Page 92 of Scarred King

“Is there anything left to sell?” I try to inhale, unsuccessfully.

“Nothing, Elena. Nothing,” she sobs, “they said that they would do terrible things to me if I don’t get the money by Friday. Terrible things that I can't even tell you.”

“I see,” my hand is trembling on the counter.

“Please, come home,” she whispers.

“All right.” I answer wearily and end the call. I feel his shadow above me, and I can’t turn around. I pour myself another glass of water, but I can’t drink it. It falls from my hand and shatters on the floor.

Liam pulls me gently to the sofa and sits down next to me. “Tell me what happened,” he asks softly, and I shake my head. If I don’t repeat what she said out loud, maybe it will go away. “Elena,” he strokes my head. “Tell me what happened.”

The unbelievable amount of money that my mother mentioned is spinning around in my head like a slot machine in a Las Vegas casino. I don’t know why my brain’s telling me to keep the information from him, but I accept the warning signs it’s shooting at me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

“Never mind, she’s just being dramatic.” I fake a smile and open my eyes. “This day exhausted me. Maybe I won’t join you at the bar tonight?”

He looks at me suspiciously and I see that he’s struggling to decide whether he should just leave the matter alone or continue and demand answers. “Liam,” I place my hand on his thigh, “it’s my mother, a drama queen. It’s our regular conversation where she begs me to come home and I say no.”

“But you said ‘all right’ at the end of the call,” he’s still looking at me suspiciously.

“I agreed to call again and discuss it,” I lie calmly. “Can I go to sleep now?”

“Don’t you want me to order something to eat?” he looks at me with concern, and I shake my head and walk to the staircase. “I just want to sleep.”

“I’ll try not to come back late.” He stands up with the file in his hand, and watches me until I disappear upstairs. I sit down on the edge of the bed and as soon as I hear the garage door close, I grab my suitcase, shove everything I find inside, and call a cab.

Several minutes later I drag my suitcase to the garage, press the garage door's remote control, and run to the cab. The Volvo isn’t parked in the street and I sigh in relief. One less reason to worry.

The cab takes me to the airport, and I text my mother to send me her new address. I don’t think about my man, who will soon be going crazy because of me. I don’t think about my studies, my job, my professor who has abandoned me, the truce or the gang war that’s starting up again. For the first time in a long while, I think of my mother, the huge debt and the threats… Who would believe that my aristocratic, classic French mother would ever have to deal with criminals?

I walk out of the Houston airport in the early hours of the morning. I’m home, I think sadly. I hate this city and I’d be happy if I never had to come back here. I give the cab driver the address and he starts driving. I try to see where we’re going but I don’t recognize anything. A half hour later he stops in a small street and I peek out the window. “Are you sure this isn’t a mistake?” I ask as I look in disgust at the garbage piled up outside, the loud kids sitting on the porches, and the poor condition of the house I’m meant to enter.

He repeats the address I gave him, and I don’t need to look at the message on my phone again to realize that there is no mistake. My mother lives in a distressed neighborhood. If it weren’t so awful, I’d probably laugh.

I drag my suitcase up three steps and knock on the door.

“Who is it?” I hear my mother’s gentle voice on the other side of the door.

“Mom, it’s me.” I try to open the door as I hear the key turn, but it’s still locked. Another lock is opened, then another two and finally she opens the door cautiously, sticks her head out and looks to the sides fearfully. “Come on, mom, let me in.” I push the door. She helps me with my luggage and turns back to lock the door again.

“You sleep at the door?” I ask in shock when I see the pillow and blanket by the wall.

“I was waiting for you,” she replies angrily and stands up straight. Even in her black nightgown she looks like she’s ready to go out to a concert. Her long black hair is stretched back and her face is glowing. “Stand up straight,” she taps me gently on the shoulder and I let go of the handle of my suitcase and straighten up. Suddenly I remember her old obsession and I burst into laughter.

“Mom, is my posture so important to you even in the middle of the night?” I shake my head in despair and she groans and goes to the kitchen. I follow her into a badly kept room. The cupboards are painted in faded green, the refrigerator door is rusty and peeling, and the tiles on the floor are in disgusting shades of brown. However, it’s also clean, practically sterile, and the plates and glasses are arranged neatly.

“Do you want something to eat?” she turns on the kettle.

“I really do.” I clutch my stomach in pain. “I haven’t eaten anything today.”

“Wonderful,” she says sarcastically and takes two plastic boxes out of the refrigerator. “Didn’t I teach you to eat three meals a day?”

“Mom,” I groan, “I’ve had a hard day. I flew here as quickly as I could and now, I’d like some quiet without you criticizing me about everything I do.”

“A hard day,” she repeats disdainfully. “I'm in a nightmare and you complain about one hard day.”

“I’m not really hungry,” I say and stand up. “Show me where the bedroom is.”

“No. I apologize.” She turns to me and suddenly bursts into tears. She comes close and hugs me. I can’t remember the last time she hugged me, and I have no idea how to react to this burst of emotion. I pat her back gently and she lets go of me, picks up a napkin and dries her tears carefully. “I'm so glad you're here. I started to feel that I'm losing my sanity.” She places a cup of coffee in front of me and puts a plate in the microwave. “I don’t know what to do and there is no one to help me. I am alone for the first time in my life.”

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