She pushed a pile of wet leaves over the edge of
She pushed a pile of wet leaves over the edge of the top step with the side of her sneaker. “Everything is rising in price, Mother, you have to expect a little adjustment.”
“Four thousand dollars went to a company called Gary’s Cellular Defense on the fourteenth of October,” I said, holding the paper toward her.
Brenda stopped sweeping and leaned on the broom, her phone already held high in her left hand as if she were checking her reflection. “That was a pre-authorized investment in Dad’s cellular health, which we discussed.”
“We did not authorize four thousand dollars from our savings,” I said, my voice dropping as a neighbor walked their dog across the street.
“The cellular defense powder requires an initial deposit to secure the active enzymes from the warehouse,” she said, her voice rising in that practiced, cheerful pitch she used for her online videos.
She tapped her phone screen twice with her thumb, her eyes darting across the glass without actually looking at me.
“We have to trust the modern science, Mother, not just what you bought at the grocery store,” she said, shifting her weight.
I looked down at the paper
I looked down at the paper, then back at her face, noticing the small line of tension around her mouth. “Whose signature did they use to withdraw this money?”
“It is fully legal, Mother, and Gary is doing us a personal favor by keeping Dad on the preferred client registry before the winter rush.”
“We are going to see Dr. Paulson at half past one for his regular checkup,” I said, folding the paper back into my pocket.
The clinic waiting room was cold, the old radiator in the corner whistling a low, thin note that vibrated through the floorboards. Two older women sat across from us, whispering over a pile of old magazines.
Arthur sat beside me on the orange vinyl chairs, his head leaning back against the dark wood paneling of the wall.
“I feel like the floor is tilting, Nora,” he whispered, his hand reaching out to find my sleeve.
I squeezed his hand, finding his fingers unusually cold for a mild autumn afternoon, his skin paper-thin over his knuckles.
Clara, the receptionist who had handled our files since we bought the house on Elm Street, slid the glass window open with a sharp click.
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