“Bring it to me. We don’t have much time.”
The moment I place it into her waiting palm, Mom sets to work without explanation. She pops the cork from the bottle, and the scent hits my nose all at once—sharp, earthy, bitter. Almost smoky, like pine tar and old rain.
It’s a smell I recognize but can’t quite place. So much and nothing at all.
Mom pushes herself up onto her side, reaching toward him. She takes the last clean towel and pours some of the liquid onto it, instantly staining the orange cloth a dark brown. She hands it to Taylor and lifts his shirt. “Hold this on his wound. Do not take it off.” We both stare at Mom in disbelief. She’s practically unrecognizable right now, led by something I don’t understand. She doesn’t pause, turning to me. “What are you waiting for? Open his mouth.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. I nod at Taylor, who does as she was told, placing the towel on Lewis’s back. Mom leans in and, together, we turn his head just so, tilting his chin down.
Lewis lies motionless, unaware of what’s happening or what we’re doing. Unaware of most of what’s happened.
His lips are pale, chest barely rising now.
I hesitate. This is Lewis. It feels too risky. I’ll never forgive myself if this makes it worse.
“Maybe we should wait,” I say, but no one is listening.
Please, the word swims through my mind. Just one more request today.
I stare down at his face. My ex-husband. The father of my child. The man who broke my heart into tiny pieces and somehow managed to keep me whole at the same time. Who showed up for me, for our daughter, when he didn’t have to. Who held me and helped me through this terrible night.
I don’t know how to feel looking at him now. All our history is tied in knots, blocking my throat.
Mom tilts the vial to his lips, pouring the dark brown liquid into his mouth. Some spills down his chin and onto the floor, but more lands on his tongue.
She covers his mouth with her palm, forcing his lips closed. I wince, hating this.
His throat jerks. Bobs with a swallow.
Then…stillness.
Mom corks the vial and hands it back to me. I hold my breath. My heart hammers against my ribs as I clutch it close to my chest. “Do you really believe this’ll help him?”
Mom looks at me. Her eyes hold a sort of understanding that feels as old as this house. As old as the earth underneath it. “What matters is what you believe.”
The room goes silent, painfully so. And then—a sharp intake of breath.
In front of us, Lewis gasps. Coughs. Sputters.
His back arches, like something has grabbed him under his belly. Taylor jerks back, but just as quickly, she returns the towel to his wound. He spits blood, groans, and collapses again. I don’t know if this is better or worse.
If we killed or healed him.
But he’s breathing. I watch his back like a hawk.
My hands go limp on my lap. “Should something be happening?”
Before she can answer, I hear it. Sirens.
Far away but closing in fast. Flashing red-and-blue lights begin to strobe across the curtains.
Police.
EMTs, hopefully.
Help.
Mom pats my hand with a soft nod. “Put that away.”
