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He turns and starts to run, his unzipped jacket flapping. God, this kid will freeze. Does he even feel it?
I start after him again, but my back screams at me, and my leg almost folds under me. The fuck. I stagger to a stop and clutch at my thigh.
“There’s me at home,” I whisper. “There’s me, X.”
But hey, looks like yet again I’m not enough.
Story of my life.
***
As it turns out, this week isn’t done with me yet. Oh no. Wouldn’t want me to get off too lightly, would we?
I get a phone call during my break at work, as I massage at the pain shooting from my back down to my leg, from the hospital.
“What happened?” I ask, my heart already on overdrive.
“Mr. Connors? It’s your mother, Mrs. Julie Connors.” Again. The man on the line doesn’t say it. It’s far from the first time he’s called me about this.
“Overdose?” I get up, take a few limping steps away from the be
nch where I just finished eating my sandwich.
“Light one, from the looks of it. The doctors are keeping her in for a few hours for observation.”
I don’t ask if my dad is there. “I’ll come. I’m off in two hours.”
“Good. I’ll let her know.”
I call Xavier. Nothing. I try again and again. He never picks up.
Goddammit.
I rub a hand over my face and force some deep, calming breaths into my lungs.
It’s okay. I’ve got this. Like I said, it’s not the first time. It’s a familiar dance. A familiar fright gripping my chest.
Limping over to my supervisor, I explain the situation and ask to leave early. These are hours I need to make the rent, but I also need to go make sure Mom is all right and makes it home.
That’s how I find myself less than two hours later chucking off my heavy-duty gloves and leaving the warehouse. I drive back into town, massaging my sore leg. My back isn’t that happy, either.
That makes two of us.
I park and take a moment to gather my wits. You can do this, I remind myself.
You have to.
Popping some more over-the-counter painkillers, swallowing them dry, I drag my sorry ass out of the car and hobble inside the hospital.
I give my mother’s name and wait to be taken to her, looking around the place. A girl pulling on her mother’s hand. An old man in a wheelchair, a stoic look on his face.
Quiet. Calm.
The reprieve doesn’t last long.
“She’s back, huh?” The tall, thin nurse who called me on the phone earlier says sympathetically.
“Yeah.”
