Page 79 of The Spider Queen
“Your mother called me.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
He frowned. “You’re my daughter. And you’re in the hospital. Of course I had to come.”
“Where were you when I was fourteen?”
“Poppy—”
“Save it,” I lashed out. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
“You’re right.” He nodded. “Nothing I can say will make up for the past. But I’m here now.”
“I don’t need you,” I seethed. Despite my anger, the sadness on my father’s stricken face nearly had me in tears. But I couldn’t worry about his feelings. I had to worry about my own because no one else would.
When would I learn?
My father had walked out on us. He’d left our family, leaving my mother and me devastated.
Crippled.
Alone.
“I’m just like her,” I said to him. “And you didn’t want her—even though she tried to get better. You weren’t there for her. You left her when she needed you the most.”
“I asked him to leave,” my mother said from the doorway of the hospital room.
I’d been so busy berating my father that I hadn’t heard her come in. She moved into the room and stood next to him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, and her green eyes glittered with understanding. It was odd to see her still and calm. Usually she couldn’t stop moving. My father used to say he loved her endless energy.
At what point had the trait he’d once loved become a huge annoyance?
My parents exchanged a look. “Maybe I should wait outside,” my father said, rising. He touched my mother’s shoulder on his way to the door. It didn’t seem forced or uncomfortable between them. Had I been seeing my parents through the eyes of a child? Was it time to stop?
“How are you feeling, Poppy?” Mom asked, taking the newly vacated chair.
“Tired,” I admitted. “Groggy.” I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth. I wanted to scrub my body from the inside out, get rid of the crazy, get rid of the sick. Start over.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “About you and Dad.”
She smiled sadly. “Of course you didn’t. You weren’t meant to. You were fourteen.”
“Why did you ask him to leave?” My voice sounded small. I was afraid of the answer, but I was more afraid of never learning the truth.
“Marriage is hard,” she began.
“Don’t, Mom. Don’t sugarcoat anything. I can handle it.”
She pointedly looked around the hospital room and then at my tied wrists. They made her flinch ever so slightly. “You sure about that?”
I didn’t reply.
Mom nodded. “My illness…well, you know. You grew up watching it. The cycles…it was destroying your father, Poppy. Each time a med failed me or I spiraled out of control, it ate away at him a little bit more.”
“It ate away at you too, Mom. And me.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But our marriage had become about him taking care of me. Instead of us taking care of each other.”
“So you let him go.”
