Page 35 of A Dirty Business
Christ. We were dealing with this? “I found a new vodka bottle in her bathroom and watered it down.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“She’s having a conniption, saying you emptied all of her bottles.”
The irony of my mother throwing a tantrum to one parole officer because another parole officer watered down one of her stash was just ... I was at a loss. “What sort of conniption? What’s the damage?”
“I’m standing out here to greet you. That should tell you something.”
For fuck’s sake.
I walked up the stairs to face my mother.
“Be prepared. She ... she went overboard today.”
I skimmed another glance his way. He moved back a step, not giving me anything else. I tried the doorknob, found it was locked, so I pulled out my key and unlocked it. Opening it, I wasn’t even going to focus on how she’d locked the door on Leo. It was Leo. He’d been best friends with my dad. He was family.
I stepped in, not hearing any movement, no sounds.
But the smell hit me next, and I almost bowled over. “Mom!”
I heard a lumbering footstep above, then a groan and a thump.
I took off, taking the stairs two at a time.
There was blood on the floor, and I rushed into her bedroom. More blood. A trail of it, leading to her as she was on the floor beside the bed. “Mom!” She was in her bathrobe, and I knelt down, avoiding the blood.
She let out a moan, her head moving a little.
“Mom. Mom.”
“No.” Another moan. She reached out, trying to push me away. “Go away. Don’t want you here.”
Her breath was rank. She’d been busy drinking.
I rolled her over, moving gently, and began searching for where the blood was coming from. Her vitals were good at first glance, but I grabbed her wrist, counting her pulse as I kept looking over her body.
“Oh my god—” Leo came in from the door, kneeling at my other side. “She—she wasn’t like this when I stepped outside. She’d been drinking and she was angry, going on a rant about you. There’s a bunch of plates downstairs on the floor. She must’ve stepped on them.” Headded the last bit as I ran a hand down her body, lifting up her foot and seeing the blood there. It was a massive cut, deep. “She’ll need stitches.”
“No. No stiches,” she grumbled, before her head shot to the side, her body following, and she threw up.
Vomit landed just past me.
I jumped out of the way but cursed and went back to finish my assessment. She had cuts on both her feet and one on the palm of her hand. None of them looked self-inflicted, which was a relief on this shitty Saturday.
“Here.” Leo must’ve left to grab some gauze. He knelt back down, the first aid kit in his other hand.
I took it, pressed it to her foot. She started to balk, but she was so drunk that a second later, she was passed out.
I hated dealing with drunk people, but it was always worse when it was your parent.
We worked in silence as I cleaned all of her cuts, disinfected them, and then bandaged each one. I wrapped both her feet and her hand, and as one unit, we both bent to pick her up and placed her on the bed.
I stepped back.
Her breathing was deep but ragged at the same time, and her bathrobe fell open. She was still in her pajamas. “She needs stitches.”
