Chương 4
“The pills in the box.”
“No.”
“He says she crushes them.”
“No.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He’s ten.”
“Yes.”
“He just put a pill in his sister’s cake.”
“I know.”
“So maybe he’s trying to—”
He stopped.
Evelyn felt something cold move through her.
“Finish that.”
“I’m saying he’s scared.”
“Finish what you were about to say.”
Daniel rubbed both hands over his face.
“He could be trying to shift blame.”
“For what?”
“For what he did.”
“He admitted what he did.”
“That doesn’t mean everything else he says is automatically true.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m not calling him a liar.”
“You almost did.”
“I said we need to slow down.”
The clinic door opened.
The nurse stepped out.
“Everything okay?”
Neither answered.
She looked between them, thought better of waiting, and said, “Lily’s vitals are still normal.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn said.
The nurse went back inside.
Daniel lowered his voice.
“Has Noah ever told you this before?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“I know.”
Evelyn searched his face.
Something bothered her.
Not what he had said.
How quickly he had found uncertainty.
“What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Daniel.”
“Nothing.”
“You look scared.”
“Our daughter may have been poisoned, our son admits putting the pill there, and now he says my mother has been drugging him. What expression should I have?”
“The one you had before I told you.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He turned away.
That answer frightened her more than anger would have.
Margaret returned with Bennett and the original prescription bottle sealed inside a clear bag.
The pharmacy label had her name.
The pill count did not match what Margaret expected.
“That can’t be right,” she said.
Bennett did not touch the bottle.
“How many should be missing?”
Margaret glanced at Evelyn.
“I don’t count them every day.”
“How often do you take one?”
“When necessary.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Margaret’s eyes hardened.
Bennett remained patient.
“How often, approximately?”
“Perhaps twice a week.”
The prescription had been filled twenty-three days earlier.
The bottle had originally contained thirty tablets.
Fourteen remained between the bottle and the pillbox.
Evelyn did the arithmetic.
Sixteen missing.
Daniel did too.
Margaret’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
“No,” she said.
No one had accused her yet.
She said it again.
“No.”
Evelyn walked toward her.
“Has Noah ever taken your medication?”
“Not willingly.”
The room went silent.
Margaret closed her eyes.
The sentence remained between them.
Evelyn felt Daniel move behind her.
“What does that mean?”
Margaret opened her eyes.
“I gave him something to help him sleep.”
Daniel stared at her.
“You did what?”
“He was having episodes.”
“What episodes?”
“Night terrors.”
“He has nightmares.”
“They were more than nightmares.”
“When?”
“When he stayed with me.”
“How many times?”
Margaret looked at Evelyn.
“I was going to tell you.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “Answer him.”
“I don’t know.”
“Four?”
“Evelyn.”
“Ten?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Sixteen pills are missing.”
“I did not give a ten-year-old sixteen full pills.”
“So you gave him pieces?”
Margaret’s silence answered.
Daniel’s face went red.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Lower your voice.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to lower my voice.”
Lily stirred inside the clinic.
Evelyn stepped closer to Daniel.
“Not here.”
He backed away from Margaret.
His hands were shaking.
Margaret looked suddenly older.
Not weak.
Just older.
“There were nights,” she said, “when Noah could not settle. He was hysterical. He would wake screaming. He tried to leave the suite once.”
“So you drugged him?”
“I gave him a fraction of medication.”
“Your medication.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling us.”
Margaret looked at him.
“You knew he was having problems.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“You left him with me.”
“I left my son with his grandmother.”
“And I cared for him.”
“You medicated him.”
“I helped him sleep.”
Daniel laughed sharply.
“Oh my God.”
Margaret turned to Evelyn.
“I never gave him a full tablet.”
Evelyn could hear her own heartbeat.
“How much?”
“A quarter.”
“Did you ask his pediatrician?”
“No.”
“Did you tell his pediatrician?”
“No.”
“Did you tell me?”
Margaret looked away.
Evelyn’s voice changed.
“Look at me.”
Margaret did.
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
Something inside Evelyn became very quiet.
For years she had disliked arguments with Margaret because Margaret never seemed to be participating in the same argument. Other people got emotional. Margaret became precise. She could make anger look childish simply by refusing to raise her voice.
Evelyn had spent years learning not to rise to it.
Now she understood that calm could be another form of force.
She looked through the clinic window at Noah.
He was sitting beside Lily, his knees pulled up slightly, watching his sister sleep.
“When did it start?”
Margaret said nothing.
“When?”
“Last winter.”
Evelyn’s mind began moving backward.
Noah sleeping until ten after weekends at Margaret’s.
Noah complaining that breakfast made him nauseated.
His teacher emailing in February because he had put his head down during morning math.
Evelyn blaming altitude.
Daniel joking that his mother let the children stay up too late.
Noah saying Grandma’s cocoa tasted “chalky.”
Evelyn remembered correcting him.
Don’t complain when someone makes you something.
The memory made her stomach turn.
“How often?”
Margaret rubbed the pearl at her throat.
“I can’t give you an exact number.”
“Try.”
“Six times. Perhaps seven.”
“Since last winter?”
Margaret nodded.
“Why didn’t he tell us?”
Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the clinic.
“He knew you would overreact.”
Evelyn stared.
Daniel said, “Wrong answer.”
“He knew you would stop allowing him to visit.”
“You told him that?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him not to tell us?”
Margaret hesitated.
Daniel’s voice broke.
“Mom.”
“I told him there was no reason to worry his parents.”
Evelyn shut her eyes.
For a moment she imagined hitting Margaret.
The thought surprised her with its clarity.
May you like
Not doing it.
Just the brief image of her hand moving across that composed face.
