Chapter 26
Ti amo, Alexander
Cecily
Getting from the car up to these hallways is just one big blur. My brain isn’t processing any of it. The only thing I’m actually aware of is Mark right beside me, his hand wrapped tight around mine.
‘I’m sorry, Cecily. I hate being the one telling you this.’
My eyes squeeze shut for a moment, even as my feet keep moving on their own. There’s a roaring in my ears, swallowing every coherent thought.
A few steps later, Mark murmurs, forcing my eyes open.
“It’s here. Room 616.”
I tighten my grip around his hand.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” he whispers.
I shake my head. “No... I should go in alone.”
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” Mark says kindly.
“No... you can go. I’ll probably be here for a while. I can take a taxi later, or something.”
I look at Mark just in time to catch him studying me, a thin line of worry etched between his brows. He doesn’t say a word; instead, he pulls me into a tight embrace.
“This won’t destroy you, Cecily,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice rough. “You’re stronger than this. You’re not alone. You have me, Ethan, Alicia, Felicity...” He hesitates for the smallest second. “Alexander. It’s going to be okay.”
I cling to him, squeezing hard, draining every drop of stability he’s offering.
When I finally pull back, the corridor seems longer. And the door to Room 616 feels like an insurmountable threshold.
I draw in a deep breath, and knock twice. Then, I wrap my fingers around the handle. And turn it.
The first thing that hits me is the sound. A metronomic beep of a cardiac monitor and the rhythmic sound of his own breathing. The room is cold and coated in that antiseptic bleach scent no hospital has ever managed to disguise.
My father—the man who has always seemed to fill an entire room simply by existing—looks smaller.
Shrunken. He’s propped at a slight angle in the bed, his skin so pale it borders on gray beneath the fluorescent lights.
There are wires everywhere: electrodes adhered to his exposed chest and a central line disappearing into his neck.
But his face is bare. No tube, no mask. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
My gaze catches on the left side of his face. With nothing hiding his features, the damage is stark. His skin is just sagging, pulling his mouth down. It makes him look like someone else entirely, and it’s gut-wrenching to see.
“Dad?”
The word leaves me as a broken whisper, hanging in the cold room. He doesn’t stir. Not a flutter of an eyelid, or a twitch of a finger.
Only then do I notice movement in the corner of the room. My mother rises slowly from the couch where she’s been sitting. I go to her without thinking, pulling her into my arms.
“Oh... Cecily.” Her voice collapses into a sob as she folds into me, her body giving way.
Tears slide down my own cheeks as my body takes over the crying I can’t seem to access myself. I guide her back to the couch and hold her while she cries, stroking her hair in a gesture meant to soothe, even though I feel anything but in control.
When she finally stops crying, we sit side by side, staring at him. The monitor keeps time. His chest rises and falls.
I don’t know how long passes before I hear a knock at the door. Two taps. Then a third, hesitant, before it opens.
A doctor enters, likely in his fifties, followed by a young man and two younger women.
White coats hang open over dark navy scrubs.
ID badges rest against their chests. They wear the focused expressions of people who’ve been on their feet far too long.
The young man has a tablet in his hands.
One of the residents jots notes on a pad.
The other observes everything with her full attention.
The doctor approaches, offering a professional smile. “Good evening. I’m Dr. Shapherd.”
I get to my feet, my legs trembling.
“I’m his daughter. Cecily Sterling,” I say, my voice weaker than I intend. “I only found out now. I’d like to understand what happened.”
He inclines his head, hands clasped in front of him. “Of course, Ms. Sterling.”
Dr. Shepherd flicks a brief glance toward the residents.
“Your father remained in the ICU for six days,” he begins.
“We were able to stabilize his respiration enough to remove the ventilator, which is why he was transferred to this step-down unit four days ago. He is currently breathing comfortably on room air. However, we are keeping him heavily sedated to manage his blood pressure and minimize stress on the brain.”
My nails dig into my palm.
“We estimate he’ll need to remain hospitalized for at least another two weeks,” he continues.
“Our immediate goals are to regulate his vitals, slowly wean him off the sedation to assess his responsiveness, and begin therapy as soon as possible, before transferring him to a specialized neuro-rehabilitation center.”
I keep blinking, trying to follow along. The words just start bleeding into each other—perfusion, motor deficit, aphasia, hemiplegia, cortico-subcortical extension—and I don’t recognize any of it.
Sensing my confusion, the doctor lowers his tone. “I know this is a lot of information. Simply put... your father suffered a large ischemic stroke.”
Dr. Shepherd continues, choosing his words with extreme care. “This type of event causes significant damage to brain tissue. In his case... the extent of the affected areas implies that even when the sedation is lifted, some impairments will be permanent.”
The resident beside me looks away.
“Among them,” the doctor says gently, “the permanent loss of speech, profound motor paralysis, and... a level of dependence that will be lifelong.”
Lifelong. Dependent for the rest of his life.
I repeat it silently, the truth hammering through my mind, dragging with it every version of my father I’ve ever known… every memory of who he was when I still thought of him simply as my father.
“I... understand,” I murmur.
While they finish examining my father, I take Mom down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat. She looks worn out. The place is practically empty when we get there.
She chooses a table in a far corner, and I walk to the counter to get something for her.
When I return, I set the orange juice and a sandwich in front of her.
I sit, and neither of us speaks as she eats in small bites, washing them down with forced sips of orange juice. When she’s done, she finally speaks.
“As soon as it’s safe, I’ve already told the doctor I want to transfer him to a rehabilitation center in Houston. Your aunt said they have excellent, very efficient teams there.” Her voice is drained, stripped of any emotion.
“You’re going to Texas. To stay with Aunt Emma,” I say quietly.
“The same sister you always hated... the one I barely know because of it.”
Mom takes a slow breath before answering.
“It’s what’s best for your father. How I feel about my sister doesn’t matter now. His health is my priority.”
I shake my head. “When will you stop?” I ask, my voice cracking.
Mom looks at me, confused. “Stop what?”
I pull my coat tighter around myself.
“Stop covering for him. Stop pretending.”
My throat tightens, the words burning on their way out.
“You’re not going to Houston for his sake... you’re running from the truth.”
Her eyes widen, and her fingers turn white as she grips the arms of her chair.
“I know, Mom,” I whisper, leaning forward. “I know everything.”
“Can we sit?” Mark says.
I follow him to the same place where I’d been sitting minutes ago with Colin.
Mark drags both hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Cecily. I hate being the one telling you this.”
He crosses his arms and looks at me. “I know you didn’t ask me to dig into your father’s past,” he says.
“But I did it anyway. I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any more surprises.
No hidden history or someone claiming to be his child, or anything like that.
I also keep an eye on him from time to time. ”
I stop breathing.
“Does he have other children?” I murmur.
Mark shakes his head. “No. Nothing like that,” he reassures.
But he doesn’t look relieved.
“Mark...” I whisper. “Then what did you find?”
Mark swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He draws in a deep breath and takes my hand.
“I found a lot of things, Cecily. From many years ago. And I don’t want to tell you unless you ask me to… I’ve had this information for months, and I never intended to have this conversation with you if it weren’t for what just happened.”
I close my eyes. Mark holds my hands, bracing me, as if he’s trying to absorb the impact before it reaches me.
“Maya’s mother wasn’t the first. And she wasn’t the last.”
His voice is careful, almost apologetic.
“Your father continued cheating on your mother. And the last time was ten days ago.”
He says it with such caution I know he’s afraid each word might be the one that breaks me.
“I already suspected,” I murmur. “When I had time to think about how he reacted... it crossed my mind. And I also think my mother knows, but she’d rather not change anything.”
Mark nods. “The woman is your parents’ neighbor,” he continues. “She’s twenty-eight, married to a man older than her, but not as old as your father.”
A wave of nausea rises in my throat.
“He arrived home early and found his wife and your father together—in a compromising position, in their bed.”
Mark goes on. “From what I was told, your father suddenly became unwell. His speech became slurred, something about him wasn’t right… and that’s when they called an ambulance.”
My breath leaves me in a shallow, trembling exhale. There’s a ringing in my ears.
Mark squeezes my hands again. “I’m so sorry, Cecily.”
I pull my hands free and wrap my arms around my body, trying to hold myself together.
“My mother?”
“According to the neighbors, she wasn’t home when it happened. But I know she’s been at the hospital with him every day since.”