Page 42 of Blind Prophet

She might not hear me. I have the house manager handle most things, but my medicine cabinet is private.

“What do you want to take?” she calls.

Dammit. I’m going to have to get up and get it.

I push off?—

“No.”

I freeze at the sharpness.

Water runs from a faucet in the bathroom.

“Lie back. I’ve got it.” Her voice echoes slightly in the marble bath.

Steps sound against the marble, then stop. She’s near.

Pills rattle in a bottle.

“Why do you have so many bottles of Vicodin?”

“It works.” Unlike the experimental treatments from that neurologist in Switzerland or the cutting-edge therapy my medical team insisted would be revolutionary.

“That can’t be good for you.”

For the first time since she walked out the door so many years ago, I feel a measure of gratitude that she left.

She raps my chest. “Take these.”

I pop the pills, swallowing them together.

“You don’t want water? I have water.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you drinking enough water? Drink this.”

“Just leave. I’ll be fine.”

How many times has this scene played out?

“No. You need water.”

“I can’t keep it down.”

“You don’t have to drink the whole glass. Wet your tongue.”

Her hand slips behind my head, lifting me slightly, and the cool glass presses on my lips.

It’s awkward. But I sip. My mouth is dry, so I drink more.

She pulls on my sweater. “Sit up.”

“What?”

“I’m going to try something.”

Dizziness and nausea swirl.

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