Michael closed the car door, but then, as if remembering something, he rolled down the window and waved me over. Against the scorching heat of the summer afternoon, my husband’s smile was as gentle and refreshing as a cool stream. He stepped out of the car and adjusted the collar of my blouse. His deep, warm voice was full of concern.
“It’s a lot for you being here alone. Once I get Chloe settled into her marine biology program in Hawaii, I’ll take care of some company business over there, too. It’ll probably be about a month. Everything at home, from the meals to dad’s medication, I’m counting on you for everything.”
Chloe, our 15-year-old daughter, sat in the passenger seat with her headphones on, eyes glued to her phone, not even bothering to look up and say goodbye. She was in that rebellious phase, and spoiled by her father, she’d grown more distant from me lately. I glanced at her, a pang of sadness in my heart, but quickly pushed it away and nodded with a smile to my husband. Michael pointed up to the second floor, to the room where my father-in-law, Arthur, lay.
“Oh, and that new aroma therapy diffuser I bought,” he added carefully. “The wellness guru said, ‘Placing it in that corner creates a healing energy vortex, which is great for dad’s health. Remember to keep it running 24/7. Don’t turn it off.’ The vapor will help his breathing, too. I’ve noticed he’s been wheezing a bit lately.”
I nodded.
“I remember. You two have a safe flight. Let me know as soon as you land.”
The car pulled away, leaving me standing alone in the vast, empty driveway. The heavy iron gate swung shut, dividing my world in two. Outside was the boundless freedom of my husband and daughter. Inside was the eerie silence of this enormous suburban house. I turned and went back inside, the sound of my sandals slapping against the polished granite floors feeling strangely out of place. Without the men of the house, it felt immense and unusually cold. The only sounds were the low hum of the central air conditioning and the steady rhythmic beeping from the vital signs monitor on the second floor. That was where my father-in-law Arthur was. He had been lying there for eight long years. Ever since a massive stroke, once a formidable executive, a man whose voice commanded respect and instilled fear, he was now just an immobile body kept alive by machines and the care of his daughter-in-law. I changed into my scrubs, washed my hands thoroughly with antibacterial soap, and entered his room. This was my familiar routine, one I’d performed for nearly 3,000 days. I am a physical therapist. Caring for a patient was not just my duty as a daughter-in-law. It was a professional instinct ingrained in my very being. The room was thick with the scent of frankincense essential oil emanating from the expensive diffuser Michael had brought home last week. He claimed this particular oil calmed the mind and cleansed negative energy. A thin white mist curled through the air, hitting my face with a damp, cool sensation. I went to the bedside and looked at my father-in-law’s gaunt ashen face. His eyes were shut, his sockets deep and hollow, his skin stretched tt over his bones. As was my habit, I spoke to him softly.
“Dad, Michael and Kloe have left for Hawaii. It’s just the two of us now. Let me clear your airways, okay? It’ll just take a moment.”
I skillfully turned on the suction machine and put on a pair of medical gloves. The machine’s worring broke the silence. I gently inserted the catheter into his mouth. Suddenly, I felt an unusual rigidity in his jaw muscles. The monitor beside the bed began to beep more rapidly. His heart rate, normally a steady 75, jumped to 78, then 80. Startled, I looked at the screen, thinking it was a machine error or that the suction had caused an irritation. But in that very second, something happened that made my blood run cold. Arthur, the man who had been in a coma for 8 years, the man whose brain damage doctors had declared irreversible, suddenly opened his eyes. This wasn’t the vacant, reflexive opening of the eyes I’d sometimes seen. His cloudy eyes were shot through with red veins, but his gaze was fixed on me with an expression of utter consciousness and profound terror. He looked at me, then frantically darted his eyes toward the diffuser, puffing its white mist in the corner of the room. Guttural, broken sounds escaped his throat like a rusted pipe trying to force water through years of accumulated decay. I stood frozen, the suction catheter still hovering in midair. Arthur struggled to move his dry, cracked lips. It took a long moment, and what seemed like the last ounce of life force he possessed for him to rasp out seven words, distorted, but horrifyingly clear.
“There’s poison in the aroma therapy diffuser.”
