He reminded me of every childhood illness he had dismissed. The fever he called attention-seeking. The school nurse he accused me of manipulating. The Thanksgiving dinner where I spent two hours vomiting while he told relatives I was trying to ruin the evening.
Every pain I felt had always been forced to stand trial in his private courtroom.
“”I have been admitted for almost three weeks,”” I said. “”The doctors know something is wrong.””
“”The doctors keep saying maybe,”” he snapped. “”Maybe this. Maybe that. Meanwhile, I miss work, your mother loses sleep, and you get to lie here while everyone serves you.””
“”I didn’t ask for this.””
“”No. You create it.””
He stepped closer.
The smell of coffee and aftershave reached me before his hand did.
“”You always collapse whenever life expects something from you,”” he said. “”School. Work. Paying your own bills. Growing up.””
“”I’m sick.””
“”You always fake being sick, Laya.””
Then he wrapped his hand around my IV tubing.
He pulled.
The cannula shifted beneath my skin, sending a white-hot streak through the back of my hand. I gasped and tried to twist away, but the tape dragged against my bruised skin.
“”Dad, stop!””
His grip tightened.
“”Maybe you need a reminder of what real pain feels like.””
Mom finally rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “”Tom, you’re hurting her.””
“”She’s been hurting us for years.””
The monitor erupted into a warning tone.
Footsteps stopped outside.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. Caroline, according to the badge on her navy scrubs.
Her eyes swept across the room: my body pinned against the mattress, Dad’s hand around the tubing, Mom pulling at his sleeve, and the red numbers flashing beside my bed.
Dad released me immediately.
“”Family business,”” he said. “”You can step outside.””
Caroline did not look at him.
She looked at me.
“”Laya, do you want him in this room?””
The answer I had used my entire life rose automatically.
I’m fine.
He didn’t mean it.
Please don’t make him angrier.
But Caroline waited as though the truth belonged to me.
“”No,”” I whispered.
Dad’s chair tipped backward as he turned toward me. “”Excuse me?””
“”You heard her,”” Caroline said, moving between us. “”Step away from the patient.””
Dad laughed. “”Patient? She’s manipulating you. She has mental problems. She invents symptoms whenever she wants attention.””
Caroline reached for her phone.
“”Security is coming,”” she said. “”And I called the police.””
Dad went white.
Mom began pleading. “”Please. He’s upset. This is a misunderstanding.””
Within minutes, two security officers and two police officers filled the room.
Dad’s voice changed instantly. It became calm, polished, almost gentle.
“”My daughter is emotionally unstable,”” he told them. “”I was trying to keep her from pulling out her own line.””
Caroline’s expression did not move. “”I saw your hand around it.””
Before Dad could answer, my attending physician hurried inside holding my chart.
He barely glanced at the officers.
His attention locked on the paper cup beside my bed.
Then on the stainless steel thermos next to it.
“”Has she consumed anything brought in from outside the hospital?”” he asked.
My mouth went dry.
That morning, Dad had poured broth from that thermos and stood beside my bed until I swallowed half a cup.
“”It’s just soup,”” Dad said quickly.
The doctor looked at him. “”Who prepared it?””
“”Her mother.””
Mom’s head jerked up.
Dad stared at her.
She lowered her eyes.
The doctor asked an officer to secure the thermos. Caroline put on gloves and lifted it from the table.
As she did, a small amber pharmacy bottle slipped from the side pocket of Mom’s tote bag and struck the floor.
Dad lunged.
An officer caught him by the shoulder and forced him back.
The label had been peeled halfway away.
Caroline handed the bottle to my doctor.
He studied it, then opened my latest toxicology report.
Mom started shaking so violently that her bracelets clicked against each other.
The doctor looked at me.
“”Laya,”” he said quietly, “”this is the same medication we found in your blood.””
Dad stopped arguing.
→
See more on the next page
