“It’s just administrative work, Evelyn,” he said, his voice dropping into that rapid, dismissive cadence he used when he wanted to end a conversation. “Nothing for you to worry about while you are recovering.”
He closed his briefcase with a sharp click and turned toward the door.
“I’ll be back after the afternoon session,” he said.
My mother arrived at three, her woolen coat smelling faintly of the autumn wind outside and the lavender soap she had used since her college days. She stopped at the side of my bed, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied my face.
My mother was wearing a gray wool skirt that hit exactly two inches below her knee, and her shoes were sensible leather flats she bought in London ten years ago. She did not like hospitals, always saying they were places where people lost their identity, where everyone was reduced to a chart and a gown.
“You look very pale, Evelyn,” she said, her voice crisp and carefully modulated, though her fingers went immediately to the large south sea pearl earring on her left lobe.
She reached down, her hand cool and dry, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead.
