The small blue medication bag sat on my dresser, but my black spiral notebook was not next to it. I had kept my daily prescription log in that notebook since the surgery on my collarbone, noting every dose of the ninety-dollar pills. It was a simple cardboard book with lined pages, where I recorded the exact hour I took each tablet to make sure I did not exceed the daily limit.
Richard stood at the foot of our bed, folding a white bath towel into a neat, tight square. He adjusted his wristwatch, pulling the leather strap one notch tighter before smoothing the cotton towel with his palm. He did not look at me when I entered, his focus entirely on the laundry basket.
“Richard, have you seen my black notebook?” I asked, keeping my voice soft. My hand went to my left collarbone, my fingers tracing the edge of the white cotton surgical dressing under my shirt. The adhesive tape was starting to peel at the corner, scratching against my skin.
“You must have misplaced it yourself, Clara,” he said, stacking the towel on top of three others in the basket. “With the chemotherapy treatments, your focus isn’t what it used to be.”
“I left it right here on the nightstand last night,” I said, pointing to the wooden surface. “I needed to write down the nine o’clock dose.”
“We need to streamline things around here,” Richard said, picking up a blue pillowcase and shaking it out. “My mother is helping us set up a proper system so nothing gets missed. It is a matter of efficiency.”
I looked on the bedside table, then under the edge of the mattress. The blue bag held the thirty prescription pills, but the log where I wrote down the exact times I took them was gone.
“I need that log to know when the next dose is due,” I said, looking at the empty space beside the brass lamp. “The oncologist said the timing of the pain medication is very important.”
“I’ll handle the schedule, Clara,” Richard said, picking up the heavy laundry basket. “You just need to rest and let us manage the details. It is much easier this way.”
