“Tori,” he said. “They said you were here.” He coughed, spitting red flecks onto the white sheets. He grimaced in pain and clutched a hand to his side.
“What happened?” I asked softly. “Nobody told me.” Or perhaps they had, and I had simply tuned them out.
“Boar,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Caught me … by surprise.”
“Father…”
“Don’t think I’m gonna … if I don’t … don’t make it … you need to know about …” He coughed up blood again. “Your mother.”
It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “Mother?” I whispered.
“Midie,” he spoke my mother’s name, and his voice faltered. “Midie…” He trailed off to sleep, leaving me with eyes full of tears and a mind full of questions.
I didn’t want to wake him. His breathing was good, if still shallow. I quietly rose from the chair and left the room.
I didn’t have any memories of my mother. When I was younger, I used to ask about her. But I quickly learned that any mention of my mother’s name closed people’s mouths faster than my questions about the origins of babies. But as I grew older, some of those childish questions were answered. The ones about my mother were not.


