Page 44 of Scarlet Thorns
Using my key, I let myself in through the front door. “Mom? Dad?” My voice echoes through the foyer, bouncing off mahogany panels and crystal chandeliers.
Silence.
The house feels wrong immediately. Too quiet, too still, like it’s holding its breath. The air carries a weight that makes my chest tighten with undefined dread.
I head toward the kitchen, expecting to find evidence of their usual Saturday routine— coffee brewing, newspapers spread across the marble countertops, classical music playing softly from hidden speakers.
Instead, I find chaos.
The kitchen looks like a tornado hit it. Cabinet doors hang open, their contents scattered across expensive granite. Empty bottles litter the counters— vodka, whiskey, wine— some still uncorked, others shattered on the floor. The stench ofspilled alcohol mingles with something else, something sour and desperate that makes my stomach clench.
This isn’t like them at all. My parents are meticulous, organized, the kind of people who never leave dishes in the sink overnight. Dad drinks wine with dinner, maybe a vodka after a particularly difficult day at the practice. But this… this looks like the aftermath of a bender that would make fraternity boys blush.
My hands shake as I pick up an empty bottle of Grey Goose, checking the label like it might explain everything. The glass is sticky with residue, fingerprints smeared across the surface in patterns that suggest desperation rather than celebration.
“Mom?” I call again, my voice cracking with rising panic. “Dad?”
I find her in the living room.
Mom lies crumpled on the cream sofa like a broken doll, her usually immaculate hair tangled around her face in greasy strands. Her silk blouse is stained with what looks like vomit, and the smell of alcohol radiates from her unconscious form in waves that make me gag.
This isn’t my mother. My mother doesn’t drink beyond an occasional glass of wine at dinner. My mother doesn’t pass out on furniture or leave the house in chaos. My mother is elegant, controlled, the perfect doctor’s wife who hosts charity luncheons and volunteers at the hospital auxiliary.
“Mom!” I drop to my knees beside the sofa, shaking her shoulders with trembling hands. “Oh my God, Mom, are you okay?”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and bloodshot. For a moment, she doesn’t seem to recognize me, staring through me like I’m a ghost. When recognition finally dawns, her face crumples with grief so raw it steals my breath.
“Ilona?” Her voice is a broken whisper, thick with alcohol and something darker. “You’re here.”
“What happened? Mom, what’s wrong? Where’s Dad?”
The question seems to shatter whatever composure she has left. Tears stream down her cheeks as she tries to sit up, failing twice before I help her upright. Her hands shake as she reaches for me, gripping my arms with surprising strength.
“Your father…” The words come out as barely more than a whisper. “He’s dead.”
I stare at her in disbelief. The words don’t make sense,can’tmake sense. Dad, dead? Impossible. I just saw him a few days ago. He was fine, healthy, concerned about my health issues but otherwise perfectly normal.
“What?” The word tears from my throat like broken glass. “What did you say?”
“He’s dead, baby.” Mom’s voice breaks completely. “Your father is dead.”
The living room spins around me, expensive furniture and family photos blurring into meaningless shapes. My knees buckle, and only Mom’s grip on my arms keeps me from hitting the floor. This has to be a nightmare. Some twisted dream brought on by stress and too many changes in my life.
But Mom’s tears are real. The alcohol on her breath is real. The devastation in her eyes is real.
“How?” I manage to force the word past the ice blocking my throat. “How did he—when—”
“I don’t know.” Mom’s words slur together, confusion and grief making her barely coherent. “Police came yesterday. Said they found him… found him near a bridge. They said… they said…”
She dissolves into sobs that shake her entire body, and I realize she’s not just drunk—she’s in shock. Deep, traumatic shock that’s rendered her unable to process what’s happened.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, dialing 911 with fingers that feel disconnected from my body. The operator’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, professional and calm while my world crumbles around me.
“I need an ambulance,” I hear myself saying. “My mother… alcohol poisoning, I think. And shock. She’s in shock.”
The next ten minutes stretch like hours. I hold Mom while she alternates between sobbing and staring into nothing, her body limp with grief and vodka. She keeps repeating the same words—”He’s dead, baby. Your daddy’s dead”—like a broken record stuck on the most devastating track imaginable.
Dad is dead.
