“Records are being handled.”
“By whom?”
“By the hospital.”
“The hospital says some records are missing.”
She put a tea bag into the cup.
“Missing is a strong word.”
“Then what word would you use?”
She poured the hot water and watched the color spread.
“Delayed.”
I tightened the second screw.
“How long can a record be delayed?”
“Why are you questioning me about this?”
“Because nobody will show me the hospital paperwork.”
Lorraine carried her cup to the table.
“You have just come home. You are grieving. You should not be chasing loose threads through every office in town.”
I put the screwdriver on the counter.
“What if one of those threads is connected to the vineyard?”
She did not answer.
Instead, she lifted my cup and placed it beside hers.
“You need to eat.”
“I need the hospital paperwork.”
She turned toward the sink.
“Ask Caroline again.”
At seven five, Caroline was waiting beside my Buick in the church parking lot.
Cars were leaving evening services, headlights passing across the wet pavement.
