We didn't confront Theodore again that afternoon.
That decision still bothers me.
Constance was clearly unwell, and the sight of her swollen abdomen had frightened us both.
We should have acted without delay.
Instead, we found ourselves thinking about what Theodore might do if we openly defied him.
That was how much influence he had over the house.
Even when we believed something was wrong, we worried about upsetting him.
Lawrence stayed beside his mother while I went downstairs to get a clean glass of water.
I didn't bring it to her immediately.
I stood in the kitchen, holding the glass beneath the tap, listening to the water strike the bottom.
My hands were shaking.
I had seen the bottle.
I had seen the powder.
I had seen Constance's desperate expression.
None of those things proved that Theodore had harmed her.
I knew that.
But together, they made it impossible for me to dismiss what I had witnessed.
I turned off the tap.
When I returned upstairs, Lawrence was sitting on the edge of his mother's bed.
He held her hand between both of his.
"Has she changed at all?" I whispered.
He shook his head.
"She's still in pain."
"Should we call an ambulance anyway?"
He looked toward the door.
"I want to. But if Dad tries to stop us, I don't know what he'll do."
I stared at him.
Part of me wanted to tell him that his father's reaction shouldn't matter.
The other part understood why he was hesitating.
Theodore had controlled most of the decisions concerning Constance since her paralysis began.
He arranged her routine.
He decided which remedies she received.
He spoke to visitors about her condition and answered questions before anyone else could.
We had accepted that arrangement because we thought he knew what was best for her.
Lawrence had grown up obeying his father.
I had learned to avoid challenging him.
Neither of us had recognized how dangerous that combination could become.
I put the water down.
"Your father said the swelling would disappear in a few days."
Lawrence looked at me.
"He didn't even examine her."
"Exactly."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I don't understand why he would refuse to take her to a doctor."
I didn't answer.
There were too many possibilities, and every one of them frightened me.
Perhaps Theodore was in denial.
Perhaps he was ashamed of how badly his wife had deteriorated.
Perhaps he genuinely believed his remedies would help her.
Or perhaps there was a reason he didn't want anyone examining her.
I hated myself for thinking that last possibility.
Then I remembered Constance's hand gripping my blouse.
I remembered the fear in her eyes.
My doubts returned.
That evening, Theodore ate dinner as if nothing unusual had happened.
He sat at the head of the table and asked Lawrence about work.
He complained about the rain.
He criticized the vegetables because they had been cooked too long.
I could hardly swallow.
Every time he lifted his glass, I looked at his hands.
Every time he spoke, I wondered whether he knew that we had noticed the bottle.
He didn't mention Constance's condition.
He didn't ask whether she had improved.
He didn't ask whether we had followed his advice.
It was as if the afternoon had never happened.
I finally set my fork down.
"Constance hasn't eaten much today."
Theodore continued cutting his food.
"She has good days and bad days."
"Her stomach is badly swollen."
"I already told you what I think."
Lawrence looked up.
"We're not waiting several days without getting her checked."
Theodore placed his knife beside his plate.
"You both need to stop making a crisis out of every change."
"She's suffering," Lawrence replied.
"She's been suffering for years."
The words landed heavily.
For a moment, I thought Lawrence regretted saying them.
Theodore looked at his son with a cold expression.
"Then you should understand that her condition won't suddenly become simple."
Lawrence didn't look away.
"That doesn't mean we stop trying."
His father said nothing.
He returned to his meal.
I sat there with my hands folded in my lap, feeling ashamed that I had allowed the conversation to end so easily.
After dinner, I went upstairs to check on Constance.
Her room was dim.
The curtains were drawn, and the small bedside lamp cast a yellow circle across the blanket.
I touched the back of her hand.
It was warm.
She turned her eyes toward me.
"Did you sleep at all?" I asked softly.
She made a faint sound.
I adjusted her pillow and checked whether the blanket was pressing uncomfortably against her abdomen.
The swelling was still there.
I couldn't tell whether it had increased, but it certainly hadn't disappeared.
I wanted to ask her about the bottle.
I wanted to ask whether Theodore had given her something that frightened her.
But she could barely communicate.
And I didn't know whether she could answer without putting herself at risk.
So I sat beside her.
For several minutes, I talked about ordinary things.
I told her about the rain.
I told her that Lawrence had been worried.
I told her that we were there.
Her eyes followed me.
When I finally stood, she caught my wrist.
I looked down.
Her lips moved.
I leaned closer, trying to hear.
Nothing clear emerged.
Only a strained breath.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She released me slowly.
I left the room with a heaviness in my chest that I couldn't explain away.
Lawrence was waiting in the hallway.
"How is she?"
"Still frightened."
He glanced toward the closed bedroom door.
"I keep thinking about that bottle."
"So do I."
"What if Dad is giving her something?"
I swallowed.
"Then we need to find out what it is."
He lowered his voice.
"We can't just take the bottle and accuse him."
"I know."
"And if we confront him without proof, he'll say we're imagining things."
I nodded.
That was exactly what I feared.
Theodore was good at making other people question themselves.
He could turn a reasonable concern into an argument about respect.
He could make the person asking questions feel guilty for asking them.
We had seen him do it for years.
This time, though, the stakes were different.
We weren't arguing about dinner or household expenses.
We were talking about Constance's life.
Lawrence went into our bedroom and closed the door.
I followed him.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he looked up.
"I don't want to believe my father would hurt her."
I sat beside him.
"Neither do I."
"But I can't explain what we saw."
"No."
He stared at the floor.
"If Mom could tell us what was happening, she would."
I remembered the way she had held my blouse.
"Maybe she was trying."
Lawrence's expression changed.
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he asked the question we had both been avoiding.
"What if she's been trying to tell us for a long time, and we haven't listened?"
I had no comforting answer.
We had treated Constance's silence as an unavoidable part of her illness.
We had assumed that because she couldn't speak clearly, she couldn't tell us anything useful.
That assumption had been convenient.
It allowed us to follow Theodore's lead without asking too many questions.
I looked toward the door.
"I don't want to make another mistake."
Lawrence reached for my hand.
"Neither do I."
We talked quietly for the next hour.
We considered calling for medical help, confronting Theodore, or trying to get Constance out of the house.
Every option came with difficulties.
But the more we discussed them, the more obvious one thing became.
We couldn't continue pretending that everything was normal.
The swollen abdomen was too serious.
The bottle was too suspicious.
And Constance's fear was too clear.
Eventually, Lawrence stood and walked to the bedroom door.
He checked that it was closed.
Then he returned to me.
"I have an idea."
I looked at him.
"What kind of idea?"
He hesitated before answering.
"We need to know what happens in Mom's room when nobody else is there."
My stomach tightened.
I knew what he was suggesting before he said it.
"A camera?"
He nodded.
The idea made me uncomfortable.
Constance was vulnerable, and her bedroom was the one place where she deserved privacy.
But we weren't thinking about curiosity.
We were trying to understand why she seemed terrified and why Theodore was so determined to keep us from getting medical help.
"If Dad is doing something to her," Lawrence said, "we need proof."
"And if we're wrong?"
"Then we'll know that too."
I looked down at my hands.
I wanted there to be another explanation.
I wanted the bottle to contain something harmless.
I wanted Theodore to be nothing more than a stubborn man who couldn't accept that his wife needed more care than he could provide.
But wishing didn't change what we had seen.
"All right," I said.
Lawrence nodded.
Neither of us looked relieved.
We had made a decision.
Now we had to live with it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: We Decided to Watch the Room After Dark, Never Imagining How Different the House Would Feel Once We Started
I Thought My Mother-in-Law Was Simply Getting Worse Until I Saw What Was Happening Beneath Her Blanket
Part 2 of 12
