Chapter 35

THEN:

Sarah"s fingersclenched the fabric of the curtains, her knuckles white as she peered through the window. The red and blue lights from the ambulance painted the night in urgent strokes, casting an eerie glow over Steven"s hunched figure as he carried Victoria"s limp body outside. Victoria"s arm dangled lifelessly, her head rolling against Steven"s chest with each hurried step he took. He told her he would take Victoria. Sarah wasn't good at handling these situations of crisis. She would only be in the way.

"Be safe," Sarah whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the vast silence of the room.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, muffling the distant wail of the siren that soon faded into the night. Alone now, the house"s quiet pressed in around her, amplifying the rapid beat of her heart—a drumbeat of fear and helplessness.

She turned away from the window, her reflection in the glass a ghostly specter shadowed by doubt and worry. Her breath came in short bursts, her mind replaying the convulsions that had seized Victoria"s small frame, the terror in her eyes before they rolled back.

"God, not again," she murmured to the empty room.

Her gaze fell on the wine rack, its contents glinting seductively in the dim lighting. One bottle stood slightly askew as if beckoning. With a trembling hand, Sarah reached for it, pulling the cork free with a practiced twist. The pop resonated, oddly loud in the stillness.

"Please, just one glass," she bargained with herself, though she knew the lie for what it was.

The wine poured, a deep crimson river flowing into the glass, the sound of it hitting the bottom oddly soothing. She wrapped her fingers around the stem, the coolness of the glass a stark contrast to her feverish skin. Raising it to her lips, she drank deeply, the rich liquid a bittersweet balm to her fraying nerves.

"Help her," she whispered into the empty glass, a silent prayer for Victoria as the alcohol began its familiar dance through her bloodstream, promising oblivion but delivering only more shadows.

The last drop fell, a final crimson tear. Sarah tilted the bottle, coaxing it out. The bottles stood like sentinels, guardians of her secret pain, each label a testament to a night spent drowning in vineyard graves.

She eyed the empty vessel, its hollow echoing back at her—accusatory. Her fingers traced the curve of the glass, cool and smooth, like her daughter"s cheek in slumber. The urge to reach for another was there, a whisper in her mind growing louder with each heartbeat.

"Stop," she breathed out, a command more to herself than the silence around her. Her hands shook as she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. It felt heavy—like it was made of lead rather than silicone and glass.

"Come on; come on," she muttered, thumbing through the contacts until Steven"s name appeared. She tapped the call button, her heart thudding against her ribs.

"Hello?" His voice came through, strained but clear.

"Steven, how… how is she?" Her words tripped over her tongue, a clumsy dance of vowels and consonants.

There was a pause, a stretch of time where she could hear the beeping of machines, the distant murmur of hospital life.

"Stable," he said finally. "They"re running tests."

"Tests," she echoed, the word a stone sinking in her gut.

"Sarah, are you—" He began, but she couldn"t bear the weight of his unspoken question.

"Thank you," she interjected, the words sharp, a blade cutting the line that tethered them. She ended the call, the screen going dark, reflecting back a woman frayed at the edges—a mother coming undone. He called her back.

"Sarah? Are you… have you been drinking?" Steven"s sharp and accusatory voice cut through the static of the phone line.

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a wildfire burning away any pretense. "I just needed…." She couldn"t finish the sentence, couldn"t find a lie that would sound like truth in her own ears.

"Needed what? To be drunk while our daughter is lying in a hospital bed?" There was an edge to his words, a disappointment that sliced deeper than anger.

"It"s not like that," she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a jumble. But they were slurred, her tongue heavy and uncooperative in her mouth.

"Isn"t it, Sarah?"

The room spun slightly, or maybe it was her head, filled with too much wine and too little courage. She glanced at the phone, its glowing screen a beacon of her failure.

"Steven, I—" The apology choked in her throat, strangled by shame.

"Sarah, this?—"

"Goodbye, Steven." She pressed "End Call," the beep punctuating her humiliation. Her hand trembled as she set down the phone, the silence in the room now complete, oppressive, and all-consuming.

Sarah"s hands shook, the clatter of glass against glass as she collected the empty bottles. Each one was a memory, a moment of frailty, a time when the wine had whispered false promises of peace into her ear. She gripped them tighter, the knuckles on her fingers whitening.

"Enough," she muttered to herself, the word a blade severing the threads of her denial. Gathering the last of the bottles, she marched to the door, her steps unsteady but determined.

The humid evening air clung to her face as she stepped outside, the pile of glass in her arms. The recycling bin loomed before her, a confessional waiting for her sins. With a heavy heart and an arm weighed down by her habit, she tilted the bottles and let them fall. They cascaded into the bin with a cacophony of crashes that seemed to echo around the quiet street.

"Out of sight, out of mind," she whispered, but her voice held no conviction.

Back inside, the house was still; the only sound was her breathing—too quick, too shallow. As she turned to lock the door behind her, her gaze fell on the counter where the unopened bottles of wine stood, calling her back.

"Damn it." The words hissed between her clenched teeth.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing the cool surface of the bottle. Her reflection stared back through the darkened glass, distorted and wavering.

"Sarah, stop!" she commanded herself. "This isn"t helping."

But the wine promised solace, a balm for her fraying nerves. She thought of Victoria, of Steven"s disappointed voice, and felt the pull grow stronger. The seal cracked under her twisting hand, the sound a betrayal of her earlier resolve.

"Only a glass," she bargained, pouring the deep red liquid and watching it swirl in the goblet. "Just one."

She brought the glass to her lips, the familiar aroma wrapping around her senses, pulling her further from the edge of reason.

"Victoria needs you sober," she reminded herself, the wine hovering, untouched. But her worries screamed louder than her conscience.

"Tomorrow," she vowed weakly. "I"ll start tomorrow."

The first sip was both a defeat and a reprieve, the taste of surrender bittersweet on her tongue.

The glass tipped and drained. Another poured. Then another. The room began its languid tilt, the corners blurring into shadows. Sarah"s thoughts muddied with each gulp, and her resolve drowned to a whisper beneath the wine"s seductive tide. The world spun, and she spun with it until the floor rose to meet her in an unforgiving embrace.

"Sarah!"

Her name cracked through the fog. She blinked against the harsh light, the room coming back into sharp, unkind focus. Steven towered above her, his face contorted with anger and disgust.

"Look at you," he spat, "Drunk again."

She tried to rise, but her limbs were heavy and uncooperative. The room swayed, and she slumped back down. Her head pounded in time with her quickening pulse.

"Go to bed," Steven commanded, his voice cold and distant. "You"re useless like this."

"Steven…." Her tongue felt thick, words slurred and distant. "It's not like you don't drink."

"I don't drink like this. And certainly not anymore. I have a sick daughter to attend to. But you have apparently forgotten that?"

"But…."

"Bed," he repeated, turning away. His steps thudded across the floor, each one echoing her shame.

Dragging herself up, Sarah stumbled toward the staircase, the weight of her body immense. Each step creaked underfoot, a mournful chorus to accompany her retreat. Her hands shook on the railing, the last of the day"s wine sour on her breath.

"Victoria?" she tried again, her voice barely a whisper.

"Sleep it off, Sarah," came the reply, devoid of warmth.

"Steven," Sarah croaked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Victoria—how is she?"

He paused at the doorway, his silhouette rigid against the hallway light. "She"s very sick." His words were clipped, heavy with unspoken accusations.

"Did they… did they say what"s wrong?" Her heart stumbled over each beat, aching for her daughter.

"Tests," he muttered. "More tests. The cancer might have spread. They don"t know yet." He faced her now, his eyes searching and dissecting. "But really, Sarah, when did you last care? You can"t even stay sober."

"Steven, please—" She reached out, fingers trembling, grasping for understanding amidst the wreckage of their conversation.

"Your concern is convenient," he scoffed, stepping away from her outstretched hand. "Always after the fact. After another bottle."

"Steven, I…."

The weight of his judgment bore down on her, crushing her resolve.

"Save it, Sarah." His voice cut through the tension, sharp and final. "I just came home to grab some things in a bag. I'm going back to the hospital and sleeping there with our daughter."

He left, footsteps retreating down the hall, each step a gavel sentencing her to guilt. Alone in the gloom, Sarah"s hands clenched into fists, the fight to prove her love for Victoria burning beneath her ribcage.

She fumbled with the hem of her shirt, the fabric twisted in her unsteady grip.

"Bed," she whispered to herself, a mantra to keep the world from spinning out of control. "Just go to bed."

The mattress accepted her without judgment, cool sheets embracing her exhausted frame. She sank into its depths, a solitary island in a sea of turmoil. Her breath hitched, a silent sob catching in her throat as she turned her face into the pillow.

"Victoria…." The name was a prayer, a plea for forgiveness.

The room spun gently, cradling her in its indifferent arms. Shadows danced on the walls, whispers of memories and better days. A tear escaped, hot against her skin, the dam breaking in the quiet of the night.

"Stupid," she murmured, chastising herself as another tear followed, carving a path of sorrow. "So stupid."

Her hand reached out, the space beside her empty and cold. She imagined Steven"s warmth, the steadying presence she had pushed away with every clink of glass.

"You need to be strong," she told the emptiness.

But strength was a stranger, an elusive specter that fled at the scent of alcohol. Her eyelids grew heavy, weighted down by the gravity of her own failings. She surrendered to their insistence, letting the darkness pull her under.

"Tomorrow," she breathed out, a promise or a lie, it didn"t matter which.

Sleep claimed her, but peace eluded her grasp. Tears continued their silent journey, mapping the contours of her face, each one a testament to a mother"s love entangled in the vines of her vices.

The next morning dawned in a wash of pale light, filtering through the curtains to paint the room in soft hues. Sarah stirred, her body a canvas of ache and regret, limbs heavy with the weight of her choices. The remnants of the night clung to her like a shroud, a reminder of her weaknesses and failings.

Rising with reluctance, she pushed back the covers, revealing the world beyond her cocoon of solitude. The house lay still, quiet in its judgment, as she navigated the halls with cautious steps. Memories of the previous night prickled at her consciousness, each one a thorn in her side.

In the kitchen, she paused, confronted by the detritus of her undoing. Empty bottles stood sentry on the counter, a silent testament to her descent into darkness. The sight soured her stomach, a bitter cocktail of shame and self-loathing.

With trembling hands, she swept them into a bag, their clinks muffled against the plasticcradle she offered them. The weight of her actions pressed down, a heavy burden she carried alone. She tied the bag tightly, sealing away her transgressions, but the memories remained unyielding in their presence.

A glint caught her eye—a new bottle of wine by the sink, its label pristine, untouched by guilt or remorse. Her resolve wavered, teetering on the precipice of temptation. The cork beckoned a siren call that promised oblivion in its ruby depths.

Fingers hovered over the bottle, indecision painting her features in shades of uncertainty. One glass wouldn"t hurt, she reasoned, her voice a fragile thread in the silence of the room.

"Just one glass."