Page 90 of The Only One Left

And it was only a matter of time before she told everyone else.

The only choice I had was to beat her to the punch and tell at least someone other than Archie. In my mind, the best person was my mother. She’d take the news far better than my father, for one thing. Also, I hoped she’d understand, having gone through the same predicament herself.

My mind made up, I walked to the end of the hall and crept into her room. My mother was barely awake, even though it was only late afternoon. Sunlight peeked between the drawn curtains at the windows, trying to trickle in the same way water did through a crack.

“Is that you, my darling?” she murmured from the bed.

I stood at the foot of it, trying to come up with the right words to say. But there was so much to be said--and so many questions to be asked--that I simply blurted out, “Is it true? What Father said?”

A sigh rose from the covers my mother had buried herself under.

“Yes, my darling.”

“So you don’t love him?”

“No,” my mother said.

“Did you ever?”

“Never.” My mother sounded dreamy and distant. Like someone talking in her sleep. “Never, ever. He knew it, too. He knew it and paid the man I did love to run away and never see me again. When that happened, I was trapped. I had no choice but to marry him.”

My mother’s voice drifted into a slur.

“No choice at all.”

The slur became a whisper.

“Sorry, my darling.”

The whisper faded to a gasp.

And then... nothing.

“Mother?” I rushed to her side, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a good shake. Jostled by the movement, her right handflopped against the mattress, releasing the laudanum bottle she’d been holding.

It was completely empty.

She’d swallowed it all, likely right before I’d entered her room.

“Mother?” I cried, shaking her even harder, trying to jolt her back into consciousness. But it was no use. As my mother lay there, motionless, the empty bottle of laudanum rolled across the mattress and hit the floor with a crash.

TWENTY-NINE

Lenora is giving me her version of the silent treatment, which involves refusing to tap out a response to even the most basic questions. Still, I try, continuing to ask her what she’d like to do this evening.

“Would you like to try typing?”

Lenora’s left hand doesn’t rise from the bed.

“You can listen to more of the book Jessie recorded for you. Would you like that?”

Again, nothing.

“Or I could read to you instead,” I say. “That might be fun for neither of us.”

This at least gets a reaction. The corners of Lenora’s mouth perk up into a half smile. But it fades as quickly as it formed, and her face returns to stony expressionlessness.

“I’m sorry,” I say for at least the fifth time that day. “I mean it. And I’ll replace the snow globe. I swear.”

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