Chapter 2 - ALL THE WAYS THEY HAD BEEN HELPING ME
I did not go to work.
I drove Chloe to school, waited until she disappeared through the gate, and sat in my SUV with Eleanor’s teacup sealed inside a plastic container on the passenger floor.
My hands were shaking.
I called my primary-care physician.
Her nurse heard enough in my voice to tell me to come in immediately.
By noon I was at Scripps Memorial in La Jolla answering questions I never imagined anyone would ask me.
Had I taken any sleeping medication?
No.
Anti-anxiety drugs?
No.
Pain medication?
Nothing except ibuprofen occasionally.
Recreational drugs?
No.
Could someone have access to my food or drinks?
I stared at the nurse.
“Yes.”
She documented everything.
The tea was turned over for testing through the appropriate lab process rather than treated like some television mystery solved in fifteen minutes.
Blood was drawn.
Urine was collected.
I sat under fluorescent light and began replaying the previous four months.
Julian and I had moved into Eleanor’s La Jolla house in March while our place in Kensington underwent major repairs after a plumbing failure flooded the downstairs.
At least, that was supposed to be temporary.
Our insurance dispute dragged on.
The contractor found more damage.
Julian suggested staying with Eleanor rather than moving Chloe through a succession of rentals.
I agreed immediately.
Why wouldn’t I?
I trusted her.
By April, Eleanor had started making me tea every morning.
“You look worn thin,” she would say.
She had always been concerned about my health.
After my mother died, Eleanor became almost obsessive about medical appointments. She reminded me about mammograms before I turned forty. She bought expensive vitamins I never asked for. She worried when I skipped breakfast.
When I started sleeping badly after the house flood, she began serving what she called her “calming tea.”
I never questioned it.
Neither did Julian.
Or so I thought.
The first bad morning happened in May.
I woke on the couch at eleven thirty with no memory of lying down.
Julian said I had been exhausted.
The second time, I missed Chloe’s orthodontist appointment.
The third time, I called my office at the San Diego Arts Foundation and apparently repeated the same question twice during a budget call.
My deputy director, Melissa, asked whether I needed medical leave.
I cried in the restroom afterward.
Julian held me that evening.
“Maybe your body is telling you something.”
He suggested reducing my hours.
Eleanor suggested taking over school pickups.
I resisted both until the parking-garage accident.
After that, I surrendered my keys for almost two weeks.
Julian drove me to work.
Eleanor picked up Chloe.
Everyone was helping.
That was what I called it.
Helping.
My phone buzzed in the hospital waiting room.
Julian.
Where are you?
I wrote:
Doctor.
He called immediately.
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t feeling right.”
“What kind of not right?”
The question was careful.
Too careful.
“Why?”
“Because I’m your husband.”
I looked through the glass partition toward the nurse’s station.
“Have you ever seen your mother put anything in my tea?”
Silence.
Then he laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because he needed another sound to fill the space.
“What?”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Nora, what is this?”
“Chloe says she has.”
Another pause.
“Chloe is eight.”
“She knows what a jar looks like.”
“You’re turning something harmless into—”
I ended the call.
I had never hung up on Julian in twelve years together.
He called three more times.
Then Eleanor called.
I did not answer either of them.
At three fifteen, the physician returned.
My preliminary blood screen showed evidence consistent with a sedating medication I had not reported taking.
He emphasized that confirmation would require further testing.
He also emphasized something else.
Until they understood what was happening, I should not consume food or drinks prepared by anyone I did not completely trust.
I nearly told him that was not useful advice when the people I trusted were the reason I was sitting there.
Instead I asked, “Could this explain memory gaps?”
“It could.”
“Exhaustion?”
“Yes.”
“Poor coordination?”
“Yes.”
I thought about the concrete pillar.
The missed appointment.
The humiliation of apologizing to my staff for losing my place during a meeting.
Then another memory surfaced.
Three weeks earlier, Julian had told Chloe’s teacher I was having “episodes of confusion.”
He had used those exact words.
The doctor had never diagnosed me with episodes of anything.
When I left the hospital, I had nineteen missed calls.
The last message was from Eleanor.
You’re frightening Chloe with this nonsense. Come home and we’ll talk calmly.
I read it twice.
She did not ask whether I was sick.
She did not ask what the doctor found.
She wanted me home.
I looked at the house key on my key ring.
Then at the notification showing movement from the small indoor camera we used to check on our dog when we traveled.
It was still packed in a box at the house.
May you like
And for the first time in ten years, I began thinking about my mother-in-law not as family.
I began thinking about access.
