“I know about the loan.”
“Do you have any other savings?”
“We spent them.”
The loan against the house.
“Anything you could sell?”
“I already sold my jewelry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Was it for his treatment?”
We spent them.
“Yes.”
“And you borrowed against the house?”
“When someone offers one more treatment, you don’t ask whether you can afford hope.”
She went quiet.
Then hope dies, and the bills stay.
I already sold my jewelry.
***
A week after the funeral, I returned to the hospital for Jack’s belongings.
A nurse named Rachel handed me a bag. “I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Thank you.”
His watch.
Charger.
Toiletries.
A paperback.
And a gray women’s cardigan.
The bills stay.
“This isn’t mine.”
Rachel looked at the cardigan. “I thought it belonged to the woman who visited him.”
“What woman?”
“I assumed she was family.”
“Jack didn’t have family.”
A gray women’s cardigan.
“I’m sorry.”
“How often was she here?”
“Several times. Sometimes she stayed a few hours.”
“What did she look like?”
“Dark hair. Early forties.”
Jack didn’t have family.
“Did they argue?”
“Not that I saw.”
“What did they do?”
