“I sent nearly every month.”
“And we appreciated it.”
“We?”
Jessica’s eyes hardened.
“You think this house runs on appreciation? Property taxes increased. The roof leaked. The septic system needed work. Your father’s prescriptions changed. Your mother needed tests. Food prices rose. Michael borrowed against his business to cover expenses before you even knew there was a problem.”
“That isn’t what you told me.”
“I was trying not to burden you.”
“You called me twice last winter asking for extra money.”
“Because we needed it.”
“For what?”
No one replied.
The cicadas continued buzzing in the trees.
I stepped around Jessica and entered the kitchen.
She did not try to stop me again.
The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something medicinal. Mail was stacked beside the refrigerator. A designer handbag sat on the counter. Two wineglasses waited beside the sink.
The glass table had been set for two.
Only two.
I looked at my mother.
“Where do you and Dad eat?”
Her eyes went to the hallway.
My father spoke behind me.
“We usually eat earlier.”
“Where?”
He did not answer.
I walked down the hall.
“Daniel,” Jessica said sharply.
I opened the first door.
It had once been my parents’ bedroom.
Now it belonged to Susan.
A king-sized bed filled most of the room. Silk pillows were arranged beneath an ornate headboard. Cosmetic bottles lined my mother’s antique dresser. An air-conditioning unit hummed beneath the window.
My parents’ wedding photograph, which had once sat on that dresser, was gone.
I moved to the second bedroom.
Jessica’s clothes hung in the closet. Shoes were stacked in clear boxes. A television was mounted on the wall.
“Where are my parents sleeping?”
Jessica said nothing.
I walked toward the narrow staircase at the end of the hall.
The old farmhouse had a finished attic with low ceilings and poor ventilation. When I was young, we used it for holiday decorations and broken furniture.
My father blocked the first stair.
“Danny.”
His face pleaded with me.
“Please move,” I said.
“It isn’t what you think.”
“Then show me what it is.”
My mother made a small sound behind us.
My father closed his eyes.
Then he stepped aside.
The attic was unbearably hot.
Even with the small window cracked open, the air felt trapped and stale. Two narrow beds stood beneath the sloped roof. A portable fan turned weakly from side to side, pushing heat around the room.
My mother’s clothes had been folded into plastic bins.
My father’s work boots sat beside a dented metal cabinet.
A paper bag filled with prescription bottles rested on a stool.
I stared at the beds.
The blankets had been tucked neatly.
My mother had always made her bed before breakfast.
Even here.
Even after being removed from her own room, she had preserved that small ritual.
Behind me, Jessica began explaining.
“Your mother couldn’t manage the stairs to the downstairs bathroom at night, so we put them together up here where they could keep an eye on each other.”
I turned slowly.
“You put two elderly people in an attic because my mother has trouble walking?”
“It was supposed to be temporary.”
“There are two empty rooms downstairs.”
“Those rooms weren’t empty when the arrangement was made.”
“Because you and your mother took them.”
Susan crossed her arms.
“You have no idea what this family has been through.”
My father came up the stairs, breathing heavily.
“Enough,” he said.
It was the first time his voice sounded like the father I remembered.
Everyone stopped.
He looked at me.
Then at Jessica.
Then toward the bedroom behind us.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired of whispering. I’m tired of pretending everything is all right because we’re afraid one wrong sentence will tear apart what’s left of this family.”
Jessica’s face changed.
Not anger.
Pain.
“Arthur,” she said softly, “please.”
He shook his head.
“No more.”
My mother sat on the lower stair.
She looked suddenly unsteady, and I moved toward her, but she raised one hand.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Just dizzy.”
I crouched in front of her.
“What medication are you taking?”
She looked toward the paper bag.
I picked it up and emptied the bottles carefully onto the nearest bed.
Blood pressure medication. Cholesterol medication. A mild sleeping aid. Something for anxiety.
Several labels were recent.
All of them listed the same prescribing physician.
I did not recognize the name.
“Who is Dr. Whitmore?”
Jessica answered from the doorway.
“A local physician.”
“What clinic?”
“He makes home visits.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother gets confused in medical offices.”
My mother flinched.
I looked at her.
“Do you?”
“No,” she whispered.
Jessica’s voice became strained. “Helen, we have discussed this.”
My mother’s fingers curled around the stair rail.
“No,” she repeated, louder this time. “You discussed it. I listened.”
The room fell silent.
I picked up one of the bottles.
The dosage instructions had been changed with a new sticker placed over the old one.
“Mom, does this medicine make you tired?”
She nodded.
“All day?”
Another nod.
“How long have you been taking it?”
“Since Christmas.”
I looked at Jessica.
“You told me she had the flu at Christmas.”
“She was unwell.”
“You told me not to visit because she was contagious.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
