Chapter 4
Almost immediately, William called.
I stepped into the stairwell and answered.
"Evelyn, this could've been explained in one sentence. Did you have to make me dig through dozens of pages?" he asked.
"There'll be plenty more pages you need to check from now on," I replied.
"I don't have time for this."
I heard papers rustling on his end.
"There are three medications in the blue pill box. Which one does he take before eating?"
"The yellow one."
"Dad said there used to be only two."
"His blood pressure has been unstable this week, so the doctor temporarily added a third. Half a tablet each time. It's recorded under yesterday's entry."
William was silent for a moment. "Why didn't you tell me directly?"
I almost laughed. "I did. I wrote it down."
"You can't take care of a person by following instructions like a manual."
"So you do understand."
The line went quiet.
I continued, "For the past eight years, I wasn't sitting at home doing a few little things on the side."
William's voice cooled. "I never denied what you've done."
"You only think I should keep doing it after the divorce."
"Dad is innocent."
"I never said he did anything wrong."
"Then come back," he pleaded.
"I'm at work."
He sounded as if I had said something absurd. "What work?"
"The newsroom I used to work for."
"You went to Joan?"
"Yes."
"When?"
I didn't answer.
He caught on quickly. "You already planned to move out, and you had your job lined up too. Evelyn, how long have you been planning all of this?"
The stairwell door opened.
A coworker leaned in and reminded me that my next meeting was about to start. I nodded.
"Anything else?" I asked.
William's breathing grew heavier on the other end. "Dad refuses to take his medication."
"Then talk him into it."
"He only listens to you."
"He'll get used to listening to you."
"Evelyn." He bit out my name. "Do you have to make this so ugly?"
I hung up.
When I returned to the conference room, Joan was assigning tasks. She handed me an interview outline. "You're coming with me this afternoon."
"Okay," I replied.
"Everything at home handled?"
"No."
Joan looked at me. "You're still coming?"
"Yes."
She nodded and asked nothing else.
*****
My first field interview didn't go well. It had been too long since I had sat across from a stranger with a reporter's notebook in my hands.
For the past eight years, I’d listened to people every day. Edward told me where he hurt, relatives discussed family weddings, the housekeeper complained about rising grocery prices, and William talked about work, business dinners, and staying out late.
I always listened patiently and gave the right response.
But once the camera turned on, I suddenly forgot how to ask a question.
After the interview, the camera operator told me there was nothing wrong with my questions. They were simply too safe.
"You sound like you're comforting her, not interviewing her," the camera operator said.
On the ride back, Joan asked, "Why did you cut that question?"
I knew which one she meant.
When the woman mentioned her husband, who had died years ago, I had wanted to ask whether she regretted giving up her career for her family.
But when the moment came, I asked something else instead.
"It felt too intrusive," I said.
"No." Joan kept her eyes on the road. "You were afraid to hear the answer."
I didn't argue.
By the time I returned to the newsroom that evening, there was a voice message from Edward on my phone.
"Evelyn, where did you go?"
His voice sounded subdued.
"William said you found a job and won't be staying at home for a while. Did I say something wrong at my birthday party? Did I upset you?"
I listened without replying.
A few minutes later, a second voice message arrived.
"I took the right medication this morning. Don't worry."
I rubbed my forehead and finally sent him a text.
[Dad, I've gone back to work. Take your medication according to the binder, and if you feel unwell, tell William.]
After I sent the message, Edward didn't reply.