will be gone instantly.”
“Ben says it is for his medical bills,” I said, sitting opposite him.
“The hospital has not issued a single bill to your address yet,” Gary said.
I looked at the white sheet of paper resting between us, the unsigned power of attorney form that Ben wanted by nine tomorrow morning.
“He was crying, Gary,” I said. “He asked how I could doubt him now.”
“He is a contractor who knows how to build a case,” Gary said, putting his glasses back on.
