“Okay.” His strong, straight shoulders slumped, and I followed him into the small room, our hands still joined.
“So, it’s bad? Did she overdose? Is she . . . is she dead?” His voice was low and choked, like he needed to clear his throat but couldn’t. He looked at his phone then, staring at the blank screen, and I wasn’t sure why.
“She’s alive. She was unresponsive on arrival but is resting now. She had a large amount of oxycodone in her system. The immediate intervention was as effective as possible; however, her heartbeat is irregular, and she was having trouble breathing, so we’ve admitted her.” Pulling a tablet from her lab coat, the doctor navigated to the screens she wanted. “She has a history of drug and alcohol abuse?”
Wes nodded, and the doctor folded her arms on the table in an authoritative but not unkind way. “It is likely that the shortness of breath, the slowed heart rate, and other symptoms such as forgetfulness may not markedly improve. It seems they’ve been occurring for a while, but if your mother continues this level of substance abuse, she will likely die, and sooner rather than later.”
Wes nodded twice, wordless, jaw clenched. He held the phone so tightly, I thought it might break.
“We’ll encourage her to participate in rehab and seek help.” The doctor gave him a moment to process the information before continuing. “I imagine you already know addiction is challenging to tackle.”
He dropped my hand and ran his fingers through his hair again, words choked. “Yeah, I know. What do I . . . what should I do?”
The doctor assured him they would run more tests, then meet with him to discuss options. “I wanted you to know before you saw her. She’s been asking for you and Libby.” The doctor cut her gaze to me.
“Libby is my sister,” he said, his voice hollow, not looking at me. “She won’t be coming.”
“Ah. Well, know she may not be fully herself yet as the drugs wear off.”
I ignored how much it stung to see him putting walls up around himself as she gave him more information and offered to take us to the room.
Wes walked stiffly, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans, the other fisted at his side. This hospital was nice, but his mom’s room seemed drab, no sunlight. A frail-looking woman with thin blond hair lay in the bed. She was conscious, but her eyelids were hooded.
“I’ll leave you alone.” The doctor stepped out into the hall, and we hung back.
The tension rolled off Wes in waves, his knuckles white from the way he’d clenched his fist. I grazed my fingertips along the back of his hand—he still hadn’t looked at me. “Do you want me to leave you alone with her? I could call someone?” I thought he might grab my hand again, link his fingers with mine, and let me offer some comfort, but he just shook his head.
“You can stay if you want. The only person I need to call is her lawyer.”
“Baby.” Wes’s mom turned and her face lit up, a sleepy smile crossing her chapped lips. “You came to see me.”
He stepped closer, his voice thick. “How’re you feeling?”
She reached a bony finger to touch his hand. “You haven’t visited me.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked, and he took her hand carefully, as if it might break. “I know. I’m here now, though.” He sank to the side of her bed and was fighting back what looked like despair and anger, trying hard to keep his shell in place as he stroked her tiny hand.
“So grown-up, like a man. Where’s your sister?”
His features tensed, but his voice remained steady. “She’s not here.”
The woman’s face fell, and she glanced in my direction. “Is this your girlfriend, Chris?” She motioned me over, not quite focusing on my face.
Chris?
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Britta.” I held out my hand, and she weakly gripped my fingertips.
I cut my eyes to Wes, wondering why she’d called him the wrong name. He got his hazel eyes from her—they were the same gold-flecked shade. “I’m Wes’s . . . his . . .” I paused, making eye contact with Wes across the bed.
His face was unreadable, dazed, but he interrupted my floundering. “Client.”
That hit me like a bucket of ice water.
“Sure, she is.” Her face cracked into a sleepy, mischievous smile. “You’ve got big tits. He likes that.”
“Jesus, Mom,” he muttered, rubbing the spot between his brows.
His mom’s light, conversational tone, like we were old friends, threw me, even though the doctor had warned she might lack a filter. My eyes shot to Wes’s reddened face. He didn’t smile back.