Mom is a force. She brings everyone together with her food, her laughter, her yelling, which isn’t aggressive or hostile, just her raw passion. Something she inherited from her Italian mother, my grandmother, who was as loud and dynamic as she was, even into her seventies. And she dances. Mom loves to move, will sway and twirl and gyrate even when the only music playing is in her head. Especially in the kitchen, her happy place. She’s infectious and never takes no for an answer. If she wants you to join her, you will flail your arms and swing your hair until you’re both sweaty and then she will load you up on carbs, pasta and sauce and bread to replenish your energy and make you want to dance all over again.

That’s why this strange calm terrifies me.

I look toward the stairs and remember the last time the house was blanketed by this same eerie hush—the way she’d been sprawled on the bathroom floor, inert, the rug beneath her soaked bright red—and the ground falls away.

“Mom,” I shout, taking the stairs two at a time, but there is no answer, only a loud silence that gives my entire body a shudder. I push inside her bedroom, and the door to her en suite is ajar, light peeking through the crack. My stomach sinks, heart pounds. I see blood first—a thin stream growing along the tile, slithering like a viper. Then I smell it, the scent familiar and unkind.

I circle the tub and there she is, on the floor, her emaciated body limp and unmoving. Blood pools under both her hands, so dark it almost looks black. I glance around the room and see the capless prescription pill bottles, the small blade next to them on the counter.

“Shit. Mom...”

Last time it had been just the wrists. This time she clearly wanted to make sure it worked.

Panic tries to take over, but I don’t let it. I know what to do.

I roll her onto her side, then untie my shoelaces, snatch them out and wrap them around her wrists as tightly as I can. The blood slows down, but doesn’t stop completely. I take a breath. The bleeding isn’t my biggest concern. The darker the blood, the better. I learned that the first time. I grab a towel and slip it under her head, then sprint into the other room for my phone. I dial 911 and run back to her.

“Come on. Don’t do this to me,” I whisper, though I know she can’t hear me.

I press my ear to her chest and listen for a pulse. It’s there, slow and faint, but it’s there. I wrap my arms around her flaccid body and hold her close until I hear the sirens.