Page 90 of Lessons in Cruelty

There’s a tray of small finger foods on the nightstand.

It smells revolting.

Or maybe it’s just the room.

The sick woman living in it.

“They’re right.” I stroke the hand in mine. “You’ve lost a dangerous amount of weight. Please, Evelyn.”

Brown eyes framed with dark lashes dance over my face, barely keeping contact with mine before dancing away.

“Try to feed her,” the nurse whispers to me.

My jaw clenches as I pick up a yogurt container, peel it open. But when I try to feed Evelyn a spoonful, she turns her head away.

“If I could be alone with her for a while,” I murmur to the nurse, bowing my head like I can’t bear to look up at her.

“Yes, Mr. Rooke, of course. Just ring if you need anything.” The nurse lays a hand on my arm and then leaves, casting a sympathetic look at us over her shoulder, nodding like she’s encouraging me not to give up hope just yet.

“The food here is godawful,” Evelyn snaps, dragging my attention back to her. “You’d know if you bothered to read my letters. I’ve sent you dozens of them.” She adjusts the maroon robe swaddling her emaciated body. “Is there a reason you didn’t deign to reply to a single one?”

I roll my lips together, biting them between my front teeth as I toss the yogurt carton back onto her nightstand. It tips over, creamy liquid oozing onto the metal surface.

The urge to correct her claws like trapped rats inside my chest.

When Dr. Evelyn Rooke sees me, she’s looking into the past. Trying to drag her into the here-and-now is a cruelty I’ve been advised against. Her physician says it doesn’t help. That it simply confuses her even more. That it could lead to distress, severe disorientation, or even a mental breakdown.

I wouldn’t wish early-onset dementia on my worst enemy.

What’s the point of such exquisite torture if they can’t realize it’s happening?

She grabs my hand again. How weak she’s become, her fingers barely dimpling my flesh.

“You’re ice cold,” she says, mouth pulling like I’ve offended her deeply. “You’ve been running around in the rain again with Sybil, haven’t you? You two will catch your death one of these days.”

My pulse thrums, a sudden intense heat building in my chest. But I take a slow breath, and then another. Another.

Her moment of lucidity disappears as swiftly as it arrives. But its effect lingers on as a prickle in my fingertips.

“How long do I have to stay here? That maid is using my perfume, you know. And she doesn’t clean the toilet properly. I’m going to have her fired.”

Despite what I’ve researched on the condition, despite what the doctors and staff tell me, I’m still convinced that I can make her understand what’s happening. There must be a way to avoid her reaching back into the past to torment me.

Or perhaps I’m just testing her limits.

“You’re in a nursing home, Evelyn. You have dementia, and you can’t look after yourself⁠—”

“Liar!” Her slap doesn’t carry half the strength it used to, either. But the sting tugs on deeply buried memories like a dead man’s bell.

…you crying again? You’re pathetic. You know crying won’t get you anywhere. Sybil used to cry. She cried all the time. Look where that got her. You want to end up like her? Is that it, boy? Do you want to take a razor blade into the bath with you? I’ve got plenty. Here, let me go fetch you one…

I grab her wrist. Shove her arm against her chest and keep it there. I can feel the bones in her wrist grating together, and it just makes me squeeze harder.

Pain flashes in her eyes. Confusion. Then anger.

“You told me you were taking me to California as soon as you were done with your business trip, Jonathan. Two weeks! That’s how long you said I had to wait. But it’s been months. Months.” Her feral hiss dots spittle on her lips.

Distress.