The Time I Poisoned my Mother | By Robert Fromberg

I get a chemistry set. I am a little overwhelmed by the powders and equipment and instructions. I find a simple experiment that involves combining two white powders in water to create a red liquid.

That evening, I am watching TV and my dad appears in the living room. He is holding a white plastic cup like the one I used for the experiment. “This cup was in mom’s bathroom. Did you use it for anything?”

“Maybe it’s the one I used for my experiment.” We have several of these cups, and I have no memory of where I put the cup I used.

“Experiment?”

I remind Dad about the new chemistry set.

“Well, your mom is very sick.” I realize that I can hear her now, upstairs, down the hall, faintly, vomiting. I imagine her face as it rises from the toilet, pale, hurt, but not surprised.

I am silent.

“I think you poisoned your mother.” He pauses. “Well, yes, I guess that’s the word. Poisoned.”

I consider this as a sentence: “I poisoned my mother.” Yes, I suppose that I have. I assume that, although I don’t remember putting the cup in her bathroom, I did it purposefully, the intended target my mom.

Upstairs, I see Mom in the doorway to my parents’ bedroom, her face looking exactly as I had imagined. She seems not to recognize me.

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Robert Fromberg has prose in (or forthcoming in) Hobart, Bitchin' Kitsch, Drunk Monkeys, and elsewhere. His memoir is forthcoming from Latah Books. Once upon a time he taught writing at Northwestern University. Twitter and IG: @robfromberg