Chapter 9

(Now)

"I died?" I ask incredulously. "You never told me any of that."

Gabe nods slowly, his eyes clouded with a pain so raw and deep that it's almost tangible. He looks away, as if the memories are too much to handle. As if looking at me is bringing all the hurt back.

"I don't talk about it," he mumbles. "Now you know and there's nothing more to say."

"But why wouldn't you tell me?" I press on, needing to understand.

He closes his eyes briefly, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "It hurts too fucking much to even think about, let alone discuss it," he confesses, his voice breaking. "It was one of the most agonizing moments of my life."

"But it happened to me," I argue. "You should've said something."

Somehow, this information changes the narrative of our past. I'm not sure how, but it does. And how could such a crucial part of my story be kept from me?

"While I was recovering from the surgery, you behaved strangely, and then . . ." I can't say it. I just can't.

"Then we lost her." Gabe swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Yeah, we lost her before we even knew she was coming. And, somehow, it still hurts. Suddenly, I feel it rising from deep within—a sob, gut-wrenching and unguarded. It claws its way up my throat. I try to swallow it down, to keep it contained, but it's too powerful. So much stronger than me.

My eyes burn, tears stinging, but I refuse to shed them. Not here. Still, the sob breaks free, a guttural and trembling sound that seems foreign to my ears.

It rips through the silence. My chest heaves with the effort to breathe, to get oxygen through the constricting band of sorrow. I dig my fingers into my own arms, nails digging into my skin, as if the physical pain could keep me from breaking down, here in front of Gabe and his sister. But the fa?ade cracks, and I'm just a person, broken and real, dealing with old emotions that crush me deep down into my soul.

Wounds that will never heal.

I take a shuddering breath, trying to compose myself, to rebuild the walls that momentarily crumbled, but it's impossible. The memories come flooding back to me.

* * *

(Then)

I'm still in bed, feeling like I'm carrying a weight much heavier than the blankets draped over me. Every cell in my body has been injected with lead. My limbs are also uncooperative. I know I should get up, but the fatigue pins me down. It's so much stronger than me, turning even the simple act of leaving my bed a daunting task.

I close my eyes again, trying to escape the queasiness. My stomach churns, and I breathe slowly, in and out, trying to control the nausea. The anti-nausea meds help, but they can't seem to erase it completely.

"Morning, baby," Gabe greets me. "I brought you breakfast."

"Not hungry," I mumble weakly.

He brushes the hair back from my forehead. "But you have to eat," he insists.

I crack my eyes open to find his worried face.

"Mom's coming later to bake with you," he says, brushing the hair from my forehead.

His family has been very welcoming and helpful despite them not knowing I'm married to Gabe. To them, I'm just Gabe's temporary roommate—the poor girl who recently lost her mom and found out she has a brain tumor.

I appreciate their thoughtfulness, but part of me wishes they knew I'm Gabe's wife and that they'd treat me like a part of their family. Not just some addition because they like to rescue those in need.

That's your insecurities speaking. Gabe knows when is best to tell them the truth,I remind myself.

"Let me help you sit so you can eat," Gabe encourages. "I prepared your favorite ham omelet with mushrooms and sharp cheddar cheese."

Sounds great, except I won't be able to taste it. All the food I've consumed seems to taste like it's coated with dirt and metal. I remember how I used to savor my morning tea and whatever Gabe and I prepared together. Now, just the thought of it makes my stomach turn. I haven't been able to enjoy anything in weeks.

"Baby, please, just a few bites," Gabe coaxes desperately.

Do I? I run a hand over my head, my fingers brushing through thinning hair. It's not the dramatic hair loss some experienced, but it's enough to make my heart sink. I should just shave my hair and be done with this. It'll eventually grow back, right?

"Ame, what can I do for you?" he pleads softly. "You need to move and eat."

"I know. It's just . . . something just doesn't feel right today," I mumble.

Any other day I'd push myself out of bed even when I don't have enough energy, I borrow it from tomorrow or the day after. Today, I just can't seem to do that.

"Make an effort," he insists.

I know Gabe is right. I know logically I should get up, start my day, and try to do something productive. But even sitting up makes the room spin. I feel fragile and unsteady as if I might fracture at any moment.

Gabe smooths the hair back from my face, tenderness in his eyes that reminds me of the old him. The version unaffected by my illness. "Okay, Ame. I don't want to use tough love, but you can't skip a meal, baby."

We'll talk about his distance once I'm stronger . . . about why he sometimes looks at me with fear instead of love. For now, I cling to this glimpse of the man I married with the hope that I'll be better soon.

As Gabe helps me sit, a sudden, sharp pain pierces my lower abdomen, cutting through me like a knife. I wince, hand flying to my stomach as confusion and fear fill my eyes.

"Ameline, what's wrong?" Gabe asks, alarmed. "Baby, you're pale. What's happening?"

Before I can answer, another wave of pain hits, stronger this time. It's then I notice it—a stain of red marking the sheets, a terrifying, vivid red.

My breathing becomes shallow as panic grips me, suffocating me. "What's happening to me?" I cry out through the piercing spasms.

"It hurts! It hurts so much," I scream.

Gabe's face crumbles. "I'm calling an ambulance." His voice is shaky, as he grabs for his phone with a trembling hand.

My heart is racing, pounding against my chest like it's trying to escape. Panic claws at me, raw and terrifying. I can't help thinking, This is it. I'm not going to make it. Every breath feels like my last. But then there's Gabe, his hand holding mine so tight, his grip the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I cling to him. He's keeping me safe as I teeter on the edge of hysteria.

The paramedics arrive quickly. They ask questions and take my vitals, but all I can focus on is Gabe's hand, gripping mine tightly. It's all that's keeping me coherent, making me not lose my shit as I feel like I'm dying.

As they prepare to move me, Gabe stays close. They lift me onto a stretcher, and I'm suddenly aware of the reality of the situation, the seriousness of it all. I'm bleeding, there's probably internal bleeding and something the medication did that probably has to be repaired. I might never be well again.

Gabe follows as they wheel me out, his eyes locked on me.

The ride in the ambulance is a blur, the sirens a distant sound compared to the storm of emotions inside me. Gabe is there, right beside me, his hand holding mine.

"You're okay, baby. Everything will be fine," he mumbles, stroking the hair on the crown of my head gently.

I squeeze Gabe's hand tighter, scared.

Time passes fast, slow. By the time I'm in the hospital bed, everything comes back. The rush to the ER, the treatments, and now this forced stillness in a room that smells of antiseptics and sorrow.

Gabe sits beside me, his chair pulled close to the bed. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the hallway. Outside, the world moves on, the occasional sound of footsteps and distant voices filtering through the door, but here, time seems to stand still.

"I'm sorry," Gabe mumbles, the pain in his voice is unmistakable.

Ever since I heard the word miscarriage I've been speechless.

"I wish I could take your pain away." He kisses the top of my head.

Who knew I was eleven weeks pregnant? Obviously not us. If we knew, would we have been able to save our baby?

"If we had known, we would have . . ." He goes quiet.

I turn my head to look at him, meeting his gaze. He squeezes my hand, and for a moment, we just sit silently, each lost in our thoughts and grief.