The soap bubbles sliding over my father’s brass signet ring did not hide the deep notch where the jeweler had cut it from his hand. I used an old soft-bristled toothbrush to scrub the engraved initials, trying to ignore my sister Martha as she cleared her throat at the kitchen table.
“He only got the diagnosis ten days ago, Clara,” Martha said, her tea mug clinking against the Formica.
I turned the tap on, letting the warm water rinse away the gray film of tarnish. “The doctors at St. Jude said the mass is aggressive.”
Martha checked her wristwatch, her thumb tracing the leather band. “People live for years with these things, or they don’t, but they do not usually ask for your power of attorney before the first round of chemotherapy.”
I dried the heavy brass ring on a dish towel, the metal cold and solid against my palm. I slipped it onto my middle finger, where it hung loose, sliding down to the knuckle.
“He is scared, Martha,” I said, clearing my throat. “We have been planning this since we were twenty.”
“And you have eighty-five thousand dollars sitting in the probate account from Dad’s estate,” Martha said, her voice dropping as she stood up to leave. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this before the probate court even releases the funds?”
She left the question hanging in the quiet kitchen, her keys jingling as she walked out to her car. I stood there alone, twisting the loose ring on my finger, wondering if I was rushing into a marriage that would cost me everything my father had left behind.
The squeak of my Buick LeSabre’s brakes echoed in the parking garage of St. Jude Hospital at two o’clock. Inside the lobby, the sharp scent of institutional floor wax made my eyes water as I approached the reception desk.
Nurse Evelyn stood behind the counter, her fingers nervously adjusting her blue plastic ID badge against her scrubs.
“I need two visitor passes for Room 312, please,” I said, leaning against the high counter.
