“Then why?” I ask, worried. “Has something happened to him?” When he shakes his head no, refusing to break my gaze, I plead, “Then what?”
“After your family left your father’s room the other day, your mom and I started talking,” he says slowly, as if gauging each word. “She asked me how I felt about you.”
“David,” I say, feeling the familiar fear start to creep up my spine. “Please.”
“Without me saying a word, she knew the answer. But I told her there was no chance for us. That you couldn’t be with me.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, wanting to more than anything I’ve wanted in my life. But fear is a terrible thing. It paralyzes you with the expectation of the worst happening, never allowing room for something better, something that gives rather than takes away.
“She said she knew why,” he says, shocking me into silence. “She said it was because you never knew she loved you, that she wanted you. Needed you.”
“No,” I insist, the words thundering in my ear. Every cell in my body rejected the notion, refused it an audience. I knew the truth, deep in my heart, and nothing would convince me otherwise. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”
“She said she knew she failed you,” he continues, refusing me a reprieve. “That’s why she let you go, to save you.”
I collapse into the sofa, envying the logs as they disintegrate into ashes. It is a funny thing when you have believed the worst about yourself your entire life. No matter what anyone says, you are the strongest voice of opposition, insisting to anyone who will listen that they are wrong, that you really are worthless.
“But she was tired of missing you, needing you.” He takes out a piece of paper and hands it to me.
I read through it, trying to understand. It’s a blood test, with one blood count. The name on the top is my father’s. I look up at David, “What is tetrahydrozoline?”
“Your mother’s gift to you,” he answers. “The test proved what your mother told me. She slowly poisoned him with tetrahydrozoline, the main ingredient in Visine.” He starts to recite facts, his stance that of a professional. “Over time it can cause difficulty breathing, nausea, headaches. For those with weakened immune systems, such as from diabetes—a coma.”
My stomach seizes and I drop the sheet, watching as it flutters to the floor. It finds its place at my feet, like a dog resting by its owner, prepared to do its bidding. “She tried to kill him?” I whisper, the answer already spoken. “Why?”
There were so many reasons to want him dead. Each of us had our own, even Trisha. But not one of us dared to take the necessary step to end his life, ever imagined doing so. Of all of us, Mom was the one who had the most to lose. She remembered him when he was kind, when he knew how to love. Those memories would have served as a buffer between her and any desire to seek freedom.
“To bring you home,” David says. “Because she loves you.”
It is too much, a dam waiting a lifetime to burst. I start to shake, unable to accept the lengths to which my mother went. I stare numbly at the ground, the colors of the rug starting to mix together, swirling like a whirlpool. “Who else knows?” I demand, fearing for her future.
“No one,” David says, causing me to jerk my head up and stare at him. “I ran the test privately and deleted the results from the computer.”
“Why?” I demand. Finding my footing, I come to stand before him.