The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “So your medicine didn’t help me at all,” she said sarcastically. “The chemo isn’t as aggressive as the cancer. One poison trying to cancel out the other, competing to take over my body, both causes my eventual demise. Why I let you talk me into it I don’t know.” There was nothing accusing in her tone but Oliver felt it anyway.

  “We had to try.” Typically, in these circumstances he allowed himself some reconciliation with the thought that trying and failing was better than not trying at all but this time he felt utterly defeated.

  “You had to, didn’t you,” it was more of a statement than a question knowing how he was. “I could have done without; done better to drink my way straight into the arms of death. And what do you do with the ones you can’t fix Doctor Oliver,” her brown eyes looked pitifully up at him but he knew she felt no pity for herself.

  “Make them as comfortable as possible,” he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Is that what you’re doing now? Helping me feel comfortable,” she mumbled the last words, talking becoming harder for her.

  “I try to do that every day,” he flipped the chart closed.

  “You haven’t visited in a while,” she tried to scold him but the energy was depleted.

  “I come to see you every day I’m here, multiple times a day. You don’t remember?”

  “Do we still talk,” she asked saddened.

  “Sometimes, not much.”

  “My mind gone,” wincing in pain, she drew in air through her teeth. She was speaking in broken sentences, conserving her energy by using as few words as possible. “How’s your women?”

  “I shouldn’t have talked to you about that. Don’t waste your energy on my problems.”

  “Still prob,” she let the word drop into oblivion.

  “Where can I find your family,” he tried to take her hand but she moved it.

  “You’ll miss me, only you. All left me in some cap…capa...way or another. I’ve been wronged too.”

  “And your children, will you give me their names so I can find them for you?”

  “Which one?”

  He could tell she was becoming disoriented. Time was of the essence now and he had to talk swiftly to get the information he needed. “Whichever one you want, or all of them, how every many that is?”

  “I had two, now I have none. The one that stayed hurt me more than the cancer ever could.”

  “Maybe you can make amends,” he leaned over her.

  She winced again, he requested a nurse. “Is that what people do on their deathbeds? Apologize for loving each other so much it hurt,” she coughed. “What if she comes here and I apologise and she doesn’t?”

  “Is that so important? You can’t know what she will do or say until you give her the opportunity.” The pretty young nurse came in and Oliver gave her orders. She carried them out without question and promptly, he liked her. When she returned, he let her give the dosages as practice, monitoring her.

  “Nothing to do with absolution,” she relaxed again able to speak more clearly when the medicine took effect. “She will be judge and jury, she never thought about me and what she did to me. She never took responsibility for her part in what happened so it will never occur to her to ask for my forgiveness.”

  “But what if that’s not the case. What if she just needs to know where you are and she wants to let the past go?”

  “The past will go when I do.”

  “What about Marcus or Ian then?”

  “Marcus, he’s dead.”

  “Was he your son?”

  “No, gone, heaven, hell, I don’t care where. But Ian,” she sighed and didn’t continue.

  “And if I was to find your daughter and bring her here what would you do?”

  “Never forgive you.”

  “I don’t need your forgiveness. What would you say to her?”

  Her faculties were slowing but before she fell asleep she looked off in the distance and managed to slur, “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother and I’m sorry I couldn’t help you be a better daughter.” Oliver smiled knowing what he had to do. Before he could leave she continued her thought, “And if its revenge you seek, it’s too late for me. I go to my grave knowing that leaving me was the best thing my girls and the love of my life could have ever done.”

  Oliver watched her in quiet contemplation, no point trying to get any more out of her now. In a minute she would be snoring so he dropped the subject, running his hand through his hair and then an idea struck him suddenly. It was illegal to say the least but it was clear what he must do, he had to make the attempt.

  Oliver flipped through her chart and found the address for her flat and then rummaged through her belongings looking for keys. Searching through pockets and then her bag, full of useless items and then he heard the distinct jingle and fished out a set from the bottom of the bag.

  He knew it was wrong but for the right reasons, he would do what he could. If he could keep Mary from dying alone he would try almost anything. He had grown so fond of her and the no nonsense way that she spoke to him and her advice had been invaluable.

  As the night went on, patients required attention more than usual and the other doctors and nurses hustled about doing what they could. Oliver, too, was rushed off his feet. Between patients, he thought to himself, he could go to Mary’s flat tomorrow night or even on his day off but he didn’t know how much time she had left. He had tried to ring Sophie but she had not rung back yet. The not knowing was hard for him but he didn’t want to insist if she needed time. He couldn’t go on with these lapses when she did not communicate with him and was left wondering what he did wrong or if she thought she did wrong.

  ***

  He took the train to Shoreditch and took a taxi to Mary’s building. He would feel bad when she went but he would assist her if she wanted, putting the question to her when the time came as he did others before.

  A few minutes later he was in a neighbourhood of council flats that all looked the same. Checking the numbers on the buildings, the cabby had managed to drop him in the right vicinity.

  Oliver took the mass of keys and tried them one by one until the right one slid easily into the lock and turned. When he opened the door, a musty smell mixed with the heaviness of alcohol filled his nostrils and he stood a moment in the doorway letting the air come inside. Flicking the switch on and closing the door behind him, the living area lit up, and the light reflecting off the many bottles that littered the room. He felt it would appear less conspicuous if it seemed that he was meant to be there. Occasionally, he would knock a bottle over and the clinking noise seemed loud in the silent flat.

  It was messy but not completely filthy. Every surface was covered with something, whether it was bottles, dishes, plastic plants and flowers, even the top of the television had a stuffed cat on top of it.

  Oliver swiftly darted from surface to surface, looking for any clues or information, treading carefully as not to step on anything that would make noise. He was willing to try to contact anyone he found information on whether it was a child or a sister, it didn’t matter as long as someone was with her.

  Photos sat in a hap hazard stack on an end table of Mary and a man but she had cut out his face; photos of parties, drinks in hand, she found a kindred spirit in this man but something happened to sour the relationship.

  The bedroom was not much better. It was strewn with bottles also, mismatched linens cluttered the bed, and clothes littered the floor. He maneuvered the labyrinth of belongings, accidentally kicking a hat box under the bed but he disregarded it, going straight to her bedside table and turning on the lamp.

  The drawer was stubborn to open, full of letters, withered and yellowed by time, none that seemed to be recent, random baubles and costume jewellery but towards the back he saw a photo. Something about it seemed slightly familiar.

  Pulling out the drawer as far as it would give, he still found it difficult to grab it because it was stuck to the back of the drawer. He scraped a
t it with his fingernail. Catching a corner and then it would slip. Finally, he had a grip on it and tugged at it until it gave, slowly pulling so it wouldn’t rip.

  Holding it under the light, Oliver stood in disbelief at what he was seeing. Stunned his mind raced putting clues together. Trying to remember anything Mary would have said that would have indicated what he was looking at but there was none, nothing definitive. What if the signs were there and he missed them. He sat on the edge of the bed dumbfounded. He looked around, really looked around not seeing the chaos but the life, they were not separate however now that he realized who she was. Mariella’s life scattered about, lonely and forgotten and now he knew why.

  Disappointment with the revelation and Mariella in general, when he liked her so much, darkened his mood considerably. It had been a few days since he and Sophie made love, he was waiting for her call but this was an emergency. This new found information weighed heavy on him and he had a responsibility to enlighten her. Folding the photo he shoved it in the inside pocket of his coat and raced to get out of the flat.

  Walking hurriedly down the street hoping it wouldn’t take too long to get a taxi, the streets were uncommonly quiet compared to the thoughts raging in his head. There was nothing for several minutes so he walked towards the Old underground stop.

  Sorry he came; he sat on the train contemplating. The decision was made not to talk to Sophie until he got some answers from Mariella. Tomorrow, his first stop would be to the off license.

  Chapter 33: Mariella and the Bottle

  Oliver firmly set the miniature bottle on the tray table with a thud, waking her. Mariella opened her eyes and squinted trying to focus. As he rolled the table closer to her, her eyes widened in recognition and her shaking hand reached for it but stopped a few inches short of taking it. He was glad she was doing better today. He wanted answers and he would do what he had to in order to get them.

  “What,” she gulped, looking at it suspiciously, “is this for?”

  “For you,” Oliver hovered over the bed.

  “I know who it’s for, I asked what. Are you finally showing me some mercy,” she snapped, taking the bottle in her trembling hand, clutching it like a precious offering, struggling to open it. “Sad day when I’ve become too weak to open a miniature liquor bottle.”

  Oliver took it from her, twisted the cap off and handed it back to her abruptly, each move quick and borderline malicious, as malicious as he could be, anyway. A small amount of the vodka spilled on her gown but she downed the rest in one gulp and collapsed back onto the pillows sighing satisfactorily, the corner of her mouth curved making the lines in her sunken face more obvious.

  Oliver took the empty bottle, twisted the cap back on, and put it in his empty pocket of his coat and then took the photo of the twins out, unfolded it carefully and laid it on the table sliding it across to her.

  Mariella glanced at it and then looked up at Oliver, her eyes sunken, squinting in defiance. A look of speculation showed on her face. It wasn’t the emotion he thought he would see. One corner of her mouth tilted up slightly, sarcastically.

  Mariella’s voice became low and shaky, “You were in my flat, you had no right to be in my flat,” anger flashing. It’s possible she would have yelled at him if she had the will and she had every right to be angry but the knowledge of what she allowed to happen overcome all reason.

  “How else would I know what your drink of choice was,” his tone matching hers, rattling the tiny bottles in his pocket, indicating he had more and the smile became more prominent as she struggled to sit up, her eyes widening like a child seeing a toy she coveted on Christmas Day. He opened another bottle and handed it to her. She downed it and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  Pulling another bottle out of his pocket, he dangled it in front of her, just out of reach. Slowly, he twisted the cap, teasing. Mariella licked her lips, the closures snapping open one by one until he handed it to her. “I told you she wouldn’t want to see me.”

  “I didn’t want you to die alone,” he pointed to the photo. “I wanted to bring a loved one to you but no one loves anymore do they….Mariella,” placing emphasis on the name she despised, “And I found this photo in your flat.”

  “I told you they didn’t,” Mariella downed the contents of the bottle and handed it back to him. Leaning against the pillows, she took it and stared at it. Her face softened, recollecting the sweet memories of the little girls she gave life to and then tossing it back on the table she said, “As I said before, she wouldn’t want to see me anyway so your efforts of breaking into my flat were futile,” she paused.

  “Are you talking about Sophie or Sydney?” Oliver asked.

  “Sophie, of course and I told you I don’t know where she is,” she nipped.

  “You see, it wasn’t futile after all because I found that photo,” Oliver slid the table to the side and sat on the bed, the bottles clanking in his pocket, “And I don’t believe you because I found this photo in your flat and this one,” he pulled the identical photo out of his inside jacket pocket and held it up for her to see, “was left at Sophie’s flat.”

  “You,” she hesitated, grasping what he was saying, “You know my Sophie,” Mariella grasped his hand. “Do you think she will want to see me, even after,” she faded and collapsed back on the pillows and Oliver pulled his hand away from her. Her response was convincing, he believed she didn’t know where Sophie was. He knew what she had done, what he wanted to know was why.

  Oliver waited patiently while she composed herself again as much as she was able. Opening another bottle, she took it greedily. “You just told me she wouldn’t so why are you asking me that question?”

  “Are you thinking you will get me pissed and then I will confess all to you,” again avoiding the question by asking one, something Mona had informed him that men do to self-preserve.

  “Not at all, I expect it would take much more than that to get you drunk. I’m exploiting your weakness because,” he leaned over closer to her face, “I want to know why you allowed your husband to molest your daughter.”

  Mariella looked up at him through thin lashes, her teeth clenched, defiant, eyes narrowing, “Was that all you thought it would take to get me to tell you about the tragedy of Sophie’s past,” she sneered, “Is that what she told you? That it was Declan,” she paused and then gave a knowing grin, “Oohhh, you love her don’t you,” the corners of her mouth went from up to distinctly down, “So why not ask her instead of me? What’s the matter, does she not love you back? You’re trying to be her hero after all? I warned you against that.”

  He sat upright, “And I heard your warning, took it to heart but that is neither here nor there. If you want more vodka you will tell me what I want to know,” his voice was soft and handing her another bottle, hoping he wasn’t over playing his hand.

  “And you become my confessor, do you? There’s nothing you can do to repair the damage that’s been done to all of us. Don’t think for one second that she is as innocent as she seems and that she was the only victim. The advice I gave you before, whether or not you want to get into her pants or her heart is the same. Take heed, once you open that door, the truth may not enlighten you in the way that you hope. Do you want to take that risk,” Mariella’s defiance turned to questioning concern.

  Oliver dropped his arms and stood again, opening another bottle for her and sitting in the chair. Running his hands through his hair he answered, “Wasn’t it you that told me that caring is always a risk and I’ve already opened that door.”

  “And walked through it, did you,” she closed down as Sophie did but he didn’t care about Mariella’s feelings, if breaking down Mariella meant helping Sophie he would do it. Mariella shook her head no, “I can only imagine what she told you and I’m sure she made us both look mad.”

  “Do you want to tell me different,” he pushed.

  Mariella looked at him and then his pocket and she gave a nod to let him know the answer required payme
nt. Clutching the little bottle to her chest, she sipped occasionally from it, this time savouring it, and cleared her throat to continue.

  “She told me he,” she coughed again and Oliver finished her sentence.

  “Molested her,” he stated.

  “No, she was a teenager, she was fourteen, old enough to make her own choices,” her eyelids were getting heavy.

  “What do you mean,” he paused, trying to find the right words, “it wasn’t against her will?”

  “I never believed what she said or didn’t want to believe it because if it was true than it was a lot worse than anyone could ever know.” Mariella sighed.

  “He took what he wanted and you allowed it! Statutory rape is still rape, Mariella.”

  “I resented her because Sydney was taken and she was a constant reminder.”

  He understood that correlation, having felt the same where Sam was concerned. “So something went on when the girls were young, not long after this photo was taken, something so horrible that Sydney was taken and Sophie was left behind?” His spine stiffened as he looked down the bridge of his nose at her. “Being an identical twin, young and lovely, attractive, those things weren’t Sophie’s fault.”

  “He told me he never touched her. As long as she kept them happy, he was home and we had a roof over our heads.”

  “So you believed him over your daughter?”

  With the last amount of energy she had, Mariella spat out, “She chose to take the money and he chose to keep a roof over our heads. He helped us survive, it was about security.”

  Oliver stood again, looking down his nose at her, “Security? Where was Sophie’s security when he fucked her the first time, where was it when she was living on the streets because it was better than her mother’s husband using her body as his personal playground and an alcoholic, delusional mother who wouldn’t know love if it was right in front of her face.” He wanted to shout at her but his deep voice resonated low so that no one outside could hear him.

  “No, it wasn’t him, that’s not how it was, and if you believe that, she hasn’t told you everything,” her eyes clenched shut, talking over him. “I didn’t want her to leave; he kicked me out when she ran away,” her voice rose with her justification, “You can judge me if you want,” her speech gave way to another fit of coughing. Falling back on the pillow, her anger had given her strength to sit up straight on her own but the coughing and constriction in her chest eliminated it.