Chapter 22: Attempt at Confrontation?

Matthew (in middle school)

Dinner with Mom was a tense affair. The usual chatter, the comfortable silence between bites, was replaced by a suffocating awkwardness. Every time I looked at her, I saw a ghost of Dad hovering behind her – Dad with his booming laugh, his constant worries, and his unfounded suspicions, suspicions that ultimately led to his demise.

Tonight, those suspicions felt like a living entity in the room, a shadow stretching its fingers across the table, threatening to engulf us both. Mom, bless her oblivious heart, seemed content to chat about the weather, the upcoming neighbourhood bake sale, and anything but the elephant occupying the centre of the room.

The medication did its job, thankfully, dulling the sharp edges of my paranoia. It didn't erase it completely, but it allowed a sliver of reason to peek through. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe David uncle and his suspiciously timed phone calls were just that – innocent calls. Maybe the "walks" they took were just friendly strolls, catching up on old times.

But the doubt remained, a persistent itch I couldn't scratch. The memory of her radiant smile, the one that used to be reserved for Dad, kept replaying in my mind. Now, it seemed directed at some unseen entity, a secret joy she couldn't quite contain.

With a deep breath, I pushed my plate away, the decision solidifying in my gut. It was time for a conversation, however uncomfortable it might be.

"Mom," I began, my voice cracking in the quiet, "can we talk about something?"

She looked up, her smile faltering slightly. "Sure, honey. What's on your mind?"

"It's… about you and David uncle." My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum solo in the silence that followed.

Mom's face drained of colour. She blinked rapidly, a look of panic flickering across her features. "David? What about him?" Her voice was barely a whisper."

I… I've been seeing you two talking on the phone a lot lately," I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "And the walks you take together…" I trailed off, unable to finish the accusation hanging in the air.

Mom looked down at her hands, her knuckles white against the pale porcelain. "Matthew," she began, her voice trembling, "it's not what you think."

Just as the dam holding back my suspicions began to crack, a wave of dizziness washed over Mom. Her eyes fluttered shut, a gasp escaping her lips. Before I could react, she slumped forward, her chair scraping against the floorboards as she hit the ground.

Panic surged through me, the accusation forgotten. "Mom!" I yelled, scrambling out of my chair and rushing to her side. Her face was pale, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple.

My mind raced, the medication did little to quell the rising tide of fear. Was this a heart attack? Was it something I'd said? Had the stress of Dad's passing finally caught up to her?

Scrambling for my phone, I dialled emergency services, my voice hoarse with terror as I explained the situation. The minutes until the ambulance arrived stretched into an eternity. I knelt beside Mom, checking for a pulse, the faint thump against her wrist a beacon of hope in the storm of fear.

When the paramedics finally arrived, their movements quick and efficient, a sense of relief washed over me, as intense as the initial panic. They loaded Mom onto a stretcher, her eyes still closed, her face an empty canvas of worry.

"She'll be alright," one of them offered, his voice calm and reassuring. "Most likely dehydration and stress. We'll get her checked out at the hospital, just to be safe."

As they wheeled her away, I felt a surge of guilt. The confrontation I'd envisioned had morphed into a terrifying medical emergency. Had I pushed her too hard? Was my paranoia the reason she was lying there, pale and unconscious?

Following the ambulance to the hospital, the questions churned in my mind. By the time I arrived at the sterile waiting room, Mom was wide asleep, a saline drip snaking its way up her arm. She looked frail, and vulnerable, and a wave of protectiveness washed over me, momentarily eclipsing the earlier suspicion.

"Hey Mom," I said softly, pulling up a chair beside her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

I softly grazed my hand through her soft hair as she lay on the bed.

I could imagine myself asking her after she woke up, "Is there anything I can get you?" Water? Food? A therapist to help deal with your guilt-ridden son?