After the first line, Randall’s handwriting changed slightly. I knew every version of it. The careful block letters he used on forms. The slanted rush of grocery lists. The oversized looping script he put on birthday cards after two glasses of wine.
This was the handwriting of a man conserving strength.
Meryl, if Wade has given you this, I have been dead for months.
I asked him to wait until your doctor said the treatment worked. Not improved. Not promising. Worked.
I stopped.
The air conditioner clicked off, leaving the house too quiet.
I looked at Wade. “You knew about my scans.”
He said nothing.
“You knew.”
“Enough to know when—”
“How?”
“Elise told me some things.”
“My daughter was reporting to you?”
“No. She talked to me because she was scared. I asked how you were. That’s all.”
“And my doctor?”
“Never spoke to your doctor.”
“Then how exactly were you supposed to know when my treatment ‘worked’?”
