Page 17 of Scarlet Chains
The pull-out couch is a nightmare of broken springs and threadbare fabric that Mom bought secondhand when she moved into this place.
Every morning I wake up with the metal bar digging into my ribs, my neck twisted at an angle that leaves me stiff for hours.
The living room serves as living, dining room, and storage space all at once. My few belongings— the backpack I fled with and two thrift store sweaters I bought last week— are stacked in the corner next to Mom’s small dining table. The kitchenette takes up one wall, separated from the living space by nothing more than a change in flooring, making the whole area feel even more cramped.
I fold the thin blanket and push the couch back into sitting position, clearing space for another day. Mom’s already in the kitchen area, her movements careful and quiet. I notice she’s gripping the counter edge as she reaches for the coffee, her shoulders tight. Her adjoining bedroom is not much better than the cramped space I’ve been sleeping in. The small cot has a mattress that’s seen better days, and her clothing hangs on a rail pushed up against one wall. No luxurious fabrics, no designer labels; I’m guessing she sold all of it to try to make a dent in Dad’s debts.
Oh, Dad…
I want to weep when I think about him and all that we’ve lost. All that Mom has had to endure. This apartment is nothing like the house I grew up in. That house had crown molding and a kitchen island where Dad would sit with his morning coffee,reading news on his tablet while humming off-key. This place has water stains on the ceiling and a radiator that clanks like it’s possessed.
But we make it work. We have to.
I pad to the kitchen in my socks, stepping over the squeaky floorboard that always gives me away. Mom’s standing at the counter with her back to me, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs.
“Morning, sweetheart.” She doesn’t turn around, but her voice carries that forced brightness she’s perfected since Dad died. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby,” I lie, accepting the mug she offers when she finally faces me, her smile not hiding the shadows beneath her eyes, or the gauntness of her cheeks. The coffee’s watery and bitter— the cheapest brand from the discount store— but I drink it anyway.
She studies my face with sharp eyes, no doubt taking in my own drawn features. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” I settle into one of the two chairs at her tiny table, wrapping my hands around the warmth of the mug. “Actually, I have news.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Good news or bad news?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” I reach into my purse and pull out the small black and white image that’s been burning a hole in my wallet since yesterday. “I saw the gynecologist yesterday, but you were asleep when I got home, so I couldn’t show you. Dr. Martinez says everything looks perfect.”
Mom’s coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips. Her eyes fix on the ultrasound photo, and for a moment, her careful composure cracks. “Oh, Ilona…”
“It’s real, Mom. It’s actually happening.” My voice wavers despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “She said if I make itpast twelve weeks, the chances of miscarriage drop significantly. I’m almost at eight weeks now.”
She sets down her mug with hands that shake slightly— rough now from the harsh cleaning chemicals at her new job, so different from the soft manicures she used to get weekly. She reaches for the photo. “Look at that little profile. Oh my God, Ilona, you can already see—”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I stared at it for an hour yesterday.”
“Have you…?” She trails off, but I know what she’s asking.
“No. Osip doesn’t know.” I still struggle to say his name out loud. “Only you, Dr. Varga back in Budapest, and now Dr. Martinez.”
Mom nods slowly. “That’s probably for the best.”
Is it? I’m not sure anymore. Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep on the broken springs, I imagine what it would be like to call him. To hear his voice, low and rough with that accent that used to make me melt. To tell him about the baby’s tiny heartbeat, how it sounds like some sort of underwater miracle. To share this moment with the man who helped create this life.
But then I remember that phone call with Jason, the way the world had turned upside down when he told me the truth. The man I’d fallen for, the father of my child— he’s the reason my father is dead. How do you reconcile loving someone who destroyed your family?
“I have money,” I say quietly, the words feeling like a betrayal. “There’s money I could access, but…”
“I know, honey… but?” My mother tilts her head.
“As soon as I access any of those accounts, he’ll find me. And I’m not ready for that conversation. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” The guilt sits heavy in my chest, knowing I could ease our financial strain with a simple bank transfer, knowing thatMom is stretching every dollar while I sit on a small fortune I’m too terrified to touch.
Mom reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Despite their roughness, they’re warm and steady. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Just focus on staying healthy.”
“That’s the problem.” I pull my hand away and stand, pacing to the window that overlooks the parking lot. “I need to work. I need money. I can’t keep living off your savings—”
“Ilona—”
“No, Mom. I’ve neglected my social media business completely. I have maybe three clients left, and they’re probably ready to fire me. I need something stable, something that won’t stress me out.” I turn back to her. “I can’t just sit around all day. I need a job.”
