Page 24 of The Silence Between

Mrs. Hernandez from next door agreed to watch the kids, her sad eyes telling me she understood exactly what had happened. As the paramedics loaded Mom into the ambulance, I knelt before my siblings.

“I'll call as soon as I know anything,” I promised, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel. “Listen to Mrs. Hernandez, okay? Try to get some sleep.”

“It's my fault,” Sophie whispered, her small face crumpling. “I kept coughing and Mama couldn't sleep.”

“No, baby.” I pulled her close, my heart breaking. “This isn't about you. Mama is sick, but not like your cough. It's a different kind of sick.”

I rode in the ambulance, watching the paramedics work, the familiar route to Riverton Memorial tracking beneath us. I texted Ethan three times during the journey, each message more urgent than the last. No response.

The hospital waiting room hadn't changed since our last visit—same harsh fluorescent lighting, same uncomfortable plastic chairs, same antiseptic smell barely masking human distress. I sat alone for two hours, filling out insurance forms I knew would cover almost nothing, answering the same questions from different hospital staff, my texts to Ethan remaining unanswered.

When the doctor finally emerged, his expression held that particular blend of clinical detachment and practiced sympathy I'd come to recognize from previous crises.

“Your mother is stable,” he began, the words bringing momentary relief before the inevitable follow-up. “But this overdose appears deliberate rather than accidental. The number of pills ingested, combined with her previous history...” He paused. “We're recommending a 72-hour psychiatric hold followed by inpatient rehabilitation.”

I nodded mechanically, already calculating what this meant—the cost our insurance would barely touch, the additional work hours I'd need, the Social Services visit that would inevitably follow.

“Can I see her?”

“She's sedated now, but yes, briefly.”

Mom looked small in the hospital bed, her skin gray against white sheets, an IV trailing from her arm. I sat beside her, taking her limp hand in mine. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, a nervous habit from childhood that had resurfaced with her addiction.

“You have to fight this,” I whispered, uncertain if she could hear me. “The kids need you. I need you.”

The room's silence swallowed my words. Outside in the hallway, hospital life continued—monitors beeping, nurses exchanging information, wheels squeaking on linoleum floors. The mundane soundtrack to our personal catastrophe.

“Leo!”

Ethan's voice startled me as he appeared in the doorway, breathless and disheveled. “I just saw your texts. I'm so sorry—family dinner, my phone was off.” His eyes moved from me to my mother, widening slightly at the scene. “Is she?—“

“She'll live,” I said, the words coming out flatter than intended.

He crossed to stand beside me, hand resting on my shoulder. “What can I do?”

The question, kind and genuine, somehow made everything worse. The contrast between our evenings—his normal family dinner versus my medical crisis—created a chasm between us that felt suddenly unbridgeable.

“Nothing,” I said, pulling away from his touch. “You should go home. It's late.”

“I'm not leaving you here alone.”

“I'm used to it.”

The words hung between us, unintentionally cruel. I saw hurt flash across his face but couldn't summon the energy to soften the blow. In that moment, I needed the practiced isolation of someone accustomed to handling crises alone—it was familiar territory, unlike the vulnerability Ethan's presence demanded.

“Leo,” he tried again, voice gentle. “Let me help.”

“You can't,” I said, the truth of it settling heavily between us. “No one can.”

“Bullshit,” Ethan replied, his voice sharper than I'd ever heard it. “That's bullshit and you know it. You don't have to do this alone.”

I looked up at him, exhaustion making my words come out harder than intended. “Do what exactly? Fix my mother? Find my father? Make sure my siblings don't end up in separate foster homes? Please, tell me which part you think you can help with.”

“All of it. Any of it.” He pulled a chair closer, sitting so we were eye to eye. “I can drive the kids to school. I can help with groceries. I can?—“

“Can you make my mom stop trying to kill herself?” I interrupted, my voice cracking. “Can you bring my dad back? Can you make Social Services stop breathing down my neck?”

“No, but?—“

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