Chapter 31

My eyelids flutter open.The harsh glow of fluorescent lights above me slice through the haze clouding my mind.

Where am I?

It doesn't take me long to remember that I'm in a hospital bed, and reality feels distant, almost like I'm suspended somewhere between what's real and a parallel world I can't quite grasp. The scent of antiseptics mingles with the delicate fragrance of flowers from a bouquet near my window, creating a strange but comforting blend.

My fingers lightly brush over the hospital sheets, their texture slightly rough under my touch. It's a small but grounding sensation after the whirlwind of events that have blurred together. How long have I been here?

Has it been a day or more?Too much has transpired today—or is it yesterday now? Time slips away from me.

The news about my mom, her illness, and the need for a bone marrow transplant are the first issues that come to mind. Though, right after that appears the image of my father telling me I'm not his.

The revelation about my dad—or rather, the man I've always known as Dad—sends my thoughts spinning. The room seems to shift around me. The soft rhythmic beeps from the machine become faster and louder.

"Calm down, baby," Gabe's voice comes first before he grasps my hand. His calloused fingers from years of playing guitar entwined with mine. His reassuring touch calms me down almost immediately.

"Ameline?" His voice, rough with a mix of worry and care, breaks the silence. "Can you hear me?"

I attempt to respond, but my mouth is dry, my tongue rough and uncooperative. With effort, I manage a faint nod.

As Gabe lets out a sigh of relief, he leans in closer, gently pressing my hand against the rough stubble on his cheek. His familiar, woodsy scent immediately surrounds me, making me feel calmer, protected.

"You had me worried," he murmurs, kissing the back of my hand. "After your dad visited, you had another seizure. The doctors gave you a sedative and you've been sleeping for most of the day."

The mention of a seizure jolts a memory back into focus—dots like lights flickering similar to a strobe, my vision tunneling, and an overwhelming headache. And then, nothing but engulfing darkness.

The revelation that my father is not my father comes back. The realization cuts through me, sharp and painful. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the reality, but tears escape, burning hot as they trail down my cheeks.

"Dad," I finally manage to say with a sob.

Gabe smooths back my hair. "Shhh. I know, baby. I'm so sorry." His voice cracks. "I'm sure there's an explanation. He's your father, and he loves you."

Does he? Because I remember Dad's words, his disdain.

"It'll be okay," Gabe repeats.

I want to believe him, but all I do is turn into his embrace. My sobs muffled against the fabric of his shirt. He holds me softly, rocking slightly, allowing me to release the pent-up torrent of grief and confusion. And though the world has tilted off its axis, Gabe's strong arms keep me tethered.

The moment is broken by the soft click of the door. I lift my head, wiping my eyes, as Dr. Levinson enters. He holds a clipboard.

"We got your results," he states. The room shifts subtly with his words, the air charged with a seriousness that tightens a knot of anxiety in my stomach.

"It's just a migraine," I say what I've been telling everyone and myself since they started.

Dr. Levinson meets my gaze, his expression somber. "I wish it were that simple," he says, and those words alone are enough to send a chill down my spine.

My heart hammers against my rib cage, each beat echoing with dread. "What is it then?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, fear claws my throat and pushes at my lungs. I'm unable to breath as I wait for him to tell me what's happening.

"There's a growth in your brain," he says gently. The words hit me like a physical blow, reverberating through my body. My breath catches in my throat, the room seems to spin, and a cold, numb feeling spreads through me. A brain tumor. The words resonate in my head, each repetition like a hammer striking an anvil.

Dr. Levinson's voice fades into the background, his medical explanations becoming a distant hum as shock overtakes my senses. My hands are cold, my vision blurs slightly at the edges, and there's some hollowness settling in my stomach. It's as though time has slowed down, each second stretching out endlessly as I grapple with the reality of his words.

The room feels smaller, as if it's closing in on me. I glance at Gabe, who's sitting rigidly by my side, his hand squeezing mine. The warmth of his touch is a contrast to the icy wave of fear that's sweeping over me.

Dr. Levinson speaks of arranging appointments with an oncologist and a neurologist, his tone professional yet empathic, as if he trained to be understanding during his years in medical school.Soft words while telling a person that she might die, or not. It's really all relative if we find the right treatment.

"It's crucial that you have support during this time," he advises, casting a glance between me and Gabe. "Therapists, family . . ."

Family, I almost snort at the thought of what just happened. I don't even know if I have one. Will my father care if I tell him what's happening?

All I manage is a nod, though the words seem to float around me, barely penetrating the fog of my shock.

"We'll discharge you today. Make sure to fill all the prescriptions and rest," he says before leaving the room.

As Dr. Levinson's footsteps recede down the hallway, the full impact of his words begins to take hold. The diagnosis of a brain tumor feels both unreal and frighteningly immediate. My mind races with countless questions, each one more daunting than the last. When did this begin? What does this mean for the life I've envisioned? The room seems to swirl. I need answers but I can't find any.

"Ameline," Gabe's voice is distant. I don't know if it's me or him. "I can't wrap my head around this. But remember, I'm here with you, through everything. Whatever you need, I'm here."

"Cedric," I mumble. "Maybe Cedric will come and help. He's my big brother. Can you call him and Izzy? Tell them what happened with Dad, please. There has to be an explanation."

The little girl in me is hoping that all that was a mistake. Maybe this is a nightmare. The moment I wake up, Dad will be next to me. He'll tell me I overworked myself and there's no tumor and he loves me because I'm his little girl. The baby of the family.

"I'll check on him. Don't worry about anything," he says.

Gabe steps out for a call, leaving me alone with a whirlwind of thoughts. Thankfully, my head isn't hurting. It's probably all the medications they pumped through my IV. What if I stay here for another day or two: just me, the pain meds and oblivion?

Gabe returns looking troubled. He takes my hand. "I spoke to your brother." He pauses, pressing his lips and glancing toward the ceiling before he continues, "Apparently the part about your father not actually being your biological dad . . . it's true."

I squeeze my eyes shut as a wave of anguish washes over me.

Gabe continues, "Cedric said your fa—Richard—has forbidden him and Izzy from contacting you again. They'll following his orders. Though, he suggests we move your things out of the studio right away, before Richard confiscates everything."

The room feels like it's closing in on me. My dad, the man who raised me, might take away my belongings? It's hard to wrap my head around it. It's true, there's a sudden twist in my family's narrative. I'm not a part of it. They're erasing me.

"But I'm their sister." My voice comes out almost like a squeak.

"Sorry," Gabe mumbles. "We have to clear your studio though."

My studio? Just for a moment I worry about it, but what really hurts is losing my father.

Dad.

Cee and Izzy.

What am I supposed to do without them?

This isn't how it was supposed to happen. I was going to ask for forgiveness after helping my mother. Suggest family therapy so we could heal from her abandonment, and . . . what am I supposed to do now?

Gabe studies me intently. "Come stay with me for now," he urges. "Just until we figure things out. Maybe Richard just needs some time."

"But he's my dad. He's always been my dad," I whisper, the words a mix of disbelief and pain. "Why would he do this? Even if I wasn't his biological daughter, he loved me as his. You don't just push a child away like that after an adoption, do you?"

"He probably needs time," Gabe says reassuringly. "But right now, we need to focus on your health and protecting what's yours. I'll help you."

I feel a mix of sadness, confusion, and a growing sense of urgency. "Where am I supposed to go? I don't think I can afford the rent of my studio apartment, or any place."

"I'll take care of it, okay. I promise everything will be fine." Gabe pulls the orange plastic chair closer. His eyes, usually bright with laughter, now hold a solemn depth that matches the seriousness of my situation.

"Ameline," he says gently, "as I said before, I think it'll be best if you come stay with me. I have plenty of space, and you'll have someone to look after you while you're going through treatments."

I swallow hard at the thought of those treatments. The shocking news about my father, the daunting health diagnosis, and the uncertainty looming over my beloved studio. It's as though the ground beneath my feet has shifted, leaving me disoriented.

Even though I hate to need someone else's help, there's no way I can do this on my own.

"I think . . . Thank you for your offer. If you think it's okay to live with you," I reply, my voice tinged with a mix of hesitation and relief. "I just need some time to sort through all this."

Gabe's hand finds mine, a comforting gesture. "You have all the time in the world. There's no rush, okay?"

Accepting Gabe's offer doesn't solve everything, but it provides a starting point, a semblance of stability while I try to get through this chaos.

* * *

We arriveat my studio and my breath catches in my throat. It looks the same as always from the outside, but I know everything has irrevocably changed.

Gabe squeezes my hand reassuringly as we walk up to the front door toward the stairs. When we reach my place, I'm shocked to see Archer already there, along with a team of people carrying boxes and packing supplies.

"Hey, Ameline," Archer greets me with a smirk. "I knew you were a permanent fixture. Welcome to the family. Now, we're gonna get you packed up quick, okay?"

I nod numbly, looking around at the organized chaos. My furniture is already shrouded in protective wraps, ready to go into storage. The walls look bare without my art.

I watch as my life is dismantled and boxed away. Every box that's taped up and labeled feels like another little death.

"It's just temporary," Gabe reminds me. "We'll get you set up in the guest room at my place."

I want to believe him.

I want to believe this is just a misunderstanding: the man I've called Dad for over twenty years loves me. But the look of disgust on his face when I found out I'm not his biological daughter . . . that's not something I can forget.

Still, as the last box is loaded into the moving truck, I cling to a thin shred of hope. Maybe Dad will come around. After all, for all those years, he loved me like a daughter. That had to have meant something.

Didn't it?