Chapter 4 - The Casserole DishMarcus walked into the hallway. I couldn't catch the beginning, but then his voice carried back.
"Aunt Irene?"
Priscilla's smile vanished so quickly I nearly missed it. Her fingers froze against the table.
"Yeah, it's me," Marcus continued. "Do you still have that old Tuesday dish you always joke you should've thrown out 20 years ago?"
Priscilla stood. "Marcus?"
He ignored her. "Perfect. Is there any chance you could bring it over with some of the old Tuesday dinner?"
She rushed toward him. "Marcus, hang up."
He stepped out of reach. "Twenty minutes? Great."
"Marcus!"
He ended the call.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Getting someone a second opinion."
"I don't want it," I said.
He finally looked at me. "This one's not really for you."
Priscilla's earlier confidence had almost entirely disappeared. "Why are you calling Irene?"
Marcus filled a glass with water and set it in front of her. "You'll see."
"Marcus, don't play games with me."
"I'm not."
"Whatever you think you're doing, stop it."
He opened the pantry and started making sandwiches for the kids. Priscilla followed him. "I mean it."
He spread peanut butter over a slice of bread. "So did Delphine when she told you she had a fever."
"I was trying to help."
"Then help me understand something." He glanced at the trash can. "How exactly did throwing away her soup help?"
Priscilla had no answer. Marcus went back to the sandwiches. That silence was new — I had never seen her completely run out of things to say.
For the next fifteen minutes, she couldn't sit still, checking the front door twice, asking Marcus what Irene had said, what he'd told her. He wouldn't explain.
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Finally the doorbell rang. Priscilla stood so fast her chair scraped backward.
"Stay there, Delphine," Marcus told me, then went to the door.
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