explaining safe movement techniques.
No stethoscope.
No prescription pad.
Nothing Grandpa would have carried during a house call.
Dad looked at me.
“I use it for work.”
His eyes moved around the apartment again.
“What kind of work?”
Elliot handed me my coffee.
“Saturday,” he said.
Dad frowned.
“What happens Saturday?”
I closed the bag.
“You came here because you wanted to see what I threw my life away for.”
I picked it up.
“Come with me.”
Dad barely spoke during the drive.
Silence had always been one of his favorite ways to show disappointment.
But when I was little, those silences never lasted long.
My mother died when I was two.
I barely remembered her.
What I remembered was Dad becoming everything.
He packed lunches.
Failed miserably at braiding my hair.
Helped with school projects.
Sat beside me when I was sick.
Answered every science question I asked.
Medicine
