Chapter 9: Chair Seven

The dialysis clinic on Detroit Avenue has a lobby the size of a bus shelter, and that Saturday morning it had nineteen people in it.

Most of them were old, and all of them had a look I knew from my mother's face.

They were waiting for a chair.

Dale was standing in the middle of them in his shiny blue suit.

He'd brought my mother in a wheelchair, and she sat beside him with her head down and her hands in her lap.

"I'm only saying what's fair," he was telling the room.

"The dealership's coverage was a courtesy. I'm not a charity. If the family wants Noreen on a chair, the family can pay."

"Dale," I said.

He turned, and he smiled that smile.

"There she is. The newlywed. Maybe your chef can sign a check."

"You stopped the premium on the first."

"The first was a hard month."

"You stopped it the same week the bank's notice came."

The lobby had gone completely silent.

A woman with a port in her chest was watching me from the second row.

An old man in a Browns cap had put down his magazine.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Dale.

"I think you do. I think you know exactly what the bank sent."

His face changed.

For one second there was nothing in it, no smile, no suit, just a man counting.

Then he took three steps and grabbed my wrist.

It wasn't a love tap.

His fingers closed on the bone and he pulled me toward him, and I felt every inch of my stepfather's strength.

"You little," he said, very low. "You don't talk about that in front of people."

"Let go."

"I raised you."

"You did not."

Someone said, "Sir."

The old man in the Browns cap had gotten to his feet.

Before he could say another word, Ewan came through the door.

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