I supported his shoulders to turn him onto his side, propping him with pillows. As I was removing the old fitted sheet from the head of the bed, I noticed Arthur’s gaze. It wasn’t the usual vacant or pained look. It was focused, urgent. His eyes darted repeatedly to the top left corner of the thick memory foam mattress where it met the wooden headboard. I paused, pretending to adjust his pillow, and leaned in close to whisper.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Dad? Is there something under there?”
He blinked twice hard. My heart hammered against my ribs. Using my body to block the camera’s view, I feigned smoothing the mattress with my left hand while my right hand slipped underneath the heavy foam. My fingers found a clean, sharp slit in the side of the mattress cover. It was old. The edges of the foam were slightly yellowed. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d think it was just a tear from moving. I pushed my fingers deeper into the slit and felt something hard and cold. It wasn’t a spring or part of the bed frame. Holding my breath, I pinched the object and pulled it out. Resting in my palm was an old black Nokia brick phone, the indestructible kind that was popular over a decade ago. I stared at it, stunned, then looked back at Arthur. It seemed he hadn’t been a passive victim after all. When had he hidden this here? It must have been before the stroke that left him paralyzed 8 years ago. He must have suspected something, known that something terrible was about to happen, and prepared this as a lifeline. But the illness, or perhaps the first dose of poison, had struck too quickly, incapacitating him before he could make his call for help, trapping him and this secret in a silent living tomb for nearly a decade. I quickly slipped the phone into the deep pocket of my scrubs and continued changing the sheets as if nothing had happened.
“There, all fresh and clean. You’ll sleep well now, Dad,” I said cheerfully.
But inside, a storm was raging. The phone in my pocket felt like a burning coal, urging me to uncover the secret it held. It was the only silent witness to what happened 8 years ago. The key to unlocking the truth Michael had worked so hard to bury. I hid in the bathroom and locked the door. I tried pressing the power button, but it was useless. The battery had died long ago. Fortunately, our house was full of old electronics. After rumaging through a junk drawer, I found a compatible pin charger. I plugged it in and waited anxiously. 5 minutes felt like an eternity. Finally, the screen lit up with the classic Nokia logo of two hands joining, followed by the iconic startup jingle. I quickly muffled the speaker, terrified the sound would carry. The phone wasn’t password protected. I went straight to the messages. The inbox was empty, as was the scent folder. He must have deleted them to avoid detection. I switched to the drafts folder, hoping for a clue. I was not disappointed. There was a single unscent message dated the 15th of May 2016, the very day Arthur was rushed to the hospital for his stroke. The message was short, riddled with typos from an elderly person typing in a hurry, but its content sent a chill down my spine. M poowoing me. Help me, Frank. He wts the land. I covered my mouth to stifle a sob.
Frank, the name joged my memory. Frank was my father-in-law’s oldest and closest army buddy. He was a respected retired veteran, a man of integrity and principle. He used to visit often to play chess with Arthur. But ever since Arthur got sick, Michael had always used the excuse that he needed absolute quiet, turning visitors away. Eventually, Frank stopped coming by, likely thinking his friend was too ill to be disturbed. So 8 years ago, my father-in-law had already seen the true face of his beloved son. The bird’s nest soup, the nutritional shakes Michael had so lovingly prepared for him back then, were actually laced with poison. He had tried to call for help, but the poison’s paralyzing effect had moved faster than his aging fingers, leaving this message forever unscent. Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the screen. He had lain there, suffering the ravages of illness and the profound psychological torment of knowing his own son had tried to kill him while watching me, his daughter-in-law, unwittingly aid his tormentor by caring for his broken body, freeing Michael to cheat on me and run his scams. I wiped my tears and saved Frank’s number to my own phone. This was my trump card. My words might not carry enough weight, but a cry for help from an old comrade, a victim on the brink of death, would surely ignite the soldier’s honor in Frank. He would be the one to help me turn the tables legally and socially.
I returned to the room and took my father-in-law’s hand, whispering with resolve.
“Dad, I read it. Frank will know what happened. I promise this time I’ll send that message for you. We are not alone in this.”
Arthur looked at me, a single cloudy tear escaping the corner of his eye and tracing a path down his hollow cheek. It was a tear of relief after eight years of silent suffering. That afternoon, I decided to call my daughter again. The suspicion that Michael was manipulating Kloe nawed at me. I needed to know how deep his psychological poison had seeped into her mind. The video call connected. Kloe was sitting on a hotel bed sipping a frappuccino, looking more cheerful than yesterday. But when she saw me, her smile vanished, replaced by a guarded, pitying expression.
“Mom, did you take your medication?”
That was the first thing she asked. Not how are you, but did you take your medication? I forced a smile, my heart twisting.
“I’m not sick, honey. Why would I need medication? I feel fine.”
Khloe sighed, her tone unnervingly mature, echoing the condescending way Michael often spoke to me.
“You always say that. Dad says you’ve been really forgetful lately and you’ve been imagining things. He says the stress of taking care of grandpa for so long has made you anxious and paranoid. You have to take the nerve supplements dad bought for you or you won’t get better.”
I was speechless. So that was it. Michael had painted the perfect picture for our daughter. Mom was a weak, mentally unstable woman prone to delusions. Therefore, anything I said, any suspicion I voiced about him would be dismissed as a symptom of my illness. He had brainwashed our child into believing that dad was the hero, shouldering the family’s burdens while tolerating a sick wife. It was the most cruel and insidious form of gaslighting I could imagine. I swallowed my pain and asked gently.
“Chloe, is your father there? I need to talk to him.”
“Dad’s in a meeting with a client. Mom, he’s so busy trying to manage his work, worry about grandpa, and take care of you. Try not to bother him too much, okay? Let him focus on earning money.”
