Chapter 8: The Retired Oncologist

Eleanor gave me the address without asking why.

"Evanston," she said over the phone. "The brick house with the greenhouse. He'll tell you to leave. Don't."

The old man was on his knees in a bed of tomato plants when I came up the walk.

He was seventy-six, thin and stooped, with white hair and gardening gloves and a hearing aid he pressed in as I came closer.

"I'm not seeing patients," he said without looking up. "I've been retired for six years."

"I'm not a patient. I'm Marcella Sherman."

His hands stopped.

"The Sherman who published the paper on ventricular repair," he said. "Four citations to my old department. I remember it well."

"Yes."

"The young one who married into the family."

"Yes," I said.

He sat back on his heels and finally looked at me.

His eyes were pale blue and very tired.

"I've been expecting you for three years," he said. "I'd hoped you would never come."

He stood slowly, using a stake for balance, and led me into the greenhouse.

It was warm inside and smelled of earth and green leaves.

There were two metal chairs and a little table with a thermos.

He poured two cups of tea and gave me one.

"Say what you came to say," he said.

I took out my phone and showed him the photo of the letter.

"You signed this," I said.

He looked at it for a long time.

"I did."

"It says my husband was evaluated and cleared for family planning. There's no lab work behind it. Nobody ran a test."

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