The CT scan took less time than I expected.
The waiting took forever.
My mother lay behind a curtain while technicians moved equipment around her.
I sat outside with my hands clasped tightly between my knees.
The hallway was too cold.
A television mounted near the ceiling played a daytime program with the sound turned down.
People walked past.
A nurse pushed an empty wheelchair.
Someone laughed quietly at the reception desk.
Everything looked normal.
That made me more frightened.
My phone vibrated again.
Arthur.
I didn't answer.
Then he called a second time.
I turned the phone face down.
A minute later, another message appeared.
You need to come home.
I stared at it.
No explanation.
No question about my mother.
Just an instruction.
You need to come home.
I typed:
Why?
His reply came almost immediately.
Because I told you not to do this.
I deleted the message without answering.
A nurse opened the door.
“Mrs. Miller?”
I stood.
“She'll be ready soon.”
“How is she?”
The nurse hesitated.
“The doctor will speak with you.”
That sentence seemed to be following me everywhere.
The doctor will speak with you.
The doctor returned nearly twenty minutes later.
He did not sit.
“Mrs. Miller, we found something on the imaging.”
My heart began racing.
“What?”
“I want you to see it with me.”
He led me into a small consultation room.
The CT images were already displayed.
At first, they meant nothing to me.
Gray layers.
White bones.
Dark spaces.
The complicated map of a human body.
Then he pointed toward the abdomen.
“There.”
I leaned closer.
I could not see anything unusual.
“What am I looking at?”
He enlarged the image.
A narrow object appeared.
It was small.
Dark.
Precisely shaped.
It did not resemble a normal anatomical structure.
“What is that?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Is it a tumor?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
“What is it?”
He studied the screen.
“It appears to be a foreign object.”
I looked at him.
“Inside her?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What kind of object?”
“We need additional imaging and a specialist's opinion.”
“Could she have swallowed something?”
“Not something shaped like this.”
He pointed again.
“It appears to be positioned deeper.”
My throat went dry.
“Could it have gotten there accidentally?”
The doctor shook his head.
“That would be extremely unlikely.”
I stared at the screen.
A tiny shape.
A piece of something.
Inside my seventy-five-year-old mother.
I suddenly remembered her saying, Months.
Then I remembered the way she had looked at the doctor.
Not surprised.
Afraid.
“Doctor,” I said slowly, “does she know what that is?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
I left the room and returned to my mother.
She was sitting upright.
Her face was pale.
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
“What did they find?”
I couldn't speak.
She already knew.
“Mom, what is inside you?”
Her eyes closed.
“Nothing.”
“Don't do that.”
She opened them.
“Do what?”
“Tell me nothing when you know something.”
She looked toward the door.
Then she whispered, “Not here.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“Not here.”
“Mom, the doctor found something inside your abdomen.”
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
“I know.”
My breath caught.
“You know?”
She didn't answer.
“How?”
She looked at me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was afraid this would happen.”
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Don't tell Arthur.”
The words stopped me.
“What?”
“Don't call him.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the door again.
“He cannot know.”
My pulse began hammering.
“Mom, why can't my husband know?”
She whispered something so softly I almost missed it.
“Because he already does.”
I stared at her.
The room seemed suddenly much smaller.
“What did you say?”
She looked away.
I moved closer.
“Mom.”
She covered her face with one hand.
“I should have told you.”
“Tell me now.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
She didn't answer.
“Mom, from what?”
The door opened.
The doctor entered.
He glanced between us.
“We need to transfer her to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“I don't want to perform anything here.”
He looked at my mother.
“The object needs to be evaluated by a surgical team.”
“Is she in immediate danger?”
“We don't know.”
He paused.
“But I don't want to take chances.”
My mother reached for my hand.
Her fingers were cold.
The doctor lowered his voice.
“And, Mrs. Miller, until we understand what we're dealing with, I need to ask that no one else be allowed into the examination area without authorization.”
I nodded.
“Why?”
He looked at my mother.
“Because if this was deliberately placed, we need to know how and when.”
The word deliberately hung in the air.
My mother began crying.
Not loudly.
Just tears slipping down her cheeks.
I wiped one away.
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
“I am here.”
Her lips trembled.
“I never wanted you involved.”
“You're my mother.”
“I thought I could handle it.”
“You've been handling this alone for months.”
“I didn't have a choice.”
“You always have a choice to tell me.”
She closed her eyes.
Then she whispered:
“I was trying to keep him from finding out that I still had it.”
I froze.
“Still had what?”
She opened her eyes.
Before she could answer, the hallway outside became suddenly louder.
Footsteps.
A familiar voice.
“Linda!”
My mother's face drained of color.
I knew that voice.
Arthur.
He was coming toward us.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: When Arthur arrived before I could learn what my mother had hidden, his reaction to the scan made me realize he knew far more about her condition than he admitted
When my mother finally admitted how long the pain had lasted, I realized the truth had been sitting quietly in our family while my husband tried to keep me from asking questions
Part 2 of 28
