When they were gone, she numbly helped her mother up, but Isabel shoved her away, squatting and sobbing. “You’re not Linnea, you’re not my daughter! Where is my Linnea? I want to find her.”
She was having a seizure, refusing Linnea’s touch. Soon, a foul-smelling stain spread beneath her — she had lost control of her bladder.
Linnea stood frozen, blood running cold. Her once-elegant mother, who would spend hours picking the perfect perfume, had just humiliated herself in public.
With everyone staring, Linnea fought back tears and dragged her mother step by step back to the mental hospital. After changing her clothes and coaxing her to sleep, she collapsed on the floor, biting her hand to stifle her sobs. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know how long she had cried, but when she finally stood, her head was spinning. A warm, sticky liquid oozed from her nose.
“Ah, Miss Carrington, you’re bleeding!” a passing staff member exclaimed, grabbing her arm. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
She wiped away the bright red blood and forced a faint smile. “It’s nothing—just a nosebleed.”