Chapter 3

I printed out the chromatogram, but my hands shook so badly that I could barely hold the paper.

I sat in the lab, staring into space for a whole hour, not moving.

After that, I did the next thing. I ordered a home water test kit online and bought a pack of herbs, the same kind Mom always used.

Astragalus, black cohosh, milk thistle, elderberry, dandelion root, and echinacea.

I cooked up a cup myself and sent it off for testing. The chromatogram came back without that peak and realgar.

So, realgar wasn't in the herbs themselves. Someone had to have added it on purpose.

I lay on my dorm bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling, winding like a river.

That scene kept looping in my head. Mom crouched by the stove. At the very last step, she tossed a handful of something into the pot, quick as lightning.

I asked her what it was. She said dandelion root.

But dandelion root came in slices. What she threw in was orange powder.

Realgar, ground up, turned orange.

I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

It was not a mistake or a coincidence.

Twenty-three years. Over eight thousand cups of tonic. Every single one was poisoned.

My phone buzzed.

It was Mom's message. [Mel, are you coming home this week? I've got your tonic ready.]

I stared at the screen for a long time before replying: [Not coming.]

First time I ever refused her. My fingertips were ice-cold.

*****

I started losing sleep.

Every time I shut my eyes, that black pot was all I could see. The bubbling sound looped in my ears, nonstop.

A week later, Mom called. "Mel, why haven't you come home lately? Your health's always been fragile. You can't stop taking your tonic."

"Mom, I've got a ton of classes. My advisor's really piling on the pressure," I answered.

"Doesn't matter how busy you are, you still need your tonic. Did you forget how you fainted back in high school?"

Of course, I remembered.

It was two days before the big mock exams. I dropped right there in the classroom.

They rushed me to the hospital, but nothing major showed up.

The doctor said it was probably low blood sugar and anemia.

Mom showed up at the hospital and cried her eyes out.

When we got home, she bumped my dose from two cups to three. "With your body, you can't go without tonic."

Now I thought back and recalled that fainting was in November.

I'd spent the summer at home, drinking the tonic for two months straight. The arsenic in my system had hit a mini peak.

Another week passed, and Mom took the train straight to the city.

She stood outside my dorm, holding an insulated thermos.

She was fifty-two years old, half her hair already white, and wore that faded blue cotton jacket she'd had forever.

The thermos was still warm.

"Since you wouldn't come home, I brought it to you. Three hours and it's still hot," she said.

I stared at the thermos. My stomach twisted. "Mom, I really don't need it."

"How could you not? You look so pale." She twisted off the lid, and the smell of tonic hit me full force. It was so bitter and familiar. And there it was, that faint garlic smell.

I never noticed it before. Now it stabbed at my nose like needles.

"Drink it." She shoved the cup into my hands.

Some classmates walked by in the hallway. They glanced over, envy in their eyes.

"Wow, your mom's amazing, bringing you soup all the way here," one of them said.

I held the cup.

Mom's eyes stayed locked on me, gentle, expectant, laser-focused, like every single time for the past twenty-three years.

I brought the cup to my lips, pretended to take a big gulp, but I didn't swallow a single drop.

"It's good. Mom, you should head home. I'll finish it," I said.

She patted my head. "That's my girl. When you're done, wash the thermos and put it away. I'll come back next week."

After she left, I poured the tonic down the sink.

The brown liquid slid down the white porcelain, leaving a long, ugly streak, like a scar.

I crouched on the floor. I didn't cry, but I felt all the strength had drained out of me.

My phone rang. It was Michael.

I picked up, and his voice was a little rushed.

"Mel, did Mom come see you?" Michael asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Did she bring the tonic?"

"Yeah."

He went quiet for a few seconds. "Mel, are you still drinking the tonic Mom makes?"

My heart squeezed tight. "Why are you asking?"

He was silent on the other end, and I could hear him breathing.

"Mel, don't drink it," Michael said. "Don't ever drink it again." Then he hung up.

I stood in the hallway, gripping my phone, my palms slick with sweat.