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is resting comfortably. Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk in private?” I followed my dad and Ms. Phillips out of the waiting area and down a hallway lit with bright fluorescent lights.
    We hadn’t gone very far when she opened a gray door. Inside was a small room with a table and two plastic yellow chairs. The room was even more depressing than the waiting room. Were all hospitals so relentlessly awful?
    My father didn’t sit down, so neither did I. Ms. Phillips also stood.
    â€œMr. Newman, your wife may have made a suicide attempt.”
    Even though I was the one who’d found her, even though it wasn’t like I’d thought she’d just lain down on the floor to have a nap, I made a funny noise with the back of my throat whenMs. Phillips said that. She and my father turned to look at me.
    â€œHoney, maybe you should wait outside,” said my dad. His voice was soft, concerned, and I didn’t know what to do with that. By way of answering him, I just shook my head. Once again, he reached for my hand, and this time I let him take it.
    Ms. Phillips opened a folder she’d been carrying and started talking, glancing at it as she spoke. “Your daughter found your wife unconscious on the floor of her bathroom at approximately four o’clock this afternoon. There were several bottles of pills on her night table and in the bathroom with her. Given the dates the prescriptions were filled, it’s difficult to know how many pills she actually took today. Because she had Ambien and Valium in her possession, both of which suppress respiration and which, taken in excess, can be fatal, we pumped her stomach and gave her a dose of ipecac, which is an emetic.”
    â€œWhat about the blood?” I asked.
    My father turned to me. “What? What blood?”
    She checked the folder again, then looked up at me. “There is no evidence that your mother had any self-inflicted wounds, though the bottom of one of her feet had a fairly deep cut on it that looked as if it might have been the result of her stepping on a piece of glass. The paramedics said there was water and a broken glass on the floor of the bathroom.”
    Even in the midst of my confusion, I felt a wave of relief sopowerful my knees buckled. “So you’re saying she didn’t try to kill herself?”
    But Ms. Phillips was looking at my father. “Do you know anything about your wife’s medication? We’re trying to figure out if she might have accidentally taken more than she was prescribed or if this was an intentional overdose.”
    â€œI’m not living at home right now,” said my father. Ms. Phillips nodded and made a note on her paper. “But she has sometimes . . . abused prescription medication in the past. And she’s not always careful about mixing drugs and alcohol.”
    â€œ What? That’s not true.” I turned to Ms. Phillips. “It’s not true,” I said again.
    â€œJuliet,” said my father firmly, “I’m sorry, but it is true.”
    I kept talking to Ms. Phillips. “She’s been depressed off and on all summer because my father left .” I spoke quickly, as if I might not have the chance to finish before my father cut me off.
    â€œI see,” said Ms. Phillips, and when she wrote something down, I felt like I’d convinced her to believe me and not my dad.
    â€œJuliet, you are mixing apples and oranges,” said my father. “I’m sorry. I want to respect your mother’s privacy, but this is something the people who are treating her have to know.”
    I stared at my father, seething, as Ms. Phillips finished writing. Then she flipped the folder closed. “The attending psychiatrist has suggested your wife be admitted to thehospital’s psychiatric unit so we can evaluate her. He’ll be out to speak to you soon, but I’d like to get us started on the paperwork so we can transfer her as