Page 89 of Rival to the Billionaire

It's horrific.

As we reach the hospital, he stands next to me and helps me out of the car. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait out here? I can go and get us something to eat."

It's a sweet gesture, but I know what he wants. He wants to give me a chance to visit with my mother without interference. Ryder wants me to feel comfortable, without the pressure of having him nearby.

"Thank you, Ry. That would be amazing," I say. "My sister will probably be in the room, so I'll see her after everything is settled."

He nods, distracted as the Seattle sidewalk bustles just outside of the hospital's front doors. "I'll leave you alone. For now."

"You're a good man," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "Thanks for being here today. I'll call you if it looks like she's going to wake."

He nods and gives me a kiss before he leaves. I give him a half wave and then open the door, heading inside.

The people streaming in and out of the hospital have become familiar to me. The hallways I used to roam every few months aren't that much different from when I was a child. The reasons for me being here aren't that much different either, it turns out.

Hopefully, this time, I've learned something.

After a quick elevator ride up to her floor, I step into the hospital and head straight for the nurses’ station. The plaques with each room number are set out in a row, as orderly as they can make it here.

Sitting at the nurses’ station is my sister, Abigail. She looks like she's been crying all day. Her brown eyes are as big as saucers and lightly shadowed from all of the makeup she's wearing.

"Jenny," she says, getting up from her seat. She's tiny, but not too small for me to hug. "Oh my God, you're here."

"Of course, Abigail," I say. "I came as fast as I could. How is she feeling?"

"She's been refusing to eat," Abby says, her voice cracking. "She's been tossing it back up… I don't know what to do for her."

I nod my head sadly, sending a silent prayer to the universe. "Has she said anything?"

"Nothing new," Abby says, wiping her eyes. "She keeps lying to us, me, the staff. She says it was an accident. But we know it wasn't." Abby wipes at her smudged mascara. "And she keeps saying your name over and over again."

My heart sinks into my stomach. There was a time when Mom and I were close.

In the early years, Mom—like Abby—would talk about all of the American pop culture we'd fan out over, and we'd laugh and giggle together. We never ran out of things to talk about.

That is, until the first time she put herself in the hospital.

After that, she became too afraid to do much of anything. She spent days lying in bed, only getting out for the most basic of necessities, and then locking herself back up in her room.

She didn't talk anymore. Not to us or anyone else.

This isn't going to be easy.

"Can I go in?" I ask her, holding my hands together. "I've been looking forward to seeing her again. I just feel like we need to talk."

"I'll go with you," Abby says, standing next to me. "She's been having trouble hearing. And if she gets upset…" Abby trails off, her voice cracking again. "We have to be careful. For her sake."

We walk down the hall and stop in front of the door marked "C-6". My mom's room. Like the other hospital spaces, the room looks exactly as I remember it from when I was younger.

"How's she doing?" I ask, opening the door. "She looks like hell."

Abby steps inside, her eyes still red and puffy, then immediately walks to my mom's bedside. "She's been throwing up a lot," she says. "They've pumped her stomach, but it hasn't helped. We don't know why she's doing this. It's like she doesn't want to eat."

I sink painfully into the chair next to my mom's bed. Mom looks so frail. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are cracked. She doesn't look like she's breathing. She looks like a dried-up husk of a woman that used to be so full of life.

A woman I loved. And maybe still do.

I reach out and take her hand, half-expecting it to be dry and brittle like the rest of her body. It's not.

---