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“Amanda,” I start hesitantly as my mind races, searching for the right words to say, “maybe we should take some time apart—think about this.”
The air around us feels like it’s crushing us, both of us aware of the consequences of my words.
She shakes her head. “Brian, please,” she pleads, her voice wavering as tears stream down her cheeks, “don’t do this.” Her sobs wrench at my soul and I feel my own eyes prickle with tears in response to hers.
“I need time to think. Alone.” I stand up and turn away from her. Before I can even take two steps away from her, Amanda grabs onto my arm with both hands, holding on tight.
“Look at me, Brian,” she commands, though still choked by sobs.
When I reluctantly meet her gaze again, there’s an intensity so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
“I love you,” she whispers with heartbreaking sincerity.
My heart cries out for me to say it back, but I don’t. Instead, I repeat, “I need time to think. I’ll take a cab home.”
The pain in her gaze explodes like fireworks, and she releases my arm. And just like that, I turn and walk... walk... and keep walking.
Hours later,I stumble into my house and collapse onto the couch. The silence in the room is deafening as I stare blankly at the wall in front of me until my phone buzzes. Curious when I see who it is, I answer.
“Olga?”
My heartbeat rises in a second when I catch the panic in her tone. Her words are fast and chaotic.
“Olga, calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s your mom, Brian. She’s had an accident.”
25
BRIAN
I jolt off the couch as Olga’s horror-filled words ring in my ears.
“What happened?” I bark frantically.
“I... I don’t know exactly,” she stammers, her voice trembling. “All I know is that when I came to have coffee with her, I found her lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs.”
An agonized cry escapes Olga’s lips, which sends shivers down my spine and causes nausea to swirl through my system.
“Where is she now?”
“They’re rushing her to the hospital,” she sobs.
I hang up, grab the car keys with shaking hands, and sprint toward the door. Not caring that I shouldn’t drive, I hop into my car.
The puttering of the engine reminds me of the conflict within me—a chorus of emotions, each vying for control. Fear and dread claw at my heart, and guilt tangles in my guts. The thought of my mother being in pain twists within me until I think I’m going to be sick. I push the accelerator harder until I arrive at the hospital and push through the automatic sliding doors of the emergency department.
There, I approach the counter and ask about my mother. The lady behind the desk stands and addresses me, asking my name.
“Brian Fox. My mom’s name is Vera Fox,” I tell her.
She nods. “Yes, Mr. Fox. The doctors are still with her. I’ll take you to the family room.”
“No. I need to see her,” I plea.
“I understand how you feel,” the woman speaks in a gentle tone, “but your mother is in emergency surgery, and the doctor will come out and talk to you when they can.”
Emergency surgery?
