The waiting room at the pediatric clinic was exceptionally quiet at three in the afternoon, save for the low hum of the plastic aquarium in the corner. I sat on the low vinyl chairs next to Brenda, my older sister, who was tapping her fingers against the leather of her purse.
She checked her wrist watch for the third time in ten minutes, her eyes darting toward the closed inner door.
“She is late,” Brenda said, her voice fast and blunt. “She is always late when she wants to make people wait.”
“She is at home with the baby, Brenda,” I said. “She offered to watch him so I could come talk to Dr. George.”
Brenda let out a short, sharp laugh that made the receptionist look up from her keyboard.
“Martha does not help, Daniel. She occupies. She did it when I got married, and she is doing it to you now.”
“Clara is just exhausted,” I said, rubbing my wedding ring. “Her blood pressure is still high, and she keeps forgetting things.”
