The doctor’s silver pen did not touch my skin, but the shadow of it hovered just above my shoulder blade.
“There is a distinct, linear bruise forming here, Nora,” Dr. Mercer said. He pointed directly to my upper back with the pen. “Did you hit a railing on the way down?”
Graham stood by the heavy wood-look door of Room 3, his hands pressed flat together, palm to palm. He had his beige corduroy jacket on, the one with the frayed cuffs he wore for parent-teacher conferences at the high school.
“She was carrying the ceramic baking dish,” Graham said, his voice dropping into that soft, placating register he used when our cat got stuck behind the dryer. “The steps down to Judith’s basement are old pine. They get slick in October.”
I did not look at him, but I adjusted my watch strap, pulling the leather one notch tighter against my wrist. As a bookkeeper, I was used to things that balanced, columns that didn’t lie, numbers that stayed exactly where you put them on the ledger page.
The hospital gown was thin, and my cream cardigan lay folded on the bedside chair, the dark brown casserole stain near the hem already drying into a stiff, ugly crust.
Dr. Mercer did not look up from his metal clipboard. “A slip usually results in lateral bruising along the hip or the elbow, Graham. This looks like direct, concentrated pressure.”
“It was very dark on the landing,” Graham said. He pressed his palms together so hard his knuckles turned the color of lard.
“The light bulb was working,” I said.
The doctor paused, his silver pen frozen over the white paper. “Did you lose your footing, Nora?”
I looked at the blue privacy curtain hanging from its track.
“The floor was cold,” I said.
“We need to get the portable x-ray machine in here before we move you to a ward,” Dr. Mercer said. He tapped the pen twice against the metal board and stepped out to check a chart, leaving the door open just wide enough for the draft to reach my bare feet.
“Nora,” Graham said, taking a single step toward the bed. “I brought your green water bottle from the car, the one with the dent from our trip to Lake Michigan.”
“Put it on the table,” I said.
“My mother is outside in the waiting room,” he said.
He did not look at me when he said it, choosing instead to stare at the small pile of paper cups by the sink.
“She wants to know if you need her to go back to our place to feed the cat,” Graham said.
“The cat has enough dry food until tomorrow,” I said.
He pressed his back against the white wall, his shoulders hunching slightly under the corduroy.
“She feels terrible about the dish,” Graham said. “It was her mother’s.”
“It was a cheap glass casserole dish, Graham,” I said, clearing my throat before speaking about our finances. “We bought it at the hardware store in Oak Creek for nine dollars.”
He adjusted his glasses, his fingers lingering on the plastic frame.
“I just don’t want everyone to start shouting,” he said.
“Nobody is shouting,” I said.
The tall nurse with the graying hair came back into the room then, carrying a plastic tray with small cups of ice.
“We need to take her down the hall for the pressure check,” the nurse said.
“I will wait right here,” Graham said, his voice barely a whisper.
He did not offer to help me slide my feet into the paper slippers.
The hallway was much brighter than the room, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the yellow linoleum floor in long, clean strips.
The nurse, whose badge read Sarah, pushed my wheelchair with slow, steady steps past the double doors of the pediatric wing.
“How long have you two been married?” Sarah asked.
“Four years in June,” I said.
She stopped the chair next to a small desk where a computer monitor flickered with a list of names.
“He seems very concerned about the stairs,” Sarah said, wrapping the black cuff around my left arm.
I held my phone in my right hand, the screen dark and cold against my palm.
“He worried about them when we moved our winter coats down there,” I said.
“We live on Elm Street,” I said. “The house has a small yard. We’ve been renting it since Graham got the job at the high school.”
“My nephew goes there,” Sarah said, adjusting the Velcro on the cuff. “He says Mr. Graham is the only science teacher who doesn’t yell.”
“He doesn’t like yelling,” I said.
