The boy had our last name. “His daddy’s work covers it, thank the Lord,” she said. I rang her up with steady hands. That Friday she came back for a refill, and my husband walked in right behind her with that same little boy riding on his shoulders.
It was a slow Tuesday. I’ve worked part-time at that pharmacy for nine years, since our kids left home. I know the regulars’ heart pills, which ones need their glasses to read the label, and who likes their change counted into their hand. That day, the young woman had a ponytail and nursing-home scrubs. Her little boy was coughing and hanging on her leg.
“Pickup for Tully,” she said. “Antibiotic.”
I found the bag and scanned her insurance card. The screen filled in with the information it always showed. My husband’s name was listed as the one who carried the insurance through his job at the feed mill. His full name, middle initial and all. Under that was the boy’s name: Tully, followed by our last name.
I read it twice. Then I looked at the child. He had Jim’s chin. That detail was so plain I hated myself for seeing it.
“His daddy’s work covers it, thank the Lord,” the young woman said. “It’s been a rough winter.”
“That’ll be four dollars,” I said.
My voice sounded normal. I handed her the bag and told Tully I hoped he felt better. They left, and I went into the back by the shelves of cough syrup. I held onto one shelf until the shaking in my hands stopped.
Jim and I had been married forty-one years. Last spring, I ironed his shirt for our fortieth anniversary dinner. He gave me a card with roses on it and wrote, “Still my girl.” We raised three children on a farm past the county line. We buried two dogs and his daddy, and paid that farm off together. I had believed all that counted for something.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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