Ginger

I had spent seven months hiding cash in a flour tin behind the pantry shelves. Every extra dollar I could keep from Glen went into it. Four days from now, I was supposed to leave. Then the doctor said, “It’s cancer.” Glen stared at the floor. I watched his hands instead. I knew what those hands had done. The diagnosis hadn’t changed that. It changed what everybody was willing to call it. By evening, people were bringing casseroles. Linda from the pharmacy hugged me and said, “You’re going to be there for him, right?” I nodded. “He’s always been good to you,” Mrs. Danner said. I thought of all the times I’d let the phone ring rather than explain why I sounded different. “Sure,” I said. That night, Glen slept in the recliner while the television murmured. He looked like the man people remembered before they knew anything had happened. He woke when I crossed the room. “You okay?” I stopped. He had asked me that before. I knew better than to mistake the question for change. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled the flour tin from behind the shelves. The money was still there. So was the bus ticket. I sat on the floor with them in my hands. I had spent seven months imagining the moment I would walk away. I had never imagined doing it while everyone I knew was watching the door, waiting to see whether I would be cruel or loyal. If I stayed and Glen survived, I might never get another chance. If I left and he died, they would remember the leaving. The ticket trembled between my fingers. I thought of the bus pulling out. Then I thought of everyone who would say I should have stayed. I put the ticket back in the tin.