Page 22 of Unspoken

"Did you try calling her?"

"Of course I did. First thing after she didn’t come to the door right away. Phone just rings and then goes to voicemail. And I accidentally left my set of keys inside her place, so I can’t get in."

"Thanks, Magda. I’ll be right there." My voice is calm because I’ve been trained not to show my feelings, but inside, it's like someone's ratcheting up the pressure in my chest.

Vlad will kill me if he finds out I’m doing this—pretty much putting his asshole brother’s life in jeopardy, but Ma is Ma.

"We’re making a detour," I tell Alexander while we approach the light where I make possibly an illegal U-turn. The former cop in me shakes his head but the son in me tells him to fuck off.

"Where are we going?" Alexander's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

"Have to check on something," I say tersely, the syllables clipped short. I’m not about to share my life story with thisunfeeling kid, who wanted to go across town to eat goddamned sushi because of some Yelp reviews.

"I'm not sure if my brother will be alright with this."

For a while I say nothing. I’m very well aware he’s not wrong.

"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do," I reply eventually, my foot heavy on the gas pedal.

Alexander huffs some kind of sound in his typical snobby manner and gets back to his phone.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the front of Ma's building, parking with a precision that comes from too many late-night visits.

"Wait here," I tell Alexander, urgency sharpening my words. "Lock the doors. Don't move until I get back. Call me if you see something suspicious."

"You're supposed to be protecting me, remember?" There's an edge to his voice—a crack in his usual bravado.

"So now you need my protection," I shoot back, my frustration raw. "If my memory serves me right you were trying to run away multiple times over the course of the past few weeks."

He opens his mouth to retort, but I'm already out of the car.

The driver's door crashes closed, shutting out Alexander's protests.

I don't look back. Can't afford to.

I stride toward the elevator and go up to the third floor where my mother’s apartment is. My heart is beating too fast, my pulse frantic.

"Ma!" I call when I knock on her door. My voice is a hammer against the silence, too loud in the empty space of the hallway. Nothing. No shuffle of slippers on the other side, no cough to signal her presence. I try the handle. It doesn't budge.

We don’t invade each other’s privacy or homes—it’s the rule we always had in my family but this isn’t the typical situation.

Keys jangle between my fingers as I fumble with the key ring, my hands unsteady. I keep a copy to her place for emergencies and this is one of those emergencies.

The key slides in, turns with an audible click, and I'm through the door.

"Ma?" I call, rushing through the apartment. "Ma…" It's a whisper now, a plea that hangs in the still, medicated air of the apartment. The living room is dim, the blinds are closed, and the shadows are thick enough to drown in them. And there she is—my Ma, a crumpled heap on the carpet.

My knees hit the floor beside her, hands hovering, trembling. She's there but not there, somewhere lost in the space between shallow breaths.

I check the pulse. It’s fast and erratic. She’s sweating and cold.

In panic, I cradle her face and try to get her to look at me, but she seems stuck in this strange condition. She’s alive—thank God, but she’s not responding.

"Stay with me, Ma." The words are like shards of glass on my tongue.

Fuck this. I’m taking her to the hospital.

I slide one arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She's light, too light, like she's been hollowed out by all the pain and chemo. Her head lolls against my chest, a marionette with strings cut.

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