“You’re not a doctor, Dad.”
“I’m the doctor of this kitchen.”
I ate two pancakes. It was the most I’d eaten in three days.
Evelyn was asleep in her car seat on the kitchen table. My mom kept getting up from her coffee to check on her. Every time she did, she’d touch Evelyn’s hair and smile to herself.
At about eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang.
My dad set down his spatula.
“Expecting anybody?”
“Probably Carol from across the street,” my mom said, getting up. “She said she’d bring a casserole.”
But I had a feeling. A cold feeling, low in my stomach.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Claire, you should be resting—”
I was already up. I was wearing my mom’s old fuzzy pink robe because none of my own clothes fit, and my hair was in a messy knot, and I hadn’t showered in two days. I didn’t care. I walked down the hallway and opened the front door.
