The blue hospital estimate sheet sat on the small metal table between them.
Dr. David Vance pulled a soft blue cloth from his pocket.
He began to clean his wire-rimmed glasses slowly.
He held the frames up to the fluorescent light before putting them back on his nose.
“The valve is like an old wooden gate that won’t swing clean on its post anymore,” Dr. Vance said.
Helen adjusted her thin wool shawl.
She pulled the faded green fabric closer around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the clinic.
“We need to replace it, Helen, and soon,” he said, tapping the blue paper with his thumb.
“And the cost of the deposit?” Helen asked.
Her voice remained soft and even.
“Three thousand dollars,” Dr. Vance said, looking at her.
“The hospital requires the co-pay before we can book the operating room.”
Helen thought of the small plastic passbook in her dresser drawer at home.
The final balance on her checking account stood at exactly ninety-two dollars.
“If we do not schedule this by the end of the month, Helen, the damage to your heart will be permanent,” Dr. Vance said.
He set his pen down on the metal table.
The click was loud in the small room.
“I will need a little time to arrange things,” Helen said.
“We have exactly three weeks,” Dr. Vance said.
His voice was very quiet.
The smell of damp cedar drifted through the open kitchen window.
It mixed with the metallic tang of wet rust from the kitchen pipes.
Raymond kneeled under the kitchen sink.
His heavy work boots left thick clods of black Texas mud on the worn floor.
“This washer is completely rotted out, Mom,” Raymond said.
His slow Texas drawl was muffled by the wooden cabinet.
Helen sat at the wooden table.
She pressed her shawl against her collarbone as a sudden tightness rose in her throat.
She tried to swallow the dry tickle, but a harsh cough broke through anyway, shaking her entire frame.
Raymond emerged from under the sink.
He twisted his worn canvas cap between his grease-stained hands.
He looked at her, his eyes narrowed with quiet concern.
