Arthur couldn’t speak, but he blinked slowly, his trembling index finger hooking around my pinky, a silent pact, a gesture of absolute trust. He understood. This was the final gamble for both of us against the fangs of his monstrous son. I began. First, I clamped the IV line that delivered his nutritional fluid. For a long-term bedridden patient, cutting off hydration, even for a few hours, would cause a rapid physical response. His skin would become dry, his lips chapped, and his vital signs would fluctuate wildly. I knew I was walking a fine line, needing to time it perfectly to avoid causing permanent kidney damage. Next, I turned to the heart monitor, the most crucial prop for deceiving Michael. I removed the electrode pads from Arthur’s chest, smeared on a thick layer of conductive gel, but then deliberately reapplied them in slightly the wrong positions. This would create signal interference, causing the EKG waveform on the screen to become chaotic, spiking and dropping erratically, even displaying artifact patterns that looked identical to ventricular fibrillation or severe arhythmia. I adjusted the machine’s alarm settings, lowering the blood pressure threshold and raising the heart rate limit. The slightest increase in Arthur’s heart rate from anxiety would now trigger a deafening continuous alarm, creating an atmosphere of urgent crisis. With the technical setup complete, I staged the scene. I rumpled the bed sheets, threw some gauze pads on the floor, and spilled a cup of water by the leg of the bed as if knocked over in a frantic rush. The room now looked chaotic and tragic. The smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol, which I had deliberately sprinkled around, mingled with the frankincense, creating the unmistakable odor of a hospital room where death was imminent. I looked at Arthur one last time. His lips were already starting to look dry, and his breathing was more labored from the stress. A knot of pain tightened in my stomach. I told myself to be strong, to not give in to emotion. I sank to the floor, let my hair fall messily over my face, and smudged a bit of dark eyeshadow under my eyes to make myself look haggarded and distraught. The monitor began to shriek. The numbers on the screen danced chaotically, heart rate 110, blood pressure 80 over 50. They were fake readings, of course, manipulated by me. But to a layman like Michael, it was a death sentence for his father.
I took one last deep breath and let out a blood curdling scream that tore through the night’s silence.
“Dad, dad, wake up.”
Then I grabbed my phone and dialed Michael’s number. It rang three times before he answered. He had clearly been waiting for this call, anticipating the news of his father’s death like a celebration.
“Hello, Emily. What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
His voice was groggy, a poor attempt at figning sleep, but I could hear the alert, anxious excitement underneath. The faint sound of traffic in the background betrayed him. He wasn’t in any quiet hotel room. I screamed into the phone, my voice breaking with sobs, punctuated by ragged gasps for air.
“Michael, you have to come home now. It’s Dad. He’s crashing. The alarms are going off. He’s turning blue. I’m so scared, Michael.”
There was a pregnant pause on the other end. Michael was either savoring the moment or calculating his next move. Then his voice became urgent, a masterful performance of panic.
“What? How, doctor? Evan said he was stable this afternoon. Calm down, Emily. What do the numbers say?”
I held the phone close to the monitor so he could hear the piercing whale of the alarm. Beep beep beep.
“His heart rate is over 100 and his blood pressure has dropped. I’m calling 911. We have to get him to the hospital or he’s going to die.”
“No.”
Michael’s roar cut me off raw and violent. I paused, figning confusion.
“What? Why not? He’s dying and you’re saying no.”
Realizing his mistake, Michael quickly modulated his tone, shifting to a soothing but commanding voice.
“I mean, an ambulance will take too long at this hour, and the paperwork bouncing around in the back of a truck will only make him weaker. Listen to me, Emily. Do not call 911 or any other doctor. Do you understand?”
“Then then what do we do? Just stand here and watch him die?” I wailed, playing the part of a helpless, hysterical wife.
“I’m on my way. I’m already close to home. I brought a special herbal remedy with me from a traditional healer. It’s very powerful. One injection and he’ll stabilize. If you let those western doctors touch him, they’ll give him the wrong drugs and kill him with the shock. Wait for me. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
A traditional remedy. I scoffed internally. Though the tears still streamed down my face, I knew exactly what his remedy was. It was the final merciful injection, a one-way ticket to the afterlife for my father-in-law without leaving a trace. He was afraid of 911 because real paramedics would recognize the signs of poisoning or worse, they might actually save Arthur, ruining his inheritance plan.
“Okay, okay, please hurry. I’m so scared,” I whimpered, then hung up.
