FIGURES
I look up from my iPad in the ER family waiting room. I'm horrified. Through puddling tears, I recognize the blurry figures dressed in white, huddled in the corner: a man clutching his wife to settle her shaking nerves. My parents.
Another figure, clothed in pink, paces the floor throwing her arms in the air then hugging herself over and over again. Grandma. She chants and mumbles—at times begging, otherwise raging—words I don't understand to evoke a spirit no one sees.
I shift my gaze back to my mother in the corner. My lips part to ask, how could you, though no sound comes forth. I shake my head, bewildered by her lies, the years of deception. The brutal cover-up. There had to be another way, Mommy. There's always another way! Who are you? Puddles overflow onto my cheeks, and everything comes into focus.
She catches my gaze, and lifts her head from Papa's chest. Her expression folds in wonder, or perhaps concern. Guilt? Her eyes twitch. No, it's fear.
I nod. Yes, Mommy. I know what you've done.