“Those pauses are completely normal, Helen,” she said, her voice dropping to that low, quiet register she used to calm me. “His body is simply adjusting, and it does not cause him any pain.”
“It feels like I am just waiting for the worst to happen,” I said.
“You are keeping him comfortable,” Julie said, adjusting her medical bag on the chair. “That is the greatest gift you can give him right now.”
She left a few minutes later, leaving me alone with the quiet house and the heavy gold watch in my apron pocket.
By six, the autumn shadows had stretched across the front porch, turning the dry oak leaves on the lawn a deep, bruised purple.
George’s leather briefcase sat open on the wicker bench by the front door, his car keys resting on top of a stack of legal-sized folders.
As I reached past the bag to retrieve my gardening gloves, a large white envelope caught my eye, its corner sticking out from the side pocket.
The return address was printed in bold black lettering: Davis Real Estate Group, San Francisco.
I pulled the corner out just enough to see a red stamp that read Urgent, followed by a handwritten date of October twenty-fourth.
“What are you doing in there?” George asked, his voice sharp as he stepped out onto the porch.
I dropped the glove back onto the bench, my fingers brushing against the gold watch in my pocket. “Your bag was sliding off the seat.”
George lunged forward and snatched the white envelope from my hand, stuffing it deep into his trousers.
“It is just junk mail,” he said, his face flush in the fading light. “Some developer trying to buy up the neighborhood.”
“They wrote urgent on the front, George,” I said, looking at his gold watch as he checked the time.
“They write that on everything to get you to open it,” he said, turning his back to me as he headed toward his car.
The yard was completely dark now, the only light coming from the single yellow bulb above the porch swing.
