Storm Chasers MC | Ink

I am sitting in my room with my legs tucked underneath me, a fantasy book open across my lap and a cup of tea slowly getting cold on the nightstand. I should probably make another one, but I won’t. I’m too invested in the story. The heroine is standing in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by people who want her dead, and apparently my entire emotional well-being depends on finding out what happens next.

It’s past midnight, but I don’t care. For the first time in two months, I don’t have to wake up at six in the morning, I don’t have to rush through breakfast and I don’t have to spend twelve hours at the hospital pretending I’m not exhausted.

Yesterday, I worked a double shift, and today was my first Saturday night off in what feels like forever. I had planned to do absolutely nothing with it. I have no friends in this city, just my book, my tea, and the quiet.

And, God, I needed quiet.

My mother is working at the bar tonight, it’s the first night she goes in five months. It’s only ten minutes from our house, so she should be home soon. Probably sometime around one. She usually comes through the front door complaining about someone at work, kicks off her shoes in the hallway, and asks if there’s anything to eat. Then, she complains if I made something. Sometimes I wait up for her, especially when she is in the verge of a crisis, tonight, I don’t think I will.

Then the doorbell rings. I jump so hard the book nearly falls from my hands. “What the fuck?” I look at the clock. 12:47 a.m. My mother’s keys come in my memory. “Maybe she forgot it.” I put the book down and stood.

The doorbell rings again. I walk out of my room, still expecting to hear my mother on the other side of the door. I take the stairs two at a time. I reach the front door and look through the peephole. My blood runs cold. Two police officers are standing on my porch, both are wearing dark uniforms and grim faces.

My brain tries to find another explanation, maybe something happened at the bar, maybe they need to ask her something. Fuck. It can’t be good. That’s what I am thinking while I open the door, but I already know what is coming.

“Miss. Walker?” The tall one that is in the front asks me as soon as I open the door.

“Yes.” My voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

The officer beside him glances down at something in his hand before looking back at me, while the tall one takes off his hat and somehow that makes everything worse. “Are you Victoria Walker?”

“Yes.” He swallows.

“Miss Walker, I’m Officer Reynolds. This is Officer Harris.” He pauses. “I’m very sorry to come to your home this late.” My stomach twists.

“What happened?” He looks at me for a moment too long.

“There was an accident.” The world seems to become strangely quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. A car passing somewhere down the street. He pauses as if he’s letting the first part sink in. “Your mother…” My ear starts ringing and I can’t really tell what he is saying. But it’s finite, she is gone. He says something else about a drunk driver, but I don’t know what it is. “Do you have anyone you can call, Miss. Walker?” I nod.

“I will call my brother and as soon as he gets here, we can go to the hospital.” I say without realizing what I am saying. The officer’s expression changes, not much, but enough. Pity and I hate that look.

He takes a breath. “Your mother was involved in a collision on her way home from work.” I stare at him. “She was hit by another vehicle.” I nod. “The driver of the other vehicle was arrested at the scene. He was intoxicated.” I nod. “Miss, she didn’t survive the accident. There is no need to go to the hospital. You will get a call later tomorrow when the body is released from the morgue, so you can plan the funeral.” He is clearly uncomfortable.

Everything stops. I catch my breath and stare at him. I wait for something else, anything. It doesn’t come. My body suddenly feels too heavy to hold itself up. I grab the doorframe. The officer takes half a step toward me. “Miss Walker, are you okay?”

I nod automatically. “Yes.” It’s a lie.

The officer continues speaking, explaining something about the investigation and the morgue and paperwork. I hear almost none of it. My mother’s body. Morgue. Tomorrow. And funeral. Those words float around my head without meaning.

Eventually, he asks, “Is there someone you can call?”

My first thought is Dad. Then I remember there is no Dad, not anymore. I didn’t even had the chance to mourn one parent. My second thought is Thor. “Yes.” My voice cracks. “My brother.”

“You need us to stay while your brother gets here?” I shake my head.

“No, thank you, sir.” I don’t want them here and I don’t want anyone here. They leave without theatrics. When you see these moments in movies, there is always something else, a sad song, maybe the one getting the news passes out.

But in reality it’s dry. The door closes and that’s it. No screaming. No collapsing to the floor. Nothing. Just the quiet click of my front door locking my mother’s death inside the house with me.

I don’t know how long I stare at the closed door, but eventually I sit on the couch and take my cellphone. Thor answers in the first ring. He knows me. I’d never call this late. Fuck, usually I don’t even call at all.

“Sis. You good?” His tone is serious and worried. I can listen to the sound of the clubhouse. Someone laughing, glasses dangling and a stool scraping on the floor.

“It’s mom, Thor.” My voice sounds like I have been eating glass, rough and hoarse. “She got into an accident.”

“Fuck, sis. How is she?” He asks and I can tell he already got up. I hear movement and a chair scraping.

“She’s...” My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “She’s gone, Thor.” I feel the first sob of crying in my throat. “Can you come?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

“For fuck’s sake, Vicky. I am already on my bike.” He says and I know he means it. “I’ll be there in two hours.”

I press my hand against my mouth. “Okay.”

“I love you.” Another sob escapes me.

“I love you too.” I say breathlessly.

“You are not alone, Vicky.” I want to believe him. I know he’s right. But right now, sitting alone in our living room with my mother’s tea cup still sitting beside the door and her shoes waiting in the hallway, I have never felt more alone in my life. “I’ll see you soon.”

The call ends, I lower the phone and for several seconds, I just stare at the screen. Then I bend forward, resting my elbows on my knees. My hands cover my face. I try taking deep breaths. One sob becomes another, then another and I don’t fight it anymore. My shoulders shake, my chest hurts. I press my palms against my eyes as if I can physically hold everything inside.

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Eventually, I feel something wet hit my knee. I look down and I see that the tears have fallen onto my jeans. I stare at the small dark stains spreading beneath me.

And that’s when I finally understand. She’s not coming home.