Page 197 of Broken Saint

“Do you know where he’s gone?” Mom asks as I continue standing there mute.

“Home,” the nurse says simply, before walking over to the cupboard to begin putting away what’s in her arms. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

No sooner has she put everything in its place than she leaves again.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“So?” Mom asks, turning to face me.

It’s only over if you give up the fight, Ella. Her words from earlier repeat over and over in my head.

“I’ll call an Uber. We’re going to his apartment. It doesn’t end like this,” I say, mustering up what little strength I have let.

I could slink away and hide and prove him right.

Or I could fight. I could prove everything I’ve said to him since I came to Seattle is true.

I want him.

I don’t care about anything else.

I just want him exactly as he is.

With my hand clutched in Mom’s for support, we walk out of his hospital room and don’t look back.

The memories I have of this room are nothing but painful.

With my cell in hand, I call for a car to take me to him.

For the first time since I opened that door, a little bit of hope creeps in.

He’s gone home. He knows I know where to find him.

Sure, a message of warning would have been nice, but I can understand if he set his sights on going home and focused on that alone.

“It’s going to be ten minutes.”

“Gives you time to freshen up,” Mom says.

After a quick stop in the hospital store, I brush my teeth, ridding myself of the lingering taste of vomit, and fix my hair and makeup—I didn’t bother with much this morning, but what I did do is now smeared down my face.

I walk out of the bathroom looking much more put together. No one would know that on the inside, I’ve got bricks tumbling faster than I can control.

My stomach knots painfully as we step out of the hospital and find our car waiting for us.

Mom tries assuring me that everything is going to be okay again as we make our way across the city, but her words don’t register.

Despite going after him, fighting for him with what little strength I have left, I don’t share her optimism.

By the time we pull up outside his building, I’m trembling so violently, it’s hard to force myself to put one foot in front of the other.

In only minutes, we’re inside the elevator and riding toward the top floor.

Mom’s eyes are wide as she takes everything in. The luxury this place offers is a world away from our modest life and home in Texas.

I probably would have felt the same about it when I first arrived if I weren’t so blinded by the man who lives up here.

It’s not until I’m facing his front door and the biometric scanner that I consider reality.