Chapter 3 Blood in the Water
[Freya]
"How was work today?" I asked, studying her face.
"Oh, you know. Same old same old." She moved to the kitchenette, busying herself with unnecessary tasks. "Just stocking shelves and ringing up customers. Nothing exciting."
She was lying. I could see it in the way she avoided my eyes, the nervous energy that had nothing to do with a normal workday.
"Mom." I set down my bag and crossed my arms. "Look at me."
She reluctantly turned around, her smile too bright, too forced.
"Where were you really today?" I asked, my voice steady despite the anxiety building in my chest.
"I told you, at work—"
"The latest shift ended at 8. It's almost 11." I'd been keeping track without meaning to, the same way I used to monitor her patterns during her worst periods. "That's three hours unaccounted for."
Her face flushed. "I went for a walk after work. Had some errands to run."
"What errands? Where?"
"Freya, you're being paranoid—"
"Paranoid?" Something inside me snapped. "I'm being paranoid for worrying about my drug addict mother who disappears for seven hours?"
"Don't call me that—"
"That's what you are!" I shouted, months of suppressed fear and exhaustion exploding out of me. "You're a drug addict who destroyed our lives! Who sold our house, our future, everything!"
"Freya, please—"
"No!" I was screaming now, all the careful control I'd maintained crumbling. "I'm done! I'm done pretending this is normal, done pretending you're better, done taking care of you!"
Tears were streaming down her face, but I couldn't stop.
"You want to know what I really think? I hate you! I hate what you've done to us! I hate that you let one failed marriage destroy you! I hate that you just gave up and chose drugs over everything else! You could have fought back, but instead you destroyed our family! You destroyed yourself! You destroyed me! Sometimes I wish I'd never even been born!"
I didn't wait for her response. I grabbed my bag and stormed to my room, slamming the door so hard the thin walls shook. I threw myself onto my narrow bed, pulling the pillow over my head to block out the sound of her sobbing in the kitchen.
I reached for the bottle of melatonin, shook out four pills this time, and swallowed them dry. I needed to sleep. I needed to forget. And tomorrow, I needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do next.
Morning came with the hollow ache of regret. The sunlight streaming through my window seemed to mock my shame. I sat on the edge of my bed, rehearsing words of apology. We'd had fights before, but never like that. Never where I'd said such hateful things.
After washing my face, I walked to her bedroom door and knocked softly.
"Mom? Can we talk?" No response. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean those things. Maybe we can start over? Get some help together?"
Still silence. I knocked again, louder this time.
"Mom?"
When she didn't answer, I pushed the door open. The bed was empty, neatly made. My heart started to race. I checked the kitchen, living room, everywhere.
The bathroom door was closed.
I stood outside it for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, my hand frozen on the handle. Part of me already knew what I would find. The part of me that had been waiting for this moment for years, dreading it while simultaneously expecting it.
When I finally turned the handle, time slowed to a crawl.
Celeste lay in the bathtub, her dark hair floating around her face like seaweed. The water was pink—not bright red like in movies, but a soft, almost gentle pink that made the scene look surreal, like something from a dream.
Her wrists were open, neat horizontal cuts that spoke of planning and determination rather than a cry for help. Her face was peaceful, younger somehow, as if death had erased the lines that years of addiction and guilt had carved there.
On the counter, a note in her careful handwriting: "Sorry for being your burden. I love you more than all the stars. Take care of yourself, baby girl. - Mom"
I rushed to check her pulse—faint but present. Blood still seeped from the gashes on her wrists, but slowly now. I applied pressure with towels while dialing 911, my hands steadier than my voice.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My mother," I heard myself say, the voice sounding far away and mechanical. "She's attempted suicide. She cut her wrists. She's still alive but barely breathing."
"Is she conscious? Can you feel a pulse?"
"Unconscious. Pulse is thready, about 40 beats per minute. I've applied pressure to the wounds. Please hurry."
The paramedics arrived within minutes, pushing me aside to work on her. I watched them start IVs, apply pressure bandages, and load her onto a gurney. They moved with the urgent efficiency I recognized from my own training, speaking in the clinical shorthand of emergency medicine.
"We're taking her to Green. You can follow in your car," one of them told me as they wheeled her out.
I followed the ambulance to Green Hospital in a taxi, my hands still stained with Mom's blood. The familiar building looked different when I wasn't walking through it as a doctor—now I was just another desperate family member.
The emergency room doors slammed open as they rushed Mom inside. A nurse stopped me at the entrance.
"Family waits here," she said gently. "Let the doctors work."
I was directed to a small waiting area where I could only see the closed doors of the trauma bay. All I could do was sit and wait, listening to the muffled sounds of urgent voices and equipment beeping.
The minutes crawled by. Occasionally, nurses hurried in and out of the trauma bay, their faces serious. No one would tell me anything.
After what felt like hours, the doors finally opened and Dr. Emerson Salvatore emerged, pulling off his surgical gloves.
He approached me and I immediately stood up, my heart pounding.
"Dr. Harper." His voice was calm, professional. "Your mother is stable."
Relief flooded through me, but his tone warned me there was more.
"However," he continued, "she's in a coma. The blood loss was severe, and her brain was deprived of oxygen for an extended period."
"So you're saying, if there's no improvement in the next seventy-two hours," I said quietly, "she may never wake up."
"Correct," he said simply. "There's a possibility she may not regain consciousness."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt my breathing become shallow, panic creeping in.
"Can I see her?"
"She's being moved to the ICU. You can see her once she's settled." He looked at me for a moment. "Dr. Harper, when did you last eat?"
"This morning," I said automatically, though I wasn't sure if that was true.
"A proper meal. Not coffee and whatever you grabbed from a vending machine."
I couldn't remember.
"You're pale. Your hands are shaking, and you've been running on adrenaline for hours. That's not sustainable."
"I'm fine. I need to stay here with her."
"You're not fine. Go home. Sleep. Eat a proper meal. Your mother will be unconscious for hours, possibly days."
"I can't leave her. What if something happens? What if she wakes up and I'm not here?"
"I'll be monitoring her case personally. Any changes in her condition—any changes at all—and you'll be contacted immediately."
"But what if the nurses miss something? What if—"
"You're no good to her if you collapse from exhaustion. And you're certainly no good to your patients."
I nodded, realizing he had a point. Not wanting to cause any more trouble, I slowly rose to my feet, intending to head back to work. "You're right. I should—"
The room suddenly tilted sideways. The fluorescent lights overhead blurred into streaks as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.
Strong hands caught me before I hit the floor.