Page 51 of Scarlet Chains
She’d brushed off my concerns with her usual deflection: “You know how it is when you get older— the metabolism slows down, you lose your appetite.” But now, standing in her empty apartment with my heart in my throat, the alarm bells in my mind are screaming at me.
Something’s wrong.
I can feel it in my gut.
I move instinctively to the cupboard where she keeps her important papers— birth certificates, insurance documents, the lease to this apartment. I don’t usually do things like this, don’tviolate her privacy by going through her personal belongings, but something tells me I need to look.
My hands shake as I open drawers and flip through manila folders, searching for… what? I’m not even sure what I’m looking for until I find it.
A file tucked away in the back of a cabinet, hidden behind old tax returns and utility bills like a guilty secret. It’s filled with medical documents— CT scans with timestamps from the past three months, lab results with numbers that mean nothing to me but feel ominous in their clinical precision, hospital forms with letterheads I don’t recognize.
What the fuck?
My breath catches as I go over them, trying to make sense of the medical jargon and abbreviations. Test results that span months, not weeks. Hospital forms dating back to when I was still in Budapest, before I moved in with Osip, before my life became this tangled mess of secrets and lies. Prescriptions for medications I’ve never heard of, with dosages and instructions that suggest long-term treatment.
She’s been sick.
For months.
And she never told me.
“Oh God, Mom,” I whisper, fighting down tears. While I was wrapped up in my own drama— falling for a dangerous man, getting pregnant, playing with fire— my mother was fighting something alone. She was probably sitting in sterile waiting rooms by herself, getting blood drawn and scans done and results that changed everything, and she never said a word.
Why didn’t she tell me?
I pull out my phone with shaking fingers and dial the doctor’s number listed on one of the papers. The call connects after what feels like an eternity, and I’m greeted by aprofessional, somber voice that makes my stomach clench with dread.
“Dr. Patel’s office,” the receptionist says in accented English.
“My name is Ilona Katona,” I say, my voice trembling despite my efforts to keep it steady. “I’m calling about Judit Katona. I’m her daughter. I just found some medical papers, and I… I can’t reach her.”
The admission makes everything real. This isn’t just paranoia or overthinking— this is a genuine emergency, and I’m completely unprepared for whatever’s coming.
There’s a pause on the other end, the kind of loaded silence that doctors’ offices specialize in. I can hear muffled voices, the shuffle of papers, and my heart runs rampant while I wait.
“Hold on, please.”
The line clicks, and I’m left listening to generic hold music that feels obscenely cheerful given the circumstances. My mind races through possibilities— a minor condition that required monitoring, routine tests that looked more serious than they were, maybe just a health scare that she didn’t want to worry me with while I was starting my new life in Budapest.
Please let it be nothing.
Please let it be nothing.
Please let it be—
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, a deeper voice speaks. The tone is carefully measured, professionally gentle in a way that makes my knees go weak.
“This is Dr. Patel. Are you Mrs. Shiradze’s family?”
“Yes,” I reply quickly, gripping the phone tightly. “Her daughter. I can’t find her. What’s going on?”
Dr. Patel clears his throat, and I can practically feel him choosing his words carefully. “I’m glad you’re calling, Miss Katona. We’ve been trying to contact her next of kin, but wecouldn’t find an ICE contact in her phone. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Bad news.
Please, God, no.
“Your mother felt ill yesterday evening, and her neighbors called an ambulance. She’s currently at St. Paul’s Hospital.”
