“In a minute, sweetheart.”
“You keep saying that. In a minute. In a minute. Who is that girl in the picture? Whose baby is that? What do you mean, you paid for the window?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked out at the cherry tree.
Her hands were shaking. Just a little. I’d never seen my grandmother’s hands shake. Not when she found Grandpa in the snow. Not when the police officer came to her door the night my father died. Not ever.
The couple across the room was staring at us. So was the young woman on her phone.
Ten minutes passed. They felt like an hour.
Then I heard footsteps. Fast ones. Coming down the hallway.
An older doctor came hurrying around the corner.
He was tall and thin, with a long white coat and a stethoscope around his neck. He had thick white hair that needed cutting and a face full of deep lines. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like he was in his mid-seventies. Too old, I thought, to still be working in a hospital.
