Chapter 8 - Medicine on the Counter
I left him standing by the sewing machine and went to the kitchen because I didn't want him to see my hands shaking.
The envelope was still on the table where I'd set it after he handed it to me at the door. Sealed. Brown. My name wasn't even on it, just our address written in thick black marker. I walked past it to the counter by the white refrigerator.
The bottle was where Mom always kept it, pushed back against the wall so it wouldn't fall. White plastic with an orange cap, the label half peeling from where I'd washed my hands and touched it wet. I picked it up and shook it. One pill clicked against the side.
He'd followed me. His shoes were loud on the wood floor. He stopped a few feet back, like the kitchen was too small for his suit.
"You said she needs medicine," he said. His voice was lower now. "Is that it?"
I held it out so he could see. I didn't hand it to him. "She takes half in the morning and half at night. Only now we split it. Doctor said twice a day with food. We ran out three days ago except this one."
I turned the bottle so the label faced him. The pharmacy name from over on Highway 9, the date, the refill number with zero left. My bandaged fingers made the plastic slip and I caught it with my other hand.
"How much for a refill?" he asked.
"Forty-six dollars and change if we get the generic. The lady told me last time." I set the bottle down hard enough that the single pill jumped. "I've got eleven from Mrs. Carter for hemming, and maybe twenty if I finish this white fabric tonight."
He glanced toward the table, toward the envelope, then back at the bottle. He didn't touch either one. He lifted his left hand and rubbed his jaw, and I saw the watch and the small dark mark of the tattoo on his hand when his cuff pulled back.
"You've got maybe thirty-one coming," he said. "Even if you finish. You're still short."
"I know the math," I said.
He didn't argue that. He looked at the refrigerator, at the calendar held up with a magnet shaped like Texas where Mom had circled a date I hadn't asked about. He didn't open the envelope to check what was inside. He just stood there doing the numbers in his head.
From the bedroom, Mom coughed. Then her voice came thin through the white door he'd left half open.
"Lily? Who's out there?"
I looked at him. He looked down at me and shook his head once, like he was telling me not to lie for him.
I called back, "It's the man with the envelope."
A pause. The bed creaked. "Did you tell him he couldn't come in?"
That was when he stepped closer to the doorway so she could hear him without him going in. "She did tell me, ma'am," he said. "At the machine. She said you didn't want to see me."
Mom was quiet a long time. I could hear her breathing.
"I told her to say that to anybody," she said finally. "Not just you. I didn't want people from church or the school standing around looking sorry for us. I didn't want Lily answering questions."
I stared at the floor. She'd never said it that plain before. She'd just said, tell them I'm resting, tell them we're fine.
The man didn't move. "I understand," he said.
"You don't have to," Mom said. "But that's why."
He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. Then he looked at me again, at the bottle on the counter by the refrigerator. "She needs that tonight," he said quietly. Not a question.
"Half," I said. "I was going to cut it again, but—"
I didn't finish. He knew what cutting it again meant.
I walked past him back into the other room and sat down at the vintage machine. The black metal was cool under my forearms. The gold detailing caught the daylight from the window. My right hand throbbed under the bandage when I lifted the presser foot, but I smoothed the white fabric back under the needle anyway.
May you like
He stayed in the kitchen a minute longer. I heard the bottle click once when he picked it up and set it back down. Then his footsteps came back across the wood and stopped behind my chair.
I pressed the pedal and started sewing.
