Chapter 2 - The Spilled Water
Before I could even call out her name, Vanessa’s gold-clad foot moved.
With a sharp, callous kick, her heel struck the rim of the red plastic bucket. The cloudy, soapy water surged over the lip in a wave, flooding the marble floor and soaking my mother from her knees to her waist.
My mother gasped, shrinking back as the freezing water drenched her thin trousers. She looked up, her frail body trembling, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and humiliation.
"Look what you made me do," Vanessa sneered, stepping backward to keep her designer slippers dry. "You’re so slow and clumsy, Evelyn. Now clean up this mess before—"
"Vanessa."
My voice sliced through the room like a frozen blade.
Vanessa froze instantly. The coffee cup in her hand shook, liquid sloshing over her manicured fingers. She turned around slowly, her face draining of color as her eyes met mine standing in the archway.
"M-Marcus?" she stammered, her high-pitched voice faltering. "You... you weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow evening!"
I dropped the handle of my suitcase. It hit the floor with a heavy, hollow thud that echoed through the high ceilings of the entrance hall. I didn't look at Vanessa. My eyes were fixed entirely on my mother, who was sitting in a puddle of dirty water, desperately trying to wipe her wet hands on her shirt.
"Mom," I breathed, rushing forward and kneeling beside her on the cold, wet marble.
"Marcus... my boy," my mother whispered, her voice shaking violently. She reached out with wet, calloused hands, touching my cheek as if checking whether I was real. "You're back early. I... I was just helping Vanessa clean. I slipped. It was my fault, son. Don't be angry with her."
My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe. Her first instinct was to protect her abuser out of fear.
As I helped my mother to her feet, I felt how alarmingly light she was. She had lost at least fifteen pounds in the three months I was away in Chicago. Through her thin green blouse, I could feel the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades. And as I pulled back her sleeves to help her dry off, my blood ran ice-cold.
Faint, yellowish-purple bruises covered her forearms.
"What happened to your arms, Mom?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.
"I... I fell against the kitchen counter last week," she mumbled, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. "My balance isn't very good these days."
I turned slowly to face my wife.
Vanessa had recovered a fraction of her composure, though her knuckles were white around her coffee cup. "Marcus, darling, let me explain. Your mother has been very confused lately. She insists on doing chores she can't handle. I told her to rest, but she gets so stubborn—"
"Shut up, Vanessa," I said quietly.
Vanessa blinked, staggered by the icy fury in my tone. "What did you just say to me?"
"I said, shut up," I repeated, stepping between her and my mother. "Go to the master bedroom. Do not speak another word. Do not touch my mother. We will talk after I take care of her."
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Vanessa opened her mouth to argue, her eyes flashing with indignant anger, but the sheer coldness in my expression made her retreat. She turned on her golden heel and hurried up the grand staircase, the click of her slippers fading into the upper floor.
I wrapped my heavy wool coat around my shivering mother, lifted her gently into my arms, and carried her up to her room. As I set her down on her bed, I realized with a stomach-churning horror that the room smelled faintly of bleach and stale air, and the lock on the outside of her door had been newly installed.
