AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Or rather, what I like to call a projection of the future.
Some people stand by and wait for life to happen to them. Then there are people like me, who refuse to accept the status quo. It’s possible to create your reality, and I was well on my way to do just that.
As I stood at Dad’s bedside, I whispered my goodbyes. I told him that it was time for him to go. That it was okay. That it was time for the both of us. Then I held the pillow over his face and leaned all of me into it. As far as deaths go, it would be quick and painless. How much more can a person ask for?
I knew that Max would have ordered something to help Dad sleep. I’d asked him to do it. Which meant that I also knew that it would be easy to suffocate him. He wouldn’t—or rather he couldn’t—put up much of a fight.
If my husband asked for the details, I would tell him the truth. Which version of it, well, it depends on how you look at it. After all, what is truth but perception?
Care homes are often run by well-meaning people. People who also happen to be overworked and underpaid. Sometimes not very educated either.
Which is how I knew that no one would question Dad’s death. Like me, they too were all pretty sick of dealing with him. He was just one patient among many. He was a tick mark on a long list of to-do’s. Something to be checked off. Something to be dealt with. At any rate, there was a revolving door of new problems to deal with. His bed would not remain empty for long. A welcome, albeit short-lived, vacancy. It was no skin off of their back.
Thankfully, I was not wrong.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“You mentioned something last time,” Dr. Jones said. “Something I hadn’t given much thought until…until now.”
I wasn’t sure what she was going to say. But I was aware of one thing. She is not the quitting kind. This makes her a damn fine psychiatrist and, at the same time, a thorn in my side.
“Your daughter…you mentioned swim therapy.”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of therapy?”
“She’s autistic.”
“Autistic.” Her eyes widened. “Jesus, Max. Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“I don’t see how it relates.”
“It gives us something…God.” She paused and then shook her head. “How could I not see this?” I shifted under the weight of her gaze. “I really wish you would have said something, Max,” she said, indignantly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
I hadn’t volunteered the information, because it’s not my daughter who has been accused of anything.
“Max,” she said in that brisk, arrogant way she excelled at. “It’s almost like you don’t care about your freedom.”
“I didn’t see how it was relevant,” I told her, which isn’t entirely true.
“Your wife didn’t take this particularly w
ell?”
“How do you mean?”
“She developed a bit of a habit, you might say?”
“It depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Your definition of a habit.”
