Blind Eyes

Chapter Ten

That night, I sleep badly. It takes me hours to fall asleep, and after that, I toss and turn, feeling sick and panicked, sweating through my sheets even though it is cold in my house. I dream of my mother, and of Will, and of everything else that haunts me. It does not surprise me to find myself sick when I wake up the next morning.

When I stumble into the kitchen, my head feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds and my throat burning as if I had just poured acid down it, I see my father cooking oats o the stove. He asks at once if I am okay. I shake my head and tell him that I'm sick. Even getting out those two words is a struggle. He hands me a glass of water and I gulp it down; it does well to soothe the back of my throat and clear my head a bit.

"You really don't look well Lara. I'll take you to the doctor on my way to work, okay?" my father says, his eyebrows pushed together in concern. "I think you should stay home from work today."

"No, I don't think I should go," I say. I think about the bruises that are still on my body, on my shoulder and foot, the way my stomach is still scabbed. I do not want to raise questions, and I cannot have anybody see what has happened to me. "I'll just take some medicine from here."

"Please Lara," my father begs. "I can't afford to have anything happen to you. Please just come with me to the doctor; it won't take long, and we can get you a proper treatment."

I look at my father's sad eyes, eyes that show sleeplessness, still for my mother I'm sure. It hasn't been a week yet since she died, although to me it feels like a much longer time ago. The way he looks at me, like I am the only thing holding him up, keeping him going, pulls on my heart.

"Okay, I'll go with you," I say.

My father nods gratefully. He turns around and starts stirring the pot of oats on the stove, just as he was doing when I walked into the kitchen. I refill the glass of water and sit at the kitchen table, following his hand on the spoon with my eyes as it goes around and around. As I watch him, I notice that he is wearing the same sweater he has been wearing for the past three days; it looks wrinkled and dirty. His hair is greasy and uncombed. He looks like a mess; since the day my mother disappeared, he has been working longer hours than normal and not taking care of himself. I am worried for him.

When the oats are ready, he removes two bowls from the cupboard, putting a helping of oats in each. Then he brings them over to the table, along with two spoons, and sits across from me.

"I haven't seen you a lot recently. How are you doing?" he asks me.

"You've been away a lot," I say. "But I'm doing okay, for the most part. I just have a lot going on right now. What about you; how are you managing?"

A lot going on that I could never tell him.

I pick up the spoon and bring a heap of oats to my mouth. They are bland, and it hurts to swallow, but I eat anyways. I'm hoping that food will make me feel a bit better.

"I'm not doing well," he says, his voice cracking. He sets his spoon down and puts his head in his hands. "I still can't believe this is real, and every morning when I wake up, I expect your mother to be sleeping besides me. But she's not."

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

It hurts so much to see my father like this.

He looks at me sadly. "Whatever happened to her, it's not your fault Lara. It's neither of our faults."

"I know."

But what he doesn't know is that it is my fault. I brought my mother to Will, and Will killed her. So it is my fault, and I know it is something I can never forgive myself for.