Chapter 6: His Handwriting

"Long enough," I said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one I've got."

He gripped the bed rail.

His knuckles went white.

"Who's treating you?"

"Nobody, now. They sent me home on Wednesday."

"Home to what?"

I looked at him until he understood.

He let go of the rail and took a step back.

"No," he said.

"Clifford."

"No. There are options. There's always another line, there's"

"They tried three," I said. "I did every one."

He took off his glasses and pressed his fingers against his eyes.

He put them back on.

"Wednesday," he said slowly. "They sent you home Wednesday. And Wednesday night you called me."

I didn't answer.

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me."

In the chair, Louise stirred and opened her eyes.

She looked from him to me and sat up straight.

"Where's her coat?" Clifford asked her.

"What?"

"Her coat. She had it at the hotel."

Louise pointed at a plastic bag hanging off the IV pole.

Patient Belongings, it said, in blue letters.

"Don't," I said.

He was already opening it.

He pulled my old wool coat out and checked the first pocket.

A lip balm. A pill case. A train ticket stub.

He checked the second pocket.

His hand came out holding a folded slip of paper.

"Clifford, please."

He unfolded it.

I watched his face while he read his own handwriting.

I watched him get to the little cat at the bottom.

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