The floor groaned underneath him, and he tried to be as quiet as hecould as he slipped into the kitchen. Hunger stormed in his stomach. He needed to grab something to eat,the thought of a sandwich the most appealing option available to him.The kitchen light was off and the only illumination in the room was asickly blue of the afternoon creeping through the window. Thegrinning reflection of the window on the pots and pans mingled withthat of his own as he roamed the kitchen, in search of food. He didn’t bother to turn the light on and went straight for thefridge, the hulking white box that had stood guard of the far doorwayin the kitchen since he had been about nine years old. When Tom reached the fridge, he glanced briefly at the list ofnumbers that was always there, listing the phone numbers that wouldcontact every emergency service in the county, and every relativethat they kept any level of contact with. He noticed it because itwas askew for some reason. Curved away from the door as if someonemoving by the fridge, perhaps just brushing the list with their armhad knocked it to the side. It hadn’t been that way when he left for work.He reached into the fridge and pulled out a pile of bologna and apack of pre-sliced cheese. He never took his eyes off of the crookedlist. When the door to the fridge closed, the list fluttered upwards, likethe wing of a bird ready for flight, then ever so gently descended,resting against the fridge. He set the bologna and cheese down on the counter and reached tostraighten the list. In a moment it was just how he had left it. Butwho had moved it? Mother. That was the only explanation. She must have come down for asoda or something and knocked the list but didn’t set it straight.It was out of character for her, she always kept things straight andneat, but sick as she was he could understand. She must have just notbeen paying attention.
Tom grabbed the bread out of the cabinet and set it down on thecounter, pulling open the tiny twist-tie that held it shut. Heselected two slices and carefully slipped them in the toaster. Therest of the loaf went into the cabinet again, taking up its placewith some of the other easy shelf-storage items. He turned away to go and get a plate, leaving the bologna and cheesestanding guard over the toaster. “Ow!” He felt his foot shoot up defensively before he even spokethe words. He looked down and saw a trickle of crimson through hissock. He looked down at the floor and saw a single block of glass, not bigenough to really be easily noticed, but just big enough and sharpenough to pierce his sock and his foot. He looked at his foot oncemore and saw that it was still oozing more than a fair amount ofblood. The sock was no longer a simple white, but a mixture betweendeep crimson and sickly pink. He set his foot down carefully, and reached down to pick up theglass, taking care not to cut his fingers on it as well. The shardcame up easily, and didn’t nick his fingers as he lifted it fromits spot on the floor. Tom brought it close to his face and took a look at it, trying tofigure out where it had come from. He didn’t remember breakinganything…He glanced at the windows around him, a sudden, potent fear comingover him. They were all locked. Nobody had broken in. It was silly to think that, perhaps, but he had watched reports ofpeople breaking in and the owners of the house not even noticing thatsomething was amiss until much later. He set the glass shard on the counter and looked back down at hisfoot.
It was bleeding onto the floor. He walked to another cabinet, and quickly pulled out some peroxideand a bandage. He hoped that it would work for that part of his foot.It might not do much good, but it probably would manage the bleeding.He hobbled over to a stool, being careful not to knock the glassshard off of the counter again. The toaster exploded and the edges of the toasted bread peeked outfrom the twin nostril-like slits on the top of the toaster. Tom took a napkin from the counter and popped open the peroxide,spilling only a little bit onto the napkin. He lifted his foot to hisknee and then jabbed the napkin onto it. The cold napkin stung foronly the briefest of seconds, he pulled it away after only a moment,pleased that it had not needed any real cleansing. After that, hequickly applied the bandage. It was then he noticed the large chef’s knife lying on the counter.The long, shining blade reflected his actions in a cruel, mockingmanner. He glanced at it, slightly puzzled, and then turned back to his foot,and made sure that the bandage was secure. The knife lay there, staring at him. Mocking him. He looked at the glass shard on the counter and at the knife only afoot or so from his elbow. Part of him wanted to know why the stuffwas there, but the other part said that it was foolish to worry aboutsuch things. The toast waited patiently in the toaster, and the bologna and cheeseguarded them carefully until he arrived to assemble a brief sandwich.He wondered about the knife and glass shard the whole time he ate.
HOW ARE we doing tonight, Mother?” He asked as he entered the roomslowly, bearing another bowl of soup, and a glass of iced tea, justwhat she had requested not all that long ago. “Doing fine, dear.” She said. He set the soup down in front of her; the steam rose above the bowlin curling trails, disappearing into the air and filling the roomwith the rich fragrance of fresh vegetables and poultry. She looked down at it and gave a passing, pleased smile. One that wasbecoming more and more rare out of her, he wondered if it was hersickness—but he had a few other ideas as well. <I>Not time yet.</I> He thought. He knew better than to reveal thingsto her so quickly, she would get too defensive and he would neverfind out what he wanted to know. Shelooked up at him before taking the spoon and pooling some of theprecious broth into the pitted center, letting it gently was into themetal curve, then gently brought it to her mouth. Two fat lips suckedit in quickly, and the spoon left her mouth. She glanced at the soupand back at Tom. Mother was pleased. The gentle aroma of the soup rode the waves of air and filled theroom, Tom tried not to be distracted by it and focused his attentionon her. Watching her face, waiting for that moment when he could sliphis foot in the door of her mind and figure out why she had done whatshe did. A quick look at the hallways helped him keep casual, and he turnedback to her quickly, “Good?” He asked. She nodded. Mother was pleased, very pleased indeed. “What did you put in it?” She asked. He replied, “The usual. I added a little extra pepper this time,just to change the flavor a little.”
“It tastes good.” “Clears up your sinuses. The pepper, that is.” Another smile. Then it was gone. He waited another moment, standing against the bed frame, leaningwith one hand on the mattress, trying to act as casual as he could,though he had several questions blazing in his mind, trying to breakfree like hornets from a disturbed mess. The feeling of the pressurewas unbearable. He could hardly think for the questions and the waythey burned within—but he knew he had to. He had to keep a clearhead. “So what did you do today?” He tried, hoping to draw her out. Mother shrugged, swallowing her soup with a wet, sloppy gulp. Hecould hear the soup sluicing down her throat as she breathed, tryingto speak. “Nothing.” She finally said. “You sure?” She nodded. He glanced at her tray, in particular her hand. It shook for thebriefest of moments, or was it a trick of the eye? He wasn’t sure. “What happened to your foot?” She asked suddenly. He looked down and saw that the bandage was clearly visible from thebed, large and stained with blood. He supposed that it looked like atwisted parody of the Japanese flag in a way, but only in parody. “Cut it on a piece of glass.” Concern clouded her features. “At work? They really should be morecareful around there, what they allow to be just left out…” “No, Mother. I cut it in the kitchen.”
She stared at him. “There was a shard of glass in the kitchen floor, I didn’t see itand stepped on it. Did you break a plate or bowl in there?” Mother nodded. “I dropped a glass when I went down there earlier inthe day. I was quite dizzy feeling, I’m not sure if I got it allcleaned up, I thought I did…are you all right?” He didn’t ask about the knife or the list. “Yes, I’m fine. Howlong were you downstairs?” A shrug. “Just a few minutes, I only wanted a quick soda. You knowhow I get those orange soda cravings every now and then.” Anothersmile, this one with a haunting artificial quality. Tom figured he might as well ask. “Did you go in the living room bychance?” A pause. Hesitation. “No, I didn’t. Well…I’m not sure…it was all so foggy, why,dear?” He shrugged. “No reason. I was just looking at the photo album andwas wondering if you had been looking at it is all.” “Why would you ask that?” “There was…” “…some stuff out of order. I was just wondering if maybe you’dmoved some things around.” He didn’t say what he wanted to say,he could have really unloaded on her and asked her why she had hiddenthose newspaper articles from him. He could have asked her why shehad never really told him about all of that stuff in those articlesand why she was so desperate to hide it. Was she afraid it would makehim think less of her? What was in the past was past, when she wentaround trying to hide things and be deceitful; he began to wonder ifshe was really the woman he thought she was. It wasn’t like her tohide something like that; it bothered him that she had tried to hideit so quickly.