“You two don’t need to be here,” he said, trying to bulldoze past us to get inside.
“Fuck that,” Preston insisted, grabbing Eli by his shirt. “We put our necks on the line for you, and you keep fucking up.”
“I’m not a fuck up,” Eli countered.
“Then why are you acting like one?” I asked.
His gaze swung between the two of us, an uncertainty filling his eyes. Finally, he looked back at the woman who remained at the door.
“You should tell them the truth,” she said.
“Someone needs to start talking,” I insisted.
“Look, if you got a kid we don’t know about or whatever …” Preston said.
“I’m not anyone’s father,” Eli said sharply.
“Then what is it?” I demanded.
Sighing, Eli pushed a hand through his hair. His shoulders sagged as he stepped through the door. “Follow me.”
I gave Preston a look before entering the house to follow Eli. The living room was essentially bare save for an old recliner in the corner, a wooden coffee table, and a television that sat on the floor.
Eli went through the living room and turned down the hallway. I followed, and as soon as I entered the hall, a medicinal smell hit me. It immediately brought back memories of my mother’s illness when nursing staff and healthcare workers were in and out of the house.
My mother’s one request was to die at home, so my father had their room outfitted for all of her medical needs. I recalled the sound of beeping monitors that stood beside her bed.
Eli stopped at the closed door on the left. “Is she asleep?”
I turned to see the woman from the front door had followed us. She nodded.
Eli carefully pushed the door open, and the medicinal smell increased. At the center of the room sat a low-sitting bed. On the far side stood a heart rate monitor and some sort of IV drip. Most important, though, was that in the middle of the bed, an older woman.
She looked small in the center of the bed, even though it wasn’t that big. She was propped up on pillows.
“This is my mother,” Eli said in a voice just above a whisper.
I glanced back at Preston before turning back to Eli.
“She had a massive stroke last year.” He glanced down at her in the way a son stares at his ailing mother. The way I imagined my twelve-year-old self, peering down at my mother as I sat at her bedside while she slept.
“Can we take this to the living room so she can sleep?” he asked.
I nodded, and we went back out the way we came.
“I’ll stay with her,” the woman who’d answered the door told Eli.
Eli ran a hand over the back of his head and neck, blowing out a heavy breath, once we reached the living room. He looked tired and a lot older than his twenty-three years of age.
“She was doing okay with her rehab, but I couldn’t afford to keep taking her and the medications she needs,” he explained. “She’s had some setbacks in the last few months. While I was in New York, she fell.” He shook his head. “She didn’t break anything, but she was badly bruised. They had to keep her in the hospital for a couple of days.”
I pushed out a harsh breath. “That’s why you entered the underground fight.”
He nodded. “The stroke almost took her out. It happened when I was in Thailand.”
“Which was why you left abruptly,” I concluded.
“She wasn’t going to make it. All the doctors told me I should count her out, but that ain’t my mom. She’s a fighter.” He stopped to swallow. “She survived, but her recovery has been slow and expensive.”
