“Winter is always his excuse,” my mother said. “Go to the doctor, Lyla. Find out what can actually be done.”
When I got back to the ranch house on Maple Street, the kitchen was quiet, but the air felt heavy with the unspoken argument from the night before.
At ten o clock, Gerald was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I walked over and placed a white envelope on top of his keyboard, covering his hands. Inside was the official medical recommendation letter I had picked up from my primary doctor’s office that afternoon.
The letter was printed on heavy cream paper, dated October fourth, and it stated that my thoracic vertebrae showed three millimeters of compression.
“I scheduled the consultation with Dr. Vance for next Tuesday,” I said. “This is the referral letter from Dr. Miller. He says the spinal compression is significant.”
Gerald stared at the envelope for a long moment before picking it up. He slid the single sheet of paper out and read it slowly, his face completely expressionless.
