The Insulin They Sent Her Home Without

“Your father would have called the doctor himself,” she said. “He’d have been at that counter at ten o’clock Monday morning with his hat on.”

“I know he would.”

“I never learned to do it his way.” She smoothed the little square of cup flat on her knee. “I always let him be the one who made a fuss.”

I did not have an answer to that. I put my hand on hers and we sat there with the speaker running through “O Holy Night” and Amber’s keyboard clicking in the background.

It took Craig Hollis eleven minutes to fill the order. He did every step by hand and he did not hurry. Amber labeled. He checked. Then Amber checked him checking, and neither of them said anything. At 6:04 the gate was still up, and the people behind me were still standing, and not one of them had gone to another register or checked a watch.

The box he set on the counter was pale blue and held five pens.

My mother stood up from the plastic chair, which took her two tries, and came to the counter and took the box in both hands.

Mr. Hollis leaned across the counter. He did not turn to the line. He did not raise his voice, and for once he did not look at anyone but her.

“Mrs. Whitlock,” he said. “That script has been on my screen since the ninth. You did plan. It was ours.”

“Well,” my mother said, after a moment. “You’ve had a long day, Mr. Hollis.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took a breath. “I could have given you three days of it at cash price when you walked up. It’s my call to make. I knew that at twenty to six. I didn’t, because I have a write-up in my file from August for an early refill, and I’m the only pharmacist here since Dana quit in October. None of that is your business. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

My mother held the box against her coat.

“I’d have paid it,” she said. “I only asked for a little.”

“I know you did.”

That was the whole of it. He did not apologize to the room. I have gone over that evening many times, and I have decided I like it better that way. A speech would have given the people behind us something to feel, and then something to go home and say. He told my mother the truth at the height of her chin, and then he went back to work.

“Amber,” he said. “How many in that queue?”

“Three more. They’re from the same week.”

“Print them. We’ll run them before we close.”

The gate came down that night at twenty past six, not at six. I did not see it. By then we were in the parking lot.