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A thought pops to mind. “Maybe you know about your mom.”
No. It’s not like the two of them talked; they hadn’t spoken for five, six years, but Mama Rosa spoke of him to me often.
“Why didn’t you at least call her? Send her a letter? Ask your dad to reach out if you were afraid... You could have done so many things differently. You could have given her a little bit of peace.” When Styx left home to meet his father, he and Mama Rosa had fought. He left her high and dry, taking the woman’s life savings with him. Yet, she kept a picture of Styx in every corner of the apartment and lit a candle for him every Sunday, praying for his safe return.
I still light that candle for her.
The prayers were answered: he returned, not so safely.
If Styx dies, I can’t tell her. It’d kill her.
My throat tightens at the idea of that poor woman holding on to see her son’s face one last time. No one knows if she even remembers, but I like to think she does. I like to hope she’s trapped inside her mind with the good things, so she doesn’t suffer with the heartbreaks.
“How’s he looking, Neve?” the dispatcher speaks, prompting me to take the mute off the call.
“He looks pale.” Beautiful but probably knocking on death’s door. I glance at the stack of drugs. Two thousand grams’ worth. What was he doing with all of this? Maybe this is what killed him. Mama Rosa said there were some bad people looking for him, but how did they know he would come to see her, at this time, today?
That’s weird.
She would not approve of this, or what I’m thinking. But I’m trying to find the damn positive in this messed up calculation. And there are a lot of negative numbers.A lot.
The medical costs are racking up and the suppliers are knocking on the shop’s door for money. I’m choosing whether to buy toilet paper or supplies for Mama. She can’t speak, can’t eat on her own, can’t even swallow when needed. Where she is, she’s not going to get better. The home tries, but with five-hundred patients in the building, saying they’re understaffed is an understatement.
Mama Rosa needs more rehabilitation, more therapy sessions, more comfort, a more detailed plan of actions. She needs everything that money can buy.
My eyes veer toward the blood-spattered packages — a glimmer of hope on the road to perdition.
I can get her more help if I....
The rest of the thought is scorched up somewhere between my brain and throat, probably burned out by the heat traveling up and down my windpipe.
That’s too dangerous.Too dangerous.
The thought alone creates a worry mass the size of a tennis ball. That lump, the one nestled in my trachea and pushing up against my esophagus, is thanks to my autonomic nervous system, which tells me to get the fuck out of Dodge before I do something stupid.
Flee. Runaway. Save myself.
But I can’t.
I’m the only thing keeping Styx alive.
Considering I’m human — or at least attempt to be on a daily basis — leaving him like this would be cruel, selfish, and just plain shitty. Stealing from him would also rank in theshittycategory.
But those powder blocks on the side of the road are worth fifty grand, easy. The quantity doesn’t even put a dent in what he stole from his mother.
Maybe the universe is readjusting itself, setting things right. Fifty grand to help the mother he abandoned, and in the process, help me a little, but that’s not what Mama Rosa would want. Despite the horrible things Styx did to her and the hurt he put her through, she would give her last breath to save him.
She’d want me to help, like she helped me. Remorse is a sneaky little critter that lodges itself in the tiniest hole and expands. Since my heart is practically held together by expired glue, and falling apart isn’t an option, I squash down the memories and block them from my mind.
“H-h-hang in there. The police are almost here,” I tell Styx before I dip my one hand into his pockets and rummage through each, hectically pulling stuff out and tossing the items into my purse, away from the blood flow.
If he makes it out of this and ends up in jail, it will fall on me somehow, so it’s prudent to keep him out of there. Trafficking will land Styx in jail for ten years or more, if he makes it, the narcotics seized and stored in evidence either way. No one would benefit from them. Plus, identification at the ready will help the EMTs get to him faster and increase his chances in the emergency room where every second counts. Also, the less questions they’ll have for me.
“I’m not feeling you up,” I whisper. “I’m helping you.”By stealing.
The pocket knife is in the back-jean pocket, the pack of tissues with a phone number scribbled on the plastic, a cell phone, glass vials, and a wad of cash.
No ID, great. I glance behind me at the open door of the shop, then to the sides of the road looking for the emergency personnel.
