Chapter 3 - Bridget Said She Was Helping Me Sleep
Bridget finally explained.
Or tried to.
“You couldn’t sleep.”
“At breakfast?”
“No.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“It started at night.”
That part was true.
After the crash, I had nightmares.
Pain.
Muscle spasms.
Some nights I slept ninety minutes at a time.
My doctor prescribed medication that could be used under specific circumstances.
Bridget said one pill upset my stomach.
So she arranged a compounded liquid through a pharmacy.
“Who authorized that?”
She hesitated.
“Your old pain specialist.”
“Name him.”
Silence.
“Bridget.”
“He approved something similar.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her face hardened.
“You were miserable.”
“So you medicated me without telling me?”
“I put a few drops in your drink.”
“How often?”
“When you needed it.”
“At breakfast?”
“You were agitated.”
I almost laughed.
“Agitated?”
“You were obsessed with walking too soon.”
There it was.
Not insomnia.
Control.
Diane stood near the doorway.
“How many morning doses?”
Bridget snapped:
“This is between me and my husband.”
“No,” I said. “It stopped being private when Sophie had to keep me from drinking it.”
Bridget looked toward my daughter.
Sophie immediately moved behind Diane.
That small movement hurt more than the lab report.
My daughter was afraid of my wife.
“How long has she been scared of you?”
Bridget started crying.
“I love Sophie.”
“Then why did you slap her?”
“She accused me of poisoning you.”
“She told the truth about what she saw.”
“I wasn’t poisoning you!”
“Then why hide it?”
No answer.
The door opened.
Mom came in.
She had been avoiding the room.
I looked at her.
“Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About the drops.”
She stared at Bridget.
Not me.
That was enough.
“Mom.”
“I knew she gave you something occasionally.”
Diane’s face tightened.
“You knew?”
“He needed rest.”
I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes.
My wife had been putting medication into my drinks without telling me.
My mother knew enough not to be surprised.
My sister, the medical professional, apparently knew nothing.
“How long?”
Alma sat down.
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
She looked at her hands.
“The first time was after you fell.”
I froze.
“What fall?”
Mom looked at Bridget.
Bridget whispered:
“June.”
I remembered June.
A rehabilitation session at home.
I had stood using a walker.
Then everything went gray.
I woke on the floor with three people around me.
Everyone blamed blood-pressure instability.
Apparently there was more to that morning.
Mom finally said:
“You were furious afterward. You wanted to fire the home therapist.”
“What does that have to do with medication?”
“You wouldn’t calm down.”
I stared at her.
“And?”
Alma’s voice became smaller.
“I told Bridget to give you something.”
There it was.
My mother had not merely known.
She had participated.
But Bridget immediately shook her head.
“That was one time.”
Mom looked at her.
Their expressions did not match.
And I realized they were afraid for different reasons.
May you like
Alma was afraid I would learn where the dosing started.
Bridget was afraid I would learn where it eventually led.
