Every Month

For three weeks Sarah's father said he was fine. He was slow on the stairs, and he left half his dinner on the plate, but he was fine. On Tuesday morning Sarah put him in the car and drove him to the clinic on Mill Road.

“I'm not sick,” he said. “I'm sixty-eight. Sixty-eight is tired.”

“Then the doctor will say that too,” Sarah said, “and we'll go home.”

In the waiting room he read every poster twice. “I hope she's quick,” he said. “There's football at four.”

When the nurse called his name, he stood up too fast and put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. He didn't take it away until they were inside the room.

The doctor listened to his chest and took some blood. She asked about his father, and his father's father, and Sarah watched him count the years on his fingers.

“There's no disease here,” the doctor said at last. “Your blood is low in iron. Eat eggs, eat green things, walk a little every day. Come back in a month and it will improve.”

In the car park her father looked in the mirror and moved his hair with one hand. “No disease,” he said. “I told you.”

Then, before Sarah started the car, he asked, “Will you come with me next month?” He was looking straight ahead at the wall.

“Every month,” Sarah said.