a relief to see you up finally,” he says quietly. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come out of your cave again.”
I fill my plate with more eggs, all the while wishing I didn’t have to eat. Papa takes more bacon.
“Papa,” I say after a while.
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he replies. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about what Dr. Zimmerman said—about Mama. Remember?”
He takes a sip from his glass.
“He said Mama had Trazodone in her blood sample that night.”
Papa nods. “You know she uses it from time to time. She keeps the bottle on her nightstand.”
I turn my fork between my fingers, swirling what’s left of my eggs. My appetite has calmed down a bit. The smell of food has lost its power over me. “Is it possible the blood test was wrong?”
Papa slips a slice of bacon into his mouth and chews, washing it down with more juice. “Blood test? What do you mean, Mira?”
“I mean, could there have been a mistake? An error in the results?”
“No,” says Papa. “I doubt it.”
“And Mama’s insulin. How do they know she took too much?”
Papa sets down his fork, wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Mira, what’s this about?”
The sound of shattering glass bursts through the kitchen door followed by Helen’s version of swearing. After spending her last summer vacation in Europe, she’s taken to using the word bugger in lieu of what she calls “offensive American profanity.”
Papa cracks a smile. He pushes his chair back from the table. “If you’re concerned about the tests,” he announces, “you can certainly ask Dr. Zimmerman about them. I’ll make sure he knows he can disclose any information to you that you like. Will you be visiting your mother today?”
“Will you come with me?” I ask. I lift another bite of eggs to my lips, but it’s cold now, so I drop it back onto my plate.
Papa gets up from the table, the newspaper tucked securely beneath his arm once again. “I wish I could, but I have another day of inquiries to face. Damn tribunal, that’s what this is. Well, so far they haven’t got a stitch of evidence linking me to that rogue researcher, Stark. So hopefully this will all blow over soon, and I can get on with my campaign.”
He pauses a moment as a hint of sadness flits across his face. Just then his cell phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his suit pocket. “Jordan? I’m on my way now. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.” He snaps it shut and slips it back into his pocket. From his other pocket he removes his gloves. He slides the first onto his right hand, flexing his fingers to get the fit just right. He does the same with his left.
“Supposed to rain,” he comments nonchalantly, turning to leave. “Give your mother a kiss for me, all right?” But then he stops. His forehead creases in thought. “I mean—tell her I love her. I’ll try to stop by later tonight.”
And then I’m alone. Just me and enough scrambled eggs to feed a third-world nation. Helen comes in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s a short, squat woman who resembles Mrs. Santa Claus, right down to the white hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” she asks. The tone of her voice is gentle and compassionate. She’s done all this for me—for Mama. It’s her way of grieving.
“I’m good,” I tell her. “This is delicious.”
I take another slice of bacon to prove my sincerity. She seems pleased, but there are tears in her eyes.
“Well, I’m just happy to see you up and about today.” She smiles, dabbing her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “I’ll be up later to get your trays. And if there’s anything else you want, just say the word, all right?”
I watch Helen turn and push through the swinging door into the kitchen. Only after she’s gone am I struck with the realization that I haven’t seen Papa cry. Not a single tear.
T he
I fill my plate with more eggs, all the while wishing I didn’t have to eat. Papa takes more bacon.
“Papa,” I say after a while.
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he replies. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about what Dr. Zimmerman said—about Mama. Remember?”
He takes a sip from his glass.
“He said Mama had Trazodone in her blood sample that night.”
Papa nods. “You know she uses it from time to time. She keeps the bottle on her nightstand.”
I turn my fork between my fingers, swirling what’s left of my eggs. My appetite has calmed down a bit. The smell of food has lost its power over me. “Is it possible the blood test was wrong?”
Papa slips a slice of bacon into his mouth and chews, washing it down with more juice. “Blood test? What do you mean, Mira?”
“I mean, could there have been a mistake? An error in the results?”
“No,” says Papa. “I doubt it.”
“And Mama’s insulin. How do they know she took too much?”
Papa sets down his fork, wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Mira, what’s this about?”
The sound of shattering glass bursts through the kitchen door followed by Helen’s version of swearing. After spending her last summer vacation in Europe, she’s taken to using the word bugger in lieu of what she calls “offensive American profanity.”
Papa cracks a smile. He pushes his chair back from the table. “If you’re concerned about the tests,” he announces, “you can certainly ask Dr. Zimmerman about them. I’ll make sure he knows he can disclose any information to you that you like. Will you be visiting your mother today?”
“Will you come with me?” I ask. I lift another bite of eggs to my lips, but it’s cold now, so I drop it back onto my plate.
Papa gets up from the table, the newspaper tucked securely beneath his arm once again. “I wish I could, but I have another day of inquiries to face. Damn tribunal, that’s what this is. Well, so far they haven’t got a stitch of evidence linking me to that rogue researcher, Stark. So hopefully this will all blow over soon, and I can get on with my campaign.”
He pauses a moment as a hint of sadness flits across his face. Just then his cell phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his suit pocket. “Jordan? I’m on my way now. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.” He snaps it shut and slips it back into his pocket. From his other pocket he removes his gloves. He slides the first onto his right hand, flexing his fingers to get the fit just right. He does the same with his left.
“Supposed to rain,” he comments nonchalantly, turning to leave. “Give your mother a kiss for me, all right?” But then he stops. His forehead creases in thought. “I mean—tell her I love her. I’ll try to stop by later tonight.”
And then I’m alone. Just me and enough scrambled eggs to feed a third-world nation. Helen comes in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s a short, squat woman who resembles Mrs. Santa Claus, right down to the white hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” she asks. The tone of her voice is gentle and compassionate. She’s done all this for me—for Mama. It’s her way of grieving.
“I’m good,” I tell her. “This is delicious.”
I take another slice of bacon to prove my sincerity. She seems pleased, but there are tears in her eyes.
“Well, I’m just happy to see you up and about today.” She smiles, dabbing her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “I’ll be up later to get your trays. And if there’s anything else you want, just say the word, all right?”
I watch Helen turn and push through the swinging door into the kitchen. Only after she’s gone am I struck with the realization that I haven’t seen Papa cry. Not a single tear.
T he
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