Page 11 of Scarlet Chains
“Where to?” The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. He’s older, maybe sixties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I give him Mom’s new address in Somerville, and he nods. “You okay, miss? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
“Long trip,” I manage, pressing my cheek against the cool window.
“Ah, I get it. I’ve got a daughter about your age. Sometimes life just kicks you in the teeth, you know?”
His words hit closer to home than he could know. I watch Boston blur past— familiar streets I grew up on, neighborhoods that hold a thousand memories. The further we get from theairport, the more the paranoia fades. But the ache in my chest remains.
We wind through streets lined with triple-deckers, their paint peeling from harsh New England winters. Mom’s building sits wedged between a corner bodega and a laundromat, three stories of brick and broken dreams.
“That’ll be thirty-eight fifty,” the driver says gently.
I hand him two twenties. “Keep it.”
“You sure? That’s—”
“Please. And thank you.” I need his kindness right now, even if it’s from a stranger.
He smiles in the mirror. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
I climb three flights of narrow stairs, the carpet threadbare beneath my new shoes. The hallway smells like cooking oil and old paint. Such a far cry from the house I grew up in— the one we lost after Dad died, along with everything else.
My knuckles rap against her door. One knock. Two.
Shuffling footsteps from inside, but the door doesn’t open.
Three knocks.
“Mom?” I call out. “Are you in there? It’s me.”
“Ilona?” Mom’s voice comes through the wood, shocked and muffled.
The deadbolt clicks. The chain rattles. Then the door swings open, and her face transforms— surprise melting into pure joy before concern takes over.
“Ilona! Oh my God!”
She reaches for me, and that’s all it takes. The last thread holding me together snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. I collapse into her arms, sobbing into her shoulder like I’m five years old again and scraped my knee.
“Mom.” The word comes out broken, desperate.
Her hands stroke my hair, her voice making soft shushing sounds. But as I pull back to look at her, something stops me cold.
She’s… smaller. The soft curves that used to make her hugs feel like sinking into a cloud are gone. Her arms feel bird-thin around me. Her face is all sharp angles now, cheekbones too prominent, eyes too large in a face that’s lost its fullness.
“Mom.” My voice catches. “You’ve… you’ve lost weight.”
A shadow flickers across her features before she waves me off with forced lightness. “Lifestyle change, darling. You know, I’ve been eating better, walking more.”
But her voice wavers just enough. Just enough for me to notice the lie underneath.
What aren’t you telling me?
“Come inside, darling.”
Her apartment is a shoebox— one small room, a kitchenette barely large enough for two people to stand in together. But she’s made it warm somehow. Bright throw pillows scattered across a secondhand pull-out couch. A framed photo of the three of us from before everything went to hell sits on the coffee table, Dad’s arm around both of us, all of us smiling like we believed happiness was permanent.
The sight of his face makes my chest tighten.
