“Don’t let anyone convince you that you are ready to lift anything heavier than a book,” he said.
He pulled the curtain back, the plastic rings sliding along the metal rod with a sound like dry leaves. Outside the window, a black car pulled into the visitor lot and turned off its headlights.
The door squeaked when Graham pushed it open at nine. He was carrying a paper bag from the bakery down the street, the grease already soaking through the bottom in two dark circles. He walked with his head slightly down, his boots dragging on the gray linoleum.
“I brought the orange pekoe tea you like,” Graham said. He stood near the end of the bed, pressing his palms together flat. He had not shaved, and his collar was turned inward on one side, showing the white thread of the label.
“I don’t want any tea, Graham,” I said.
“It has the orange honey in it,” he said, stepping closer. “The kind from the jar we bought in Lansing.”
I looked at the brown grease spot on his paper bag. The thought of the kitchen in our house, with the yellow tile and the spice rack Graham had built, made my side ache. It felt like a place I had only seen in a photograph.
“I need you to leave the room,” I said.
“Nora, please,” he said, setting the bag down on the small table. “We have to talk about what we are telling the insurance company about the ambulance.”
I cleared my throat, my fingers automatically tracing the buckle of my watch. “The hospital bill is already four thousand eight hundred dollars, Graham. We are not hiding that from the policy writers.”
“I just want to make sure we don’t say the wrong thing on the form,” he said.
“I didn’t fall,” I said.
Graham looked at the small television bracketed to the wall, where a morning news program played with the sound turned off. He did not look at me. He adjusted his watch strap, sliding the small leather loop back and forth with his thumb.
“My mother called three times this morning,” Graham said.
“I don’t want to hear about Judith,” I said.
“She wants to know if you need anything from the house,” he said. “She offered to wash your cream cardigan.”
The cardigan was still in the plastic bag under my bed, stained with the brown gravy from Sunday dinner. It felt like a trap waiting to be sprung.
“Tell her to leave my clothes alone,” I said.
Graham took a short step back, his eyes moving to the door. “She was only trying to help, Nora.”
“Please go, Graham,” I said, turning my head toward the wall.
He stood there for five seconds, the paper bag rustling slightly in his grip. Then he walked out, leaving the door three inches open.
Vera arrived at ten, her left hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup with a cardboard sleeve. She wore her blue winter coat, and she did not look around the room before she sat in the vinyl chair. Her movements were quick and efficient, like they were at the school office.
“I brought your grey sweatshirt,” Vera said, setting a folded pile of cotton on the bedside table. “And a pair of thick socks.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She took a sip of her coffee, her eyes steady on mine. “Your sister called the school. She wanted to know if you were still in the hospital.”
“I haven’t called her yet,” I said.
“I told her you were resting,” Vera said. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small silver key attached to a green plastic tab. She laid it on top of the folded sweatshirt.
“My spare room is empty,” Vera said. “It has a twin bed and a desk. The window looks out on the driveway.”
I looked at the silver key. It was clean and cold, reflecting the fluorescent lights of the ceiling.
“I cannot go back to that house right now,” I said.
“I know,” Vera said. “The key is yours for as long as you need it.”
“What about Graham?” I asked.
“Graham does not have a key to my apartment,” Vera said.
She picked up her coffee cup again, her left hand steady, the cardboard sleeve sliding slightly against the paper. She did not ask me to explain what had happened on the stairs, and she did not offer any advice about my marriage. She simply sat there, a quiet presence in the room.
“The discharge nurse said we can leave at one,” Vera said.
“I will need to stop by the bank,” I said.
“We can do that on the way,” Vera said. She stood up and smoothed the front of her trousers. She did not look at the door when she heard footsteps in the hallway.
“I will wait in the lobby until they bring the wheelchair,” Vera said.
Graham came back at eleven, his hands empty this time. He sat in the vinyl chair Vera had just left, his knees nearly touching the edge of my bed. “I talked to the discharge planner,” he said. “She says we can go.”
“I am leaving with Vera,” I said.
Graham froze, his hands resting on his thighs. “Vera?”
“I am going to stay in her spare room,” I said.
He looked at the empty space on the bedside table where the folded sweatshirt lay. The silver key was hidden beneath the collar of the grey cotton.
“Nora, we have a home,” Graham said, his voice dropping to that soft, pleading tone he used when his mother started to raise her voice. “We can just go home and figure this out.”
“I cannot go back to that house right now,” I said.
“My mother is not going to come over,” Graham said. “I told her we need some space.”
“You told her we need space, or you asked her?” I said.
Graham looked down at his shoes. “She is worried about you, Nora.”
“She pushed me down the stairs, Graham,” I said.
“It was an accident,” he whispered, looking toward the open door. “She lost her balance.”
“You sent me a text message saying you saw her hand on my back,” I said.
Graham did not answer. He pressed his palms together, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
“I am not going back to the house,” I said.
Graham looked at the floor, his shoulders sinking as if the air had been let out of him. He gave a single, slow nod.
“I will bring your things to Vera’s,” Graham said.
“Just the green duffel bag,” I said. “Nothing else.”
He stood up, his height making the small room feel even more cramped. He did not offer to help me sit up, and he did not reach for my hand.
“I will be in the car,” Graham said, moving toward the door.
I reached out and took the silver key from the table, sliding it deep into the pocket of my jeans.
Graham stopped in the doorway, his hand on the wooden frame, watching the key disappear.
