Darling Rose Gold(12)

I shook my head.

“Okay, so your ma is telling everyone you’re sick, and both you and the doctors believe her. You’re going to the doctor’s office all the time. What about life at home? What was that like?”

I dug into the third muffin, teeth first. “She pulled me out of school in first grade after one kid was mean to me, said homeschooling would be easier on my health. I spent most of my time alone with her until I was sixteen.”

“How’d she justify that?” Vinny asked.

“She said I was too sick to be around other kids. My weak immune system wouldn’t be able to resist their germs. She was always holding the chromosomal defect over my head. I was too scared of my sicknesses to argue. So I sat in my chair and let her shave my head and played the good patient.”

“But you had to get out once in a while,” Vinny said.

“We left the house for doctors’ appointments, running errands, and visiting neighbors,” I said. “Before Mom’s arrest, our neighbors thought she was a saint. She took part in every food drive, roadway cleanup, and raffle. And all this with a sick daughter at home. ‘That Patty is something, isn’t she?’ they’d say. Their praise was just what she wanted.”

Vinny thought for a minute. “You said you didn’t hang around a lot of other people until you were sixteen. What changed?”

I smiled. “We got the Internet.”



* * *



? ? ?

When I explained to Vinny how I stopped Mom, I’m not sure why I left Phil out of the story. I mentioned once in our chat room that broccoli and turkey and potatoes reminded me of maple syrup mixed with cotton candy. Phil was the first person to tell me none of those foods was sickly sweet. I described the weird bitterness on my tongue and throat as I swallowed Mom’s meals, how the tingling lingered no matter how hard I scratched. Nothing could get rid of the taste—not mouthwash, gum, water, more food.

It’s odd that hospital food never makes you sick. Only your mom’s food, Phil said.

I remembered that moment in perfect detail, like it was preserved in a snow globe. I was sixteen, sitting at the desk in Mom’s bedroom, where she insisted we keep our computer. It was the middle of the night—the only time I dared talk to Phil. Mom was snoring loudly in her bed a few feet away.

I stared at the computer screen, fingers frozen on the keyboard. My illness. My mother. Illness because of my mother. The connection had never crossed my mind.

I have to get to bed, I told Phil. Thanks for listening. XO.

I signed off but stayed up all night, following link after link like a scavenger hunt. The sun was starting to rise when I found it: an image of a small brown bottle with a white cap and blue lettering. I had seen the bottle once before while putting away laundry.

Holding my breath, I tiptoed to Mom’s dresser and, an inch at a time, opened her sock drawer. Buried in the back was the same brown bottle. Lettered in blue were the words “Ipecac Syrup.”

I hurried back to the computer and scanned the page for more information. Ipecac syrup was used to make kids or pets vomit when they accidentally swallowed poison.

My mother had been poisoning me.

I became aware of a throbbing in my chest. My hand couldn’t feel the mouse it was holding. The chair fabric under my thighs disappeared. I was terrified of reading further.

Suddenly I felt hot, angry breath on the back of my neck.

I whipped around in my chair, expecting Mom to be looming over me. What would I say? But I was imagining things. She was still in bed, the quilted comforter rising and falling with her steady breath. How confident she was, even in sleep. Nothing kept her up at night. I read for as long as I dared, then erased my search history.

I climbed into my bed that morning with no idea what to do next. I understood Mom was putting ipecac in my food, but it still didn’t occur to me then that I didn’t have any food allergies or digestive issues. It took me another six months to figure out I probably didn’t need the feeding tube. Piece by piece, I realized everything she’d told me was a lie: the vision problems, the chromosomal defect, all of it.

Back in the café, Vinny said, “So lemme get this straight: the only thing wrong with you was your ma put ipecac in your food?” He sounded disappointed.

“When I was given food at all,” I pointed out. “The ipecac explains the vomiting. The rest of my symptoms were malnutrition.”

“But you had the feeding tube.”

“After Mom was arrested, I found out she’d been feeding me half of the daily calories I needed.”

Vinny let out a low whistle. “At the risk of offending, I’ve gotta ask”—he paused—“how did you not know? I get not understanding when you were a kid, but even at fifteen, you had no idea?”

Vinny King was an a-hole. I wished I could dump my gross coffee in his lap. I’d heard comments like these before: Why didn’t you get up out of the wheelchair? Why didn’t you cook your own meals? You really didn’t know you were playing sick? They were judgments more than questions.

I narrowed my eyes at Vinny. “What Mom said was true—I was sick all the time. I did throw up every food she put in front of me. I did get really bad headaches and dizzy spells. I never had the chance to make my own food, because I was too weak, and she was always a step ahead of me. If your mom and your doctors and your neighbors all say you’re sick, why would you question them? The pain was there. The proof was in my medical file.”