Chapter Eighteen Amanda #4
I pull off my pajama top and toss it onto the bed.
“He said it was his fault this happened. He obviously feels guilty, but I’m glad.
He deserves to feel that way.” I pull my sweater on over my head.
“Then he just sat there and said he was praying for forgiveness. Maybe God can forgive him, but if anything happens to Mom—if she doesn’t wake up—I don’t think I could.
” I take a few seconds to recall our conversation last night.
“But he is my dad. Connor and I would be orphans without him. He’ll be responsible for looking after us.
” The next words out of my mouth are infected with hostility.
“We’ll see how he does without Mom around. He should’ve appreciated her more.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Becky firmly says. “She’s going to wake up.”
I button my jeans and move to my dresser to find a clean pair of socks. “I hope so.”
The sound of the shower lets me know that Dad is awake, so I tell Becky I have to go.
“Text me when you get to the hospital,” she says, “and let me know how she’s doing.”
“I will.”
We end the call, and I return to the bed to snuggle with Oscar for a moment and gather strength to face this horrible day.
In the car on the way to the hospital, I’m influenced by my brother’s anxieties at breakfast and succumb to the temptation of social media—in particular the hundreds of comments on Oblique’s Facebook page.
It’s shocking to me that my mother’s ordeal at Peggy’s Cove has gone viral. As of this morning, a whole new group called The Peggy’s Cove Murder has been established. So far, there are 350 comments, and some are from people who were there and saw my parents arguing.
The way they describe it makes it sound heated, like Dad was going to beat her up or something. I’m trying not to believe everything I read, especially stuff like this, because that’s not the dad I know. But it still scares me because . . . what if I don’t really know my dad?
Other comments leave condolences, thoughts, and prayers.
By the time I skim through everything, it appears to have become a battle of yes or no. Did he do it or not? Half the commenters think he’s guilty, while the other half believes this is a ridiculous conspiracy theory and our family deserves privacy.
With all these comments to read, the drive to the hospital passes in a millisecond. When I glance up from my phone, I discover that we’ve arrived and Dad is pulling into a parking spot.
I quickly put my phone away, but my stomach keeps burning with anxiety. It’s physically painful, like acid churning. This is all too much to take. I need yogurt or something.
Dad shuts off the car and unbuckles his seat belt. My eyes are wide open, like a couple of Ping-Pong balls, as I watch him and think about some of what I just read on that awful Facebook page.
At the ICU, we learn that Mom’s condition is still critical, and her blood pressure dropped this morning.
They took her for a CT scan, which revealed some bleeding with swelling around her brain.
The doctor explains that it’s not because of drowning and being deprived of oxygen but a result of the skull fracture she received when she hit the rocks.
The news breaks me. I burst into tears and turn to Connor, who gathers me into his arms.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Dad says, rubbing my back. “She’s getting the best care.”
“It’s not a lost cause,” Dr. Malik adds.
At this, I wipe my eyes and face him.
“We’ll be taking her to the OR this morning to relieve that pressure and will see how she responds.”
“Is there a chance she might wake up after you do that?” I ask.
“I can’t say anything for sure. Just know that she’s in good hands. The whole team will do everything we can for her.”
“Thank you,” Dad says.
He tries to wrap his arm around my shoulders, but I shrug away from him and start walking to Mom’s room.
Moments after Mom is taken to the OR to prep for surgery, we gather our belongings to go down to the cafeteria and wait, but a nurse walks into the room. She isn’t one of Mom’s regular nurses, and she has a commanding air about her.
“Mr. Palmer?”
Dad looks up. “Yes?”
“You’re wanted outside the unit.”
“What for?”
She clears her throat with authority. “There are some people here who would like to talk to you.”
Dad pulls on his jacket. Watching him, I sense that he’s unnerved.
After everything that’s happened to Mom, followed by the vitriol on social media directed at our entire family, I feel the same. It’s as if the universe has it out for us. What’s next? I’m terrified to imagine. They say bad things happen in threes.
We walk out of Mom’s room, which feels hauntingly empty since they’ve rolled her hospital bed out and wheeled her to the surgery floor.
As we pass the nurses’ station and walk by a cleaner pushing a mop, I feel everyone’s eyes on us. I don’t think I’m paranoid. I suspect they have all been glued to their phones and are whispering about my father’s guilt or innocence.
Dad, Connor, and I walk uncomfortably in silence to the double doors out of the ICU, push through them, and find ourselves face-to-face with two men.
One is over six feet tall with gray hair.
The other looks younger. They’re dressed in black winter jackets, dress pants, and boots with white salt stains on the toes, but they flash badges before the ICU doors have a chance to swing shut behind us.
“Mr. Palmer,” the man with the gray hair says in a friendly voice, which calms me a little.
But it’s not a question. They already know who Dad is.
It doesn’t come as a surprise because Dad’s a bit of a celebrity in town.
His restaurant has been featured in most of the local lifestyle magazines, and his image, in chef attire, tops the website’s home page.
“I’m Inspector Lawson, and this is Sergeant Major LaPierre.
We’re with the Criminal Investigation Division of the RCMP.
Sorry to bother you here . . .” He looks me straight in the eye, then at Connor.
“We know this is a difficult time for you all.” He returns his attention to Dad.
“But we’re looking into what happened to your wife, and we’d like to ask you some questions. ”
Dad is frozen on the spot, and his face has gone pale. He won’t speak.
It’s not a good look, so I nudge him. “Dad?”
He meets my gaze. I see fear in his eyes, but he quickly recovers. “I’ll answer any questions you have. But I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with what’s been posted on social media.”
Inspector Lawson inclines his head. “Well—”
Dad interrupts him. “It’s a bunch of nonsense because people are looking for dopamine hits from their phones. They don’t know anything about what happened yesterday. They weren’t there. They didn’t see the waves, and it’s pissing me off.”
LaPierre nods. “I understand, and we get it. We’ve seen this before. People can go crazy about crimes on the internet, which is why we want to talk to you—to eliminate any cause for suspicion. Then we can all get on with our lives.”
I let out a breath of relief, because deep down I don’t want to believe Dad pushed Mom off the rocks, and I don’t want him to go to jail.
Sure, I’m angry with him about the situation, but like Sergeant Major LaPierre says, people can go crazy posting online.
I don’t want to follow them down a rabbit hole.
“Would you come to the station with us?” LaPierre asks. “Your children can remain here. We’ll bring you back afterward.”
Dad frowns. “You can’t talk to me here? Now?”
“It’s best if we do it at the station. We just need to make sure we get everything down.”
I’m not exactly sure what he means by down, and the whole situation is making my stomach turn somersaults. What if they believe everything they’re reading online? What if they already think he’s guilty, that he took Mom to Peggy’s Cove to murder her for her money?
Dad turns to me and Connor. “I might as well go with them and get it over with. You guys stay here and wait for Mom to get out of surgery. Becky’s supposed to come by, right?”
I quickly nod. “Yes. She was going to take some chili to our house this morning. I’ll text her.”
The officers start walking, and Dad winks at me as he goes. He wants to reassure us, but I’m not entirely reassured. In this moment, both my parents have just been taken away. One has been wheeled to an operating room to have brain surgery, while the other will be questioned for attempted murder.
Emotionally, I’m paralyzed. But I need to keep it together for Connor, who is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to take the lead.
“Let’s get some food,” I say, trying to make light of what just happened.
Wordlessly, he follows me to the elevator.
Connor and I have just finished grilled cheese sandwiches and fries when I receive a text from Becky.
I just arrived at the hospital. Is your mom still in surgery?
I thumb a reply: Yes. We’re in the cafeteria waiting. No word from Dad yet.
I’m just getting out of my car. Stay put. I’ll find you.
I respond with an “okay” emoji.
Becky enters the cafeteria, and I’m relieved to see her face. I get up from the booth and meet her halfway, where we hug. Then I start to cry again. She holds me tight and doesn’t let go.
When I get the tears out of my system, I wipe my cheeks and lead her back to the booth. Connor gets up and hugs her.
“This sucks,” he says.
“I agree. It’s brutal.” Becky tosses her purse onto the vinyl seat, removes her coat, and hangs it on the hook. “How are you guys holding up?”
“Not great,” I reply.
“Still no word from your dad?”
I shake my head, and Becky reaches for a cold french fry on my plate. “The most important thing is to stay focused on your mom,” she says. “Your dad can take care of himself.”
“I hope so,” Connor says, “because the internet has no mercy. Have you looked lately?”