An anxious Nathan stood by the infirmary bed. Ma had lain there for two weeks, resting between tests, and examinations. Ma had wasted away, face damp, shallow hurried breathing. Turning, he gazed out the tall window to the old cemetery with its flat gravestones, untidy turf and gravel paths. He went there with Dorothy to see the grave of the novelist, John Galt.
A hand touched his arm. “Mr. Forrest? I"m Hamilton, Consultant in charge of Mrs. Forrest. Would you come over to the Ward Office? I"d like a word.”
The cup of tea grew cold in Nathan"s hand; what Hamilton said stunned him. Ma had a tumor in her stomach. He would operate the next day and remove what he could of the tumor. There would be a period of remission; perhaps several weeks. Ma had three months at most to live.
“Mrs. Forre
