Page 23 of Unspoken

The elevator is an age away, a lifetime measured in ragged breaths and whispered reassurances that feel like lies. "It's gonna be okay, Ma. You hear me?" I murmur on the way down.

Downstairs, I burst through the lobby doors like I’m being pursued by the actual cops. The warm air is devoid of the apartment’s sanitizer scent but still a slap to my face—a wake-up call to how much I can't afford to lose. Every muscle in me is tight as I carry her across the threshold of safety and into the unknown.

The Navigator is a couple of parking spots away from the entrance, and as I emerge from the building with Ma limp in my arms, Alexander's blond mop of hair is the first thing I register the moment my eyes land on the car.

The little shit is inconveniently there, a pale ghost against the dark leather of the passenger seat, his eyes wide and green as sea glass.

When our gazes meet, he immediately scrambles out of the vehicle.

"Get the back door!" I yell out.

There’s a part of me that almost expects him to say something mean, something along the lines of "do it yourself" or "that’s not what my brother pays you to do." But Alexander does as I say, yanking open the back door.

I try to lay Ma down across the seats but I’m terrified she’ll fall down. My hands shake as I check her pulse again, a faltering rhythm under my fingertips. Her breaths are superficial murmurs of life.

"I can ride with her," Alexander offers out of the blue.

I turn to glance at him standing behind me, watching all this with those big green eyes of his.

I battle with myself for a fraction of a second because trusting my mother to this snobby, immature spoiled man-child is against my every belief. But I can’t trust him to drive this car through Vegas either with Ma and me in it. Asshole’s been driving on the opposite side of the road probably most of his life. He’ll kill us.

So, the choice is obvious.

I nod. "Okay. Just be careful with her."

He slips into the back without a sound and his presence there suddenly gives me relief as I watch him cradle her with care I didn't think he'd have.

I round the Navigator, get behind the wheel and slam the driver’s door shut, perhaps a little too hard. The engine roars like a wild beast hungry for the chase. We cut through the streets, the blur of traffic lights, LED signs, and buildings that can't keep pace.

Alexander's silence is a tangible thing in the rearview mirror, a quiet understanding that fills the car more than any words could. I drive like the Devil himself is on our tail, each turn and stop sign an obstacle we barrel through with barely a glance.

Finally, the hospital appears ahead. No prayers leave my lips—what use are they to a man whose faith has been beaten black and blue a long time ago?

Tires screech against the asphalt as I pull up to the ER entrance, the car halting so abruptly it nearly rocks on its axis. The outside distorts into streaks of colors and shapes as I bolt from the driver's seat, my mother’s fragile form cradled in my arms like a child saved from a burning house. Her face is slack, the pallor of her skin reflecting the white glow of hospital lights.

"Help!" My voice carries past the sliding doors, ahead of me like a desperate call that ricochets down the antiseptic-smelling corridors. "Somebody help!"

"Mr. McKenna?" A young ER doctor approaches me later while I’m in the waiting room with Alexander, counting seconds. She takes me aside before discussing results.

The doctor’s words are clinical yet not unkind. She speaks of dehydration, the need for vigilance, better home care. There’s more but some of it just doesn’t register from all the stress and I hope the discharge papers have the same information she’s giving me at the moment.

I nod. The doctor’s instructions—the ones I catch—is a litany I engrave behind my eyelids. I won't let this happen again.

"Thank you," I say, my throat sandpaper rough, as I head to the billing desk with the heaviness of a toll yet to be paid. Another unexpected expense.

"I'd like to pay for whatever I can for today’s visit. Cecilia McKenna’s account," I tell the tired-eyed girl behind the counter, my hand already fishing for the worn leather wallet that's seen better days.

"Sure thing," the girl turns to her computer. A few keyboard clicks later, she says, "Actually, sir," she continues looking at her screen, "it's been taken care of."

"What are you talking about? My mother’s still here… I just want to pay for the ambulance and the tests they ran. Are you sure you’re checking the right medical record? It’s Cecilia McKenna."

"Yes, I’m sure." She reads me Ma’s medical record number, which I remember by heart and she’s correct.

"And you said it’s been paid for?" I ask, confused, scared, and somehow relieved at the same time.

"A young man settled the bill. Green eyes, blond hair. Literally less than five minutes ago."

My pulse skips, stutters, then races. Alexander? Could that really be him? Why? My mind spins in tight circles, chasing the tail of his reasoning. Gratitude wars with confusion in the hollows of my chest, a strange alchemy that turns breath into lead.

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