Page 84 of We Fell Apart
I move closer and shift off my flashlight. The only light now comes from the open bathroom door. “Dad, can you hear me?”
His breathing is slow and wheezy.
I touch his shoulder.
His eyes open.
“Take the cord out,” he says, his voice a burble in his throat.
“What?”
“The cord.” He flaps one hand vaguely at the IV line, which leads under his shirt. “I don’t want it. Take it out!”
“I don’t know how,” I say. “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”
“She doesn’t let me have scissors. I want a box cutter. A knife. To cut the line.”
“Maybe you need the IV,” I say. “Maybe it’s keeping you alive.”
He shakes his head. “It’s water. It’s just water.”
“Hydration?”
He nods. “I won’t drink what she gives me. She’s a witch. She puts herbs in the water. Tries to give me tea.”
“June?”
He tosses his head back and forth on the pillow. “I fear her now. She wants me to paint. She brings me canvases and supplies. She keeps me in this tower. And I paint for her, because what else can Ido? I cannot do anything but paint. The brushes call me. They are bewitched. She’d keep me here forever if she could.”
“Why won’t you drink what she brings?”
“She drugs me to keep me weak. Brock brings me cookies. Packaged foods. Potato chips that can’t be tampered with.” He shakes the IV line again. “You must do this for me. Do something for me.”
“What?”
“Bring me scissors.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I have to cut this cord. It goes to a port in my skin. I can’t see it well.” Kingsley sits up and pats the nightstand until he finds his glasses. He puts them on. “It’s very dark.”
I turn on the lamp, and when I do, he looks at me intently. For a long time. “Matilda,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t sure you were real. I saw you.” He gestures at the window. “I can see you on the beach.”
“I’m staying here. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you were in Italy. You said you were. Do you remember that? Saying you were in Italy?”
“I’ve been here a long time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a year. I used to go out. But now she keeps me inside, keeps me on this cord every night. The door won’t open.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Kingsley says. He reaches for the sketchbook on his bedside table, a new-looking one of the same type I foundin the Oyster Office. He fumbles with it, flipping pages, until he finds the thing he wants. He tears it out with a soft ripping sound and folds it in quarters. “Take this,” he says. “Bring it to my son.”
