I looked over to see that she was holding out the empty glass, which I accepted. "Yes?" "Dr. Hyde ..." She closed her eyes, preparing to drift off to sleep. "He's really helping me. We've sorted so much out. And I realize now how much I've let you down since your father died." "No, Mom." I set down the glass and took her hand. "You've been sick." "Yes, that's what Frederick says," Mom agreed. "But still, I feel awful to think how much you've had to handle." "It's no big deal," I reassured her. Yet a part of me was thinking, "Frederick"? Not "Dr. Hyde"? Was that weird or did most patients address their therapists so informally? "Just keep getting better, Mom," I said. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine." "You're a strong girl, Jill." Mom squeezed my hand, starting to sound groggy. "Thank you for taking such good care of me. And please say thank you, too, to Frederick's son ..." "Tristen," I reminded her. Had Tristen drugged her so effectively that she'd forgotten his name, even? 143 "Yes, Tristen." Mom choked a little, and I was surprised to see a tear run down her cheek.
