The ambulance came at four in the morning. Louis carried her through the hallway and out to the waiting paramedics himself, this enormous tattooed man cradling my mother like she was made of paper, his face wet with tears I couldn't reconcile with anything I'd told myself about him.
At the hospital, the doctor was firm.
"This is the illness, Margaret. It's progressing. This wasn't caused by anything someone did or didn't do."
I heard the words. I didn't believe them.
He followed me into the corridor without a word.
Louis never left her bedside. He held her hand through the IV lines. He whispered to her when the monitors beeped. He brushed her hair back like he'd been doing it his whole life.
It made my skin crawl, the way he acted as if he were her son.
When Mom finally drifted into sleep, I stood up.
"Louis. Outside."
He followed me into the corridor without a word.
He turned around slowly, took the leather notebook from his vest pocket, and held it out to me.
"I want you to quit," I said. "I'll pay you three times what she's paying. Tonight. You walk away and you don't come back."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he turned and walked toward the elevator.
"Louis," I called, following him. "Answer me."
He didn't stop until we were through the sliding doors and standing in the cold parking lot, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us.
He turned around slowly, took the leather notebook from his vest pocket, and held it out to me.
"She asked me to stay silent," he said. "I can't anymore."
He took a breath that seemed to come from somewhere incredibly deep.
My chest tightened.
"What did she hide?"
