Chapter 1 - The Breaking Point
Mark’s roar echoed against the plaster walls, sharp enough to vibrate the glass pendant light hanging above the dining table. His knuckles were chalk-white around the car keys, the metal biting deep into his flesh. For three seconds, nobody moved. The only sound was the jagged, desperate wail of four-month-old Clara, her small fists flailing against the wooden slats of her crib. On the couch, Elena did not stir. Her arm hung limply toward the hardwood floor, fingers curled over a discarded plastic rattle, her face buried into the beige cushion.
Across the room, Evelyn set her fork down with deliberate slowness. The porcelain plate gave a small clink. She chewed, dabbed the corner of her thin lips with a paper napkin, and looked at her son with hooded, unimpressed eyes. She did not glance at the crib. She did not glance at Elena.
"You are tracking mud onto the rug, Mark," Evelyn said, her voice smooth and devoid of urgency. "And there is no need for theatrical screaming. You will only make your child more hysterical than she already is."
Mark walked past the doorway, his boots heavy on the floorboards. The air smelled of stale coffee, cold steamed broccoli, and the sour tang of milk. "What did you do?" Mark’s voice dropped from a scream to a tremor. "Mom, I asked you to watch them for three hours. Just three hours so she could rest. Why is the door wide open? Why is she like this?"
"I was eating my lunch," Evelyn replied, smoothing the lapels of her dark blue shirt. "A person is entitled to nourish herself in the middle of the afternoon. As for your wife, she chose to lay down. She has been lying there like an invalid since noon. If she cannot bother to tend to her own infant, I am certainly not going to play the servant."
Mark ignored his mother and crossed to the sofa. He dropped to his knees, keys clattering onto the coffee table beside a spilled mug of tea. "Elena," he whispered, placing a trembling hand on her shoulder. Her skin beneath the oversized sweater was clammy, cold, and soaked through with perspiration. "Elena, hey. Look at me. Baby, wake up."
Elena did not flutter her eyelids. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid hitches, her breath whistling faintly through dry, parted lips. When Mark lifted her wrist, it fell back like lead.
"Elena!" Panic took hold of his spine. He shook her gently, then harder. Nothing.
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From the table, Evelyn watched with chilling detachment, picking up her fork again. "She is being dramatic, Mark. She simply wants attention because she knows you pity her."
Mark turned his head, his face contorted in disbelief and rage. "She isn't sleeping, Mom. She isn't breathing right." He lunged forward to roll Elena onto her back, and as her sweater shifted aside, an empty amber medicine vial rolled out from beneath the cushion, tumbling to the floor.
