I heard it strain.
Dr. Treadwell caught her wrist in one hand, gently, the way he had caught my pulse on the table.
“Ma’am,” he said. “You’re hurting me.”
“Mrs. Gilchrist,” Cindy said sharply. “Let go.”
My mother opened her fingers, and the chain slid free, and the little cross swung back against his scrubs, bright as a coin.
“She’s on morphine,” my father said hoarsely. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Security. Somebody call security.”
“I’ll call them,” Cindy said. “Right after you explain the affidavit to everyone in this room.”
My father had no answer for that.
Beside him, my cousin Sherry made a small sound, like a kettle being lifted off a flame.
She had my aunt’s round chin and a Coach bag clutched to her ribs, and tears running down her face that she did not seem to know were there.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Uncle Herb, I can’t do this again.”
