Page 25 of The Silence Between

22

DARKEST NIGHT

ETHAN

I 'd never known panic like this—raw, animal terror clawing at my insides as I raced through Riverton's streets, checking my phone for the twentieth time in case I'd somehow missed a call. The string of missed calls and increasingly desperate voicemails from Leo played on endless loop in my head.

“Ethan, it's me. There's an emergency hearing today. Miguel showed up with court papers.”

“Ethan. It's me again. My mom's in the hospital. Overdose. They say it's critical. I... I don't know what to do about telling the kids. I could really use...”

That broken plea at the end had been three hours ago. Three hours of silence since.

“Goddamn faculty meetings,” I muttered, pushing my car faster through a yellow light. The one day I'd religiously silenced my phone, following Principal Rodriguez's new “no interruptions” policy, was the one day Leo had finally reached out for help. The crushing irony wasn't lost on me.

I swerved into a parking spot outside Second Chapter Bookstore, barely remembering to put the car in park before jumping out. The “Closed for Family Emergency” sign in the window made my heart sink further. Eleanor's surprised face appeared when I knocked frantically.

“Ethan? What are you?—“

“Have you seen Leo? Is he here?” The words tumbled out before she could finish.

Her face fell. “No. He called this morning about a court hearing, but I haven't heard from him since. What's happening?”

“I don't know. That's the problem.” I ran my hands through my hair, struggling to control my breathing. “His mother's in the hospital. Critical overdose. There was some kind of emergency custody hearing. He left me voicemails but I was in meetings and now I can't reach him and?—“

“Slow down.” Eleanor's calm voice cut through my spiral. “Have you checked his apartment? The hospital?”

“The apartment first. His neighbor said the kids are at school but Leo never came home. I drove by the courthouse, but the hearing would be over by now. I tried the hospital but they wouldn't tell me anything since I'm not family.”

My phone rang and I nearly dropped it answering. “Leo?”

“It's Damien.” The lawyer's voice was tight with controlled urgency. “Any luck finding him?”

“Nothing. I've tried everywhere I can think of.” I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the bookstore window, trying to organize my thoughts. “What happened at the courthouse?”

“The judge denied our continuance motion. Townsend and Miguel were setting Leo up—scheduling the hearing at the exact time Gloria was hospitalized. They tried to argue Leo was abandoning his responsibilities by choosing his mother over the custody hearing.”

“Jesus Christ.” Nausea rose in my throat. “What kind of monsters?—“

“The kind who know exactly how to break someone who's been holding everything together for too long,” Damien cut in. “A nurse at the hospital told me Leo left without seeing his mother, right after he got my text about the hearing continuing without him.”

“When? How long ago?”

“Almost two hours now. He's not answering calls from anyone.”

My blood ran cold. Leo disappearing wasn't just out of character—it was unthinkable. For ten years, he'd been the stable center his siblings orbited around. For him to vanish during multiple crises meant something had broken inside him.

“The bridge,” I said suddenly, the realization hitting like a physical blow. “The old railroad bridge.”

“The one that's half demolished? Why would he?—“

But I was already running back to my car, phone pressed to my ear. “It was our place in high school. And a few weeks ago, we talked there late at night. He mentioned...” I couldn't finish the sentence, the memory of Leo tracing his semicolon tattoo while explaining its meaning suddenly too terrifying to voice.

“I'm on my way there now. Call me if you find him first.”

I drove like a man possessed, running a red light and narrowly missing a delivery truck. My hands shook on the steering wheel, prayers I hadn't uttered since childhood tumbling from my lips.

“Please be okay. Please be there. Please, please, please...”

I'd never understood the phrase “my heart stopped” until that moment—the instant when I saw a solitary figure standing beyond the safety railing on what remained of the old railroad bridge, nothing between him and the rushing water below but empty air.

Leo.

I abandoned my car half on the gravel shoulder, keys still in the ignition, and ran. Leo stood about twenty feet over the water. He seemed impossibly far away, and yet close enough that I could see the wind ruffling his dark hair.

He didn't turn when I approached. Didn't seem to register the sound of my footsteps on the concrete. His gaze remained fixed on the dark water below, his body swaying slightly in a way that sent terror shooting through my veins.

I stopped several feet away, suddenly paralyzed with fear that any wrong move might startle him. His eyes had a vacant, distant quality that frightened me more than his precarious position. Leo, who noticed everything, who calculated every risk, who remained perpetually vigilant, seemed completely disconnected from the physical world around him.

“Your siblings are waiting for you,” I said softly, the words coming from somewhere beyond conscious thought.

Something flickered across his face—the first sign he'd registered my presence at all. Not quite recognition, but a momentary return from wherever his mind had retreated.

“They need you home, Leo.” I took one small step closer, moving slowly like I might approach a wounded animal. “Diego's been texting, asking when you'll be back.”

His eyes shifted from the water to some middle distance, still not quite seeing me.

“I know today has been impossible,” I continued, taking another cautious step. “Miguel ambushing you with court papers. Your mom in the hospital. The hearing scheduled during an emergency. No one should have to face all that alone.”

Another tiny step. I could almost reach him now, but I kept my hands at my sides, afraid any sudden movement would break this tenuous connection.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there when you called. I'm so fucking sorry, Leo. But I'm here now.”

He blinked slowly, and for the first time, his eyes seemed to actually see me. “Ethan?” His voice was a whisper, rough as though he hadn't spoken in hours.

“Yeah, it's me.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Can you come back over the railing? So we can talk?”

He looked down at the water again, then back at me. “I don't know if I can do this anymore.”

The quiet resignation in his voice terrified me more than any shouting or tears would have. This wasn't an impulsive moment of despair. This was something deeper—the final surrender of someone who'd been fighting too many battles for too long.

“Do what, Leo?”

“Everything.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, the movement making him sway dangerously. “Keep trying. Keep fighting. Keep pretending I can handle it all.”

I took a final step closer, close enough now that I could reach out and touch him, though I didn't. Not yet.

“You don't have to handle it all. Not alone.” I extended my hand, palm up, into the space between us. “I can't do this alone either, Leo. Any of it. I need you.”

His eyes flickered to my outstretched hand, then to my face. The emptiness in his expression was gradually filling with something else—confusion, awareness, pain. Coming back to himself meant returning to the weight of everything he carried, but it also meant reconnecting with what anchored him to this world.

“The kids,” he murmured.

“They're safe. At school. But they need you, Leo. I need you.”

His hand slowly lifted from the railing. For an eternal second, it hovered in the space between us, and then, with deliberate purpose, he reached for me.

I grasped his hand like a lifeline, forcing myself not to pull too quickly, not to startle him with sudden movement. His palm was ice cold against mine, his fingers stiff from gripping the railing.

“That's it,” I murmured. “Just hold onto me. I've got you.”

With excruciating slowness, I guided him back over the safety barrier, my other hand bracing his elbow, then his shoulder, offering support without forcing movement. When both his feet finally touched the safe side of the railing, his knees buckled.

We collapsed together onto the concrete, my arms wrapped around him, his body shaking violently against mine. I held him as tightly as I dared, my own limbs trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline and terror.

“I've got you,” I whispered against his hair, feeling tears burning in my eyes. “I've got you.”

For several minutes, we just sat there, holding each other as the wind whipped around us and the river rushed below. I could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing from its frantic pace, his breathing steadying somewhat though occasional shudders still ran through him.

“I need to take you to the hospital,” I said finally, pulling back just enough to see his face.

“My mom?—“

“Not for your mom. For you.” I touched his cheek gently, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You need help, Leo. Professional help.”

He started to shake his head, that familiar stubborn resistance surfacing even now. “The kids?—“

“The kids need you alive and well, not barely hanging on until the next crisis breaks you completely.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “You've spent ten years making sure everyone else survived. Now it's about making sure you do.”

Something shifted in his expression—resignation, perhaps, or recognition. He looked utterly exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from fighting not just today's battles, but years of them without rest.

“Okay,” he whispered, the single word seeming to take all his remaining strength.

I helped him to his feet, keeping my arm firmly around his waist as we walked slowly back to my abandoned car. He moved like a sleepwalker, each step mechanical, his eyes unfocused. The dissociative state hadn't fully passed, I realized with growing concern. This wasn't just exhaustion—this was psychological shutdown.

The hospital emergency room was mercifully quiet when we arrived. I kept my arm around Leo's shoulders as I explained to the triage nurse that he needed psychiatric evaluation for suicidal ideation. The clinical terminology felt strange in my mouth, transforming what we'd just experienced into medical language that couldn't possibly capture the weight of it.

“Active suicide attempt interrupted,” the nurse wrote on her form, the words making me physically flinch. “Any history of previous attempts?”

“I don't—“ I looked at Leo, who sat beside me staring at nothing.

“Three years ago,” he said quietly, the first words he'd spoken since agreeing to come to the hospital. “Considered it. Didn't try.”

I squeezed his hand, trying to communicate without words that he wasn't alone anymore, that he would never be alone like that again if I had anything to say about it.

The intake process blurred together—forms to sign, vitals to check, questions Leo answered in monosyllables when he answered at all. When they took him back for evaluation, I was left alone in the waiting room with my phone and the crushing weight of everything that had happened.

I called Damien first, my voice breaking as I explained where we were, what had happened. He promised to handle notification to the courthouse and to check on Gloria's condition. Next, I called Eleanor, who was already coordinating with Mrs. Hernandez to watch the kids until we knew more.

It was only after these calls that I finally allowed myself to break down, sitting alone in a plastic chair in the corner of the waiting room, face buried in my hands as silent sobs wracked my body. The image of Leo standing beyond that railing kept flashing behind my closed eyelids, along with the knowledge of how close I'd come to being too late.

Hours passed. I paced. I drank terrible coffee. I made calls and arrangements and tried not to think about what would have happened if I'd been five minutes later reaching the bridge.

When the doctor finally appeared, her grave expression confirmed what I already knew—this wasn't a situation that would resolve with a good night's sleep and some reassurance.

“Mr. Reyes is experiencing a major depressive episode with suicidal behavior,” she explained, her voice low and professional. “Compounded by acute stress disorder following multiple simultaneous crises. Extreme exhaustion is complicating his ability to regulate emotional responses.”

“What happens now?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

“We're recommending inpatient psychiatric treatment. Mr. Reyes has agreed to voluntary admission, which is a positive sign of insight into his condition.” She handed me a packet of information. “He's asking to see you before transport to the psychiatric unit.”

They'd put Leo in a small room off the main emergency department. He sat on the edge of a hospital bed, still in his own clothes but with hospital ID bands around his wrist. He looked so small, so vulnerable, that it took everything in me not to break down again.

“Hey,” I said softly, sitting beside him.

“Hey.” His voice was rough, but clearer than it had been on the bridge. More present. “I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Will you tell my siblings where I am? I can't...” He swallowed hard. “I can't face them right now. Can't explain. But they need to know.”

The request hit me like a physical blow—the trust it demonstrated, asking me to handle this most delicate of communications, to step into the role he'd always filled himself no matter how difficult.

“Of course I will.” I took his hand, careful of the IV they'd placed. “Whatever you need. Whatever they need. I'm here.”

He nodded, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “Thank you. For finding me. For...” He couldn't finish.

“You would have done the same for me.” I brushed his hair back from his forehead, the simple gesture feeling almost unbearably intimate. “Rest now. Focus on getting better. I'll take care of everything else.”

“The hearing?—“

“Damien is handling it. We'll figure it out.” I squeezed his hand gently. “One step at a time, remember? That's what you always say.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, gone almost before it formed. “One step at a time.”

When they came to transport him to the psychiatric unit, I watched them wheel him away, feeling simultaneously relieved that he was getting help and terrified of what lay ahead—for him, for his siblings, for all of us. The road to recovery wouldn't be short or easy. The systems that had pushed him to breaking point still existed, the challenges that had overwhelmed him still needed solutions.

But he wasn't facing them alone anymore. None of them were.

The following morning, I stood outside Leo's apartment door, heart pounding as if I'd run a marathon. Eleanor had stayed overnight with the siblings, but explaining where Leo was fell to me.

I knocked, then used the key Leo had given me weeks ago. Inside, three pairs of eyes immediately locked onto me, their expressions a mix of confusion, fear, and fragile hope.

“Where's Leo?” Diego demanded before I could even speak.

Eleanor touched his shoulder gently. “Let Ethan explain.”

I sat down on the couch, trying to project a calm I didn't feel. “Leo is in the hospital,” I began, choosing my words with extreme care. “He's been admitted to the psychiatric unit for treatment.”

Mari's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the sudden stillness.

“Your brother has been under an enormous amount of stress for a very long time,” I continued. “Yesterday, with everything happening at once—the court hearing, your mother in the hospital—it became too much for him to handle alone.”

“Is he going to die?” Sophie's small voice broke my heart.

“No, sweetheart. Absolutely not.” I moved to sit beside her. “He's getting help so he can get better. Just like you'd go to the hospital if you broke your arm or had pneumonia. His mind and his emotions need some healing right now.”

Diego stood abruptly, turning away from us. “This is bullshit. He was fine. He's always fine.”

“No, he wasn't,” Mari said quietly. “We just didn't want to see it.”

The anger in Diego's posture crumpled slightly. “When can we see him?”

“I don't know yet. The doctors will let us know when he's ready for visitors. But I promise I'll take you as soon as they say it's okay.”

Sophie leaned against my side, her small body trembling slightly. “Was it our fault? Because we need so much?”

“No.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “None of this is anyone's fault. Not yours, not Leo's. Your brother has been carrying too much for too long. Sometimes even the strongest people need help.”

“So what happens now?” Mari asked, the practical question anchoring us all.

“Now we work together to manage things until Leo comes home. I'll be here as much as you need me. Eleanor will help. Damien is handling the legal issues.” I looked at each of them in turn. “We'll get through this. Together.”

“You won't disappear?” Diego's question came with a challenging stare. “Now that things are really hard?”

“I'm here for as long as all of you need me,” I said firmly. “Period.”

The collective exhale that followed told me everything about their deepest fear—that like so many adults before me, I would walk away when things got difficult. That they would be abandoned yet again.

“I promise,” I added, meeting each of their eyes. “I'm not going anywhere.”

That night, after the siblings were finally asleep, I returned to the bridge alone. I needed to face it—the place where I'd almost lost Leo forever, the concrete ledge where he'd stood ready to end everything.

The wind was colder now, cutting through my jacket as I stared at the spot where he'd been. My legs shook as I remembered the terror of those moments—seeing him there, not knowing if I could reach him in time, the agonizing slowness of guiding him back to safety.

I sat down hard on the concrete, unexpected tears burning my eyes and throat. In the apartment, with the siblings, I'd maintained composure because they needed it. But here, alone with the night and the rushing river below, I finally let myself feel the full weight of what had happened—what had almost happened.

“Fuck,” I whispered to the darkness, voice breaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The tears came then, harsh sobs that felt torn from somewhere deep inside me. Guilt for missing his calls when he needed me most. Fear that still lingered beneath relief. Grief for everything he'd endured trying to hold his family together without support.

When the storm passed, leaving me hollow but somehow clearer, I wiped my face with my sleeve and stood up. There was no point assigning blame—not to myself for missing calls, not to Leo for hiding his suffering, not even to Townsend and Miguel for their deliberate cruelty. The problem wasn't individual failures but systemic ones—a society that expected one young man to sacrifice everything for his siblings without adequate support, institutions that created impossible obstacles rather than assistance, communities that looked away from struggling families until crisis struck.

The realization settled into my bones as I walked back to my car. Supporting Leo's recovery wouldn't just mean being there while he healed. It would mean fighting the conditions that had broken him in the first place—advocating for institutional change, building sustainable support systems, creating partnership that addressed structural problems rather than just personal ones.

As I drove back to the apartment where Leo's siblings slept under Eleanor's watchful eye, I made a silent promise to the night. This time would be different. This time, Leo wouldn't have to carry everything alone. This time, we would build something that could bend without breaking, that could weather crises without collapse.

This time, we would rewrite the story—not just for Leo and me, but for Mari, Diego, Sophie, and anyone else trapped in systems designed for them to fail. And we would start with a semicolon, not a period.

The sentence would continue, but differently than before.