Chapter 18
Karen died when I was thirty.
A stroke.
Alone in a rented apartment.
Ethan told me in person.
He looked worried.
I waited for a feeling.
Relief came first.
Then sadness.
Not for her exactly.
For the waste.
For the girl she might have been before greed and bitterness swallowed her.
For the years she stole from me and somehow also from herself.
There was no funeral we attended.
No dramatic goodbye.
But I went to the clinic where it happened.
The old examination room had been remodeled.
New paint.
New chairs.
Same window.
Dr. Wallace, close to retirement, stood beside me.
“Are you okay?”
I looked at the spot where I had fallen.
For years, that tile lived inside me.
Now it was just floor.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I am.”
He smiled.
“You worked hard for that sentence.”
“I did.”
Before I left, I touched the armrest of my wheelchair.
Not the same chair.
A clinic chair.
Still, I whispered, “Thank you.”
May you like
Dr. Wallace pretended not to hear.
Kind man.
