Chapter 5 #2
The words escaped before I could stop them. Hung between us, ugly and true.
He straightened, wincing. "You're overreacting. Making this bigger than it is. I made some investments that didn't pan out. It happens. I'll fix it."
"With what money?" My voice climbed despite myself. "The store's drowning. You're in a hospital bed. What exactly is your plan?"
"My plan is to not have my daughter undermine me while I'm—"
"While you're what? Dying?"
Silence crashed down.
His breathing quickened. Shallow. Pained.
I immediately regretted it.
But I didn't take it back.
"You're hiding things," I said quietly. "Gambling with our future because you're too proud to admit you need help."
"I don't need—"
"Yes. You do."
He looked away. Jaw working. Hands trembling against the sheets.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out thin. Defeated.
"I was trying to fix it. Before you had to know. Before it became your problem."
"It's already my problem. It's been my problem since Mom died and you started making decisions alone."
His eyes closed. "I didn't want this for you."
"I know."
The anger drained as quickly as it had risen. Leaving only exhaustion. The terrible, crushing weight of watching someone you love disintegrate from pride.
Pride might actually kill him. And I had no idea how to stop it.
Rain drummed harder against the window. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped its steady, mechanical heartbeat.
My father didn't open his eyes. Didn't argue. Just lay there, smaller somehow. Older. Mortal in ways I'd spent years refusing to acknowledge.
"Tell me the truth," I whispered. "How bad is it?"
A long pause.
Then, "Bad."
The fight drained out of me.
I stood. Crossed to the bed. Rested my hand over his—papery skin, prominent veins, trembling beneath my palm.
"I'm sorry." My voice came softer. Gentler. "I didn't mean—"
"I know."
"We'll figure it out." I squeezed his hand. "Together. Okay?"
He didn't answer. Just kept staring at the ceiling like solutions lived there, hidden between acoustic tiles and fluorescent fixtures.
"Sit up," I said. "Let's talk this through properly."
He shifted. Pushed himself more upright against the pillows. Color rising again—that feverish flush that made my stomach clench.
"We can do payment plans," I offered. "The hospital has programs. I looked into it this afternoon while you were sleeping."
He shook his head.
"Or we sell some things. The car—you barely drive it, anyway. Maybe some of Mom's jewelry. The pieces we never—"
"No."
"Dad—"
"We're not selling your mother's things."
"She wouldn't care about jewelry if it meant keeping you alive."
His jaw locked. "No."
I pressed on anyway. Desperation making me stupid.
"What about downsizing? The house is too big for one person. We could find something smaller. Use the equity to—"
"Belle, stop."
"—cover the medical bills. Get ahead of this before—"
"I said stop."
His breathing changed. Short. Sharp. Too fast.
I noticed the rhythm shift. The way his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls. His hand slipping from mine.
"Dad?"
He pressed his palm to his sternum. Eyes widening.
"I just need—" He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Need to—"
"Don't get up. Let me call the nurse—"
But he was already moving. Already trying to stand.
His knees buckled immediately.
Weight pitching forward.
I lunged. Caught him under the arms as he went down. His shoulder slamming into my chest, momentum dragging us both toward the floor.
We hit hard.
Him first. Me half-cushioning, half-collapsing beneath his weight.
"Dad!" My voice cracked. Panic stripping it raw. "Dad, look at me—"
His eyes rolled. Unfocused. Skin gone gray beneath that fever-flush.
I shoved out from under him. Rolled him onto his back. Hands shaking so violently I could barely press fingers to his throat.
Pulse there.
Thready.
Fast.
Too fast.
His chest still moved. Short, gasping breaths that wheezed past pale lips.
"No no no—" I fumbled for the call button. Slapped it. Slapped it again. "Stay with me. Come on. Stay with me."
His eyelids fluttered.
Lips moved without sound.
I cupped his face. Felt the tremor beneath his jaw.
"I've got you. You're okay. Help's coming."
Liar.
I didn't know if he was okay. Didn't know anything except the terrible, crushing familiarity of this. Kneeling on cold linoleum. Counting his breaths with shaking hands.
Always catching him.
Always too late.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. The door burst open. Nurses flooded in—professional, efficient, already moving with practiced urgency. Someone pulled me back. Someone else dropped beside him. Voices overlapped. Medical jargon I couldn't parse through the roaring in my ears.
I pressed against the wall. Watched them work. Watched my father's chest rise and fall in those terrible, shallow gasps.
Not again.
Please, not again.
But the prayer felt hollow.
Because again was already happening.
And I was just a daughter against a wall, useless and terrified, watching the only family she had left slip away on a hospital floor.
The doctor this time didn't soften it.
Dr. Lahiri—sharp-eyed, silver-haired, exhausted in the way people got when they stopped pretending—sat across from me in the hallway. No bedside manner. No comforting platitudes.
Just facts.
"Your father's condition is stress-triggered," she said. "Each episode compounds the damage. His heart cannot sustain this pattern."
I sat very still. Hands clasped in my lap to hide the shaking.
"What does that mean?"
"It means he cannot keep living like this." She pulled off her glasses. Rubbed the bridge of her nose. "High stress accelerates deterioration. He needs monitoring. Lifestyle changes. Potentially surgical intervention depending on the next cardiac workup."
The words washed over me. Clinical. Detached.
Cannot keep living like this.
"So we manage his stress," I said. "Make changes. I can—"
"Ms. Reiss." She put the glasses back on. Met my eyes. "The lifestyle changes your father requires aren't just emotional. They're financial."
My stomach dropped.
"Insurance will cover this hospitalization," she continued. "But extended care—monitoring equipment, specialist consultations, the medications he'll need long-term—that falls outside your current plan's scope."
The hallway tilted slightly.
"How far outside?"
She hesitated.
Then named a number.
Six figures.
I heard it. Understood the syllables. But my brain refused to process them into meaning. Like she'd spoken another language entirely.
"That's..." My voice came out thin. "That can't be right."
"I'm sorry."
Sorry.
The word landed hollow. Useless.
I swallowed. "What are our options?"
Her expression shifted. Gentler now. Pitying.
"There aren't many."
The silence stretched.
She waited. Let me absorb it. Let the devastation settle into my bones before continuing.
"We can discuss payment plans with the billing department. There are emergency aid programs—applications take time. Waiting lists for subsidized care facilities."
"How much time?"
"Months. Sometimes longer."
Months.
I thought about my father on the floor. Gray-faced. Gasping. The terrible flutter of his pulse beneath my fingers.
"We don't have months."
"I know."
I pressed my palms against my thighs. Focused on the pressure. The physical sensation grounding me before I floated away entirely.
"There has to be something else."
A social worker appeared—young, kind-faced, carrying a folder thick with paperwork. She sat beside me. Explained programs I'd never heard of. Forms that required documentation I didn't have. Waiting lists that stretched into next year.
Her voice stayed gentle. Her words stayed brutal.
Applications pending.
Approval timelines.
Eligibility requirements.
She talked about community resources. Charity care. Fundraising options.
Every solution required time.
Every solution required luck.
Every solution required things we didn't have.
I signed forms. Took pamphlets. Nodded at explanations I wasn't really hearing.
When they finally left, I sat alone in the hallway.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Somewhere a machine beeped its steady rhythm.
My father slept—medicated, monitored, blissfully unaware. He didn't know the number. Didn't know how bad it had gotten. Didn't know that while he slept, our world had narrowed to a single impossible question: How do you save someone when you can't afford to?
I stared at the pamphlets in my lap. Colorful. Hopeful. Lies printed on glossy paper.
The math didn't work.
It never had.
I'd just been too stubborn to admit it until now.
Until my father collapsed on a hospital floor and a doctor named a number that might as well have been infinity.
I thought about the bookstore.
The bills stacked on my kitchen counter.
The insurance gap widening into a chasm I couldn't cross.
And somewhere—unwelcome, intrusive—I thought about Gideon Jones standing in my doorway.
That deliberate smile.
That careful warning.
Take care of your family, Belle.
Like he'd known.
Like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
My hands fisted around the pamphlets.
Crushed them without meaning to.