Page 14 of Web of Lies
I turn my head to look at my glass on the nightstand. There is only about an inch of water in the bottom of the glass, but that's enough to swallow the handful of pills she has in that little plastic cup. The sooner I can get out of this room, the sooner I can show them that I'm not helpless. And maybe I can find my phone. “No, I think I've got enough to take it.”
I hold out my hand for the cup but she hesitates. “You barely have a drink. I'll get you some fresh water and be right back.” She walks around the bed and puts the little cup down when she picks up the glass. She looks at me and then the window before she goes to get the refill.
I've asked both Adrian and Anne what the medications are and they've told me. I've never had reason not to trust Adrian, but I've never seen the bottles and I usually don't have time to really look at it before I'm being rushed to just swallow it. I reach over and pick up the cup. One is definitely some kind of multivitamin. One looks like the supplement gel caps that Adrian takes every morning, heavy on the Vitamin B. One looks like the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for months. And the other two could be pain relievers but they have numbers on them and I can't remember if pain relief tablets have numbers. I'm not sure if that's something I ever paid attention to before, I just took them straight from the bottle whenever I had a headache.
Anne comes back in and stops when she sees me inspecting the medication. “Is everything alright, Mrs. Nash?”
I nod, dropping the tablets back into the cup. “I was just looking at what I'm taking. Are these pain relievers?”
She glances at the cup, then at the window, then back at me. “Yes. To offset your headaches.”
I don't get headaches. I haven't complained about a headache in so long I can't remember the last one I had. “Okay.”
I tip the pills into my mouth and reach for the water Anne's holding out for me. I hold her gaze while I swallow them and put the glass back on the nightstand, not missing the moment her eyes flick back at the window. I slide my legs over the side of the bed and slowly get to my feet. Despite my unsteadiness, I feel like I could walk to the stairs right now, maybe even down them.
Anne grips my elbow when I take the first step. “Be careful, Mrs. Nash. We can't have you falling.”
I turn my head to speak to her, but whether it's to thank her or to tell her I'm fine is lost the moment she bumps me with her hip. I was ready to call it an accident, but then she does it again and loosens her hold on my arm. I fall to the ground and when I look back up at Anne she's looking at the window again.
“Do you think he saw you push me this time?”
She whips her head to smile down at me. “I don't know what you're talking about. You know how dizzy you are all the time. You just slipped out of my hands. Here, I'll help you up and then we'll get you downstairs.”
If I let her “help” me down the stairs she's going to push me down them. I know it. I can feel it. My gut is screaming at me to get as far away from her as I can, but I can't because the clarity I was feeling just a few minutes ago is quickly dissipating and being replaced with the harsh spinning dullness that claims me so often.
No. I don't think I can let Anne throw me down the stairs today. Maybe I'll feel more up to it tomorrow. “On second thought, I think I'd rather stay in bed after all.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Nash? It's no trouble to help you down the stairs.”
I give her a flat look. “I'm sure it isn't, but I'm suddenly not feeling well. I'm going to stay near my bed today, Anne.”
“Do you need me to help you get settled?”
I shake my head and start inching and climbing my way back up onto the bed. “I've got it.”
She waits until I'm sitting on the side of the bed and then starts walking to the door. “Alright. I'll just go downstairs and fetch your breakfast.”
Sighing, I scoot back until my back is resting against the pillows piled against the headboard. I look down at my legs and frown. I used to go to the gym. I used to go for runs. Now, just walking around my bedroom is exhausting. I have to see a doctor. I cannot allow my muscles to atrophy. I can't. But I'm just so tired. I'm going to talk to Adrian again. Maybe if I don't get upset he'll be more willing to listen. About the doctor and about Anne.
“I hope you're alright with oatmeal and a strawberry smoothie,” Anne says as she comes back into the room with a tray.
I am not alright with oatmeal and I hate strawberries, but it's either that or be hungry until Adrian gets home. What's worse, is that she knows I don't like either of those things, but she still gives me both at least twice a week. I don't know what she does to the smoothie but it tastes, I don't know, stale. I get a smoothie every single day and she says she uses fresh fruit in them, but even the ones that have fruit that I actually like taste kind of freezer-burnt. I've told Adrian about it, but he brushed it off.
I've also told him that she basically forces me to eat foods that I hate and he brushed that off, saying that she's just doing her best to take care of me. I reminded him that we hired her to do a job and she should base my foods around my likes. He said he'd talk to her, but I'm still drinking stale smoothies and eating oatmeal.
“I guess I'll have to be, right?” I say flatly, my lip wrinkling in distaste.
Anne arranges the tray on the bed next to me and smiles. “I'm just trying to keep you healthy, Mrs. Nash. Try to eat the oatmeal before it goes cold.”
I'm going to let it sit on the tray and turn to chunky, gray paste. I can drink the smoothie quickly and get it over with, but the oatmeal requires mastication and I'm not wasting energy on it.
When Adrian comes home, I try to talk to him about Anne but he seems impatient and distracted.
“Larken, can you just drop it already? I'm not going to hire someone who's going to come in here and push you around and feed you bad food. That's ridiculous. I'll put in another call to the doctor in the morning. Other than stressing yourself out and being paranoid, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Good, good,” he says, reaching into his bag for the leather-bound folder I've grown to resent. My Dad's company, my company, is being controlled by a folder and a pen. “I've got some papers for you to look over if you're feeling up to it.”
