Chapter 9
I looked at Alexander standing at the foot of my hospital bed, and I felt the weight of five years pressing against my ribs.
Tell him the truth.
Which truth?
That I was dying?
That his brother was alive because of what I gave?
That his mother destroyed me and smiled while she did it?
Every truth I could tell would burn his world to the ground.
"It's anemia," I said. "Chronic. I've had it for a while. It looks worse than it is."
Alexander did not blink.
"Anemia doesn't explain your kidney values."
"Alexander." My voice was steady. Calm. Practiced. "I'm fine. It's managed. Please go back to Meredith."
He stared at me.
I held his gaze without flinching.
Finally, something in his jaw released. He stepped back.
"If you're lying to me," he said quietly, "I will find out."
Then he left.
The moment the door closed, my mother exhaled like she had been holding her breath for an hour.
"He's going to dig," she said. "He's a doctor. He's not stupid."
"I know."
"Then what? He pulls your records? He calls your oncologist? He finds out about the donations?"
"He won't." I closed my eyes. "My records are under a different hospital system. Dr. Huang won't release information without my consent."
"And if he doesn't stop looking?"
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
"Then I'll leave. I'll go somewhere he can't find me."
My mother made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
"You don't have the strength to leave this bed, and you're talking about running away."
She was right.
But Alexander could not know.
If he found out, he would blame himself. And the truth about his mother would come pouring out. And the guilt of what happened would crush him in ways I could not bear to imagine.
I had already decided, five years ago, that I would carry this alone.
I would not change my mind now.
Three days later, I was released.
Alexander had not contacted me since the hospital.
I thought perhaps he had let it go.
Then I walked into my apartment and found him sitting at my kitchen table.
My mother was at work. The door had been locked. But there he was. In my space. Among my things.
He was holding something.
A prescription bottle. One of the seventeen I kept in the bathroom cabinet.
"Cyclophosphamide," he read aloud, his voice hollow. "That's a chemotherapy drug, Sophia."
My bag slid from my shoulder and hit the floor.
"Why are you in my apartment?"
"Your landlord let me in. I told him I was your doctor."
"You're not my doctor."
"No." He set the bottle down with a click. "But I should have been."
He stood.
He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I had gotten smaller.
"How long," he said.
It was not a question.
"Alexander—"
"How long have you had cancer?"
The word filled the room.
I could not breathe.
"It's under control," I whispered.
"How long?"
"Alexander, please—"
"HOW LONG."
His voice broke on the last word. The sound shattered something in me that I had spent years holding together.
"Eighteen months," I said. "Leukemia. Eighteen months since diagnosis."
He staggered back like I had hit him.
His hand found the wall. His chest heaved.
"Leukemia," he repeated. "You have leukemia."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"Why would I tell you?" The words came out before I could stop them, sharper than intended. "You think I'm a thief. You think I cheated on you. You haven't spoken to me in five years. Why would I tell you anything?"
He flinched.
But then his expression changed.
I watched it happen. The doctor in him taking over. The clinical mind running through everything it had observed. My weight loss. My fatigue. My shaking hands. My lab results.
And then, slowly, terribly, something else connected.
"Leukemia," he said again, very quietly. "Blood cancer."
He looked at me.
"Ethan had blood cancer."
The room went very still.
"Sophia. Why do you have the same cancer my brother had?"
Tell him the truth.
Which truth?
That I was dying?
That his brother was alive because of what I gave?
That his mother destroyed me and smiled while she did it?
Every truth I could tell would burn his world to the ground.
"It's anemia," I said. "Chronic. I've had it for a while. It looks worse than it is."
Alexander did not blink.
"Anemia doesn't explain your kidney values."
"Alexander." My voice was steady. Calm. Practiced. "I'm fine. It's managed. Please go back to Meredith."
He stared at me.
I held his gaze without flinching.
Finally, something in his jaw released. He stepped back.
"If you're lying to me," he said quietly, "I will find out."
Then he left.
The moment the door closed, my mother exhaled like she had been holding her breath for an hour.
"He's going to dig," she said. "He's a doctor. He's not stupid."
"I know."
"Then what? He pulls your records? He calls your oncologist? He finds out about the donations?"
"He won't." I closed my eyes. "My records are under a different hospital system. Dr. Huang won't release information without my consent."
"And if he doesn't stop looking?"
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
"Then I'll leave. I'll go somewhere he can't find me."
My mother made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
"You don't have the strength to leave this bed, and you're talking about running away."
She was right.
But Alexander could not know.
If he found out, he would blame himself. And the truth about his mother would come pouring out. And the guilt of what happened would crush him in ways I could not bear to imagine.
I had already decided, five years ago, that I would carry this alone.
I would not change my mind now.
Three days later, I was released.
Alexander had not contacted me since the hospital.
I thought perhaps he had let it go.
Then I walked into my apartment and found him sitting at my kitchen table.
My mother was at work. The door had been locked. But there he was. In my space. Among my things.
He was holding something.
A prescription bottle. One of the seventeen I kept in the bathroom cabinet.
"Cyclophosphamide," he read aloud, his voice hollow. "That's a chemotherapy drug, Sophia."
My bag slid from my shoulder and hit the floor.
"Why are you in my apartment?"
"Your landlord let me in. I told him I was your doctor."
"You're not my doctor."
"No." He set the bottle down with a click. "But I should have been."
He stood.
He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I had gotten smaller.
"How long," he said.
It was not a question.
"Alexander—"
"How long have you had cancer?"
The word filled the room.
I could not breathe.
"It's under control," I whispered.
"How long?"
"Alexander, please—"
"HOW LONG."
His voice broke on the last word. The sound shattered something in me that I had spent years holding together.
"Eighteen months," I said. "Leukemia. Eighteen months since diagnosis."
He staggered back like I had hit him.
His hand found the wall. His chest heaved.
"Leukemia," he repeated. "You have leukemia."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"Why would I tell you?" The words came out before I could stop them, sharper than intended. "You think I'm a thief. You think I cheated on you. You haven't spoken to me in five years. Why would I tell you anything?"
He flinched.
But then his expression changed.
I watched it happen. The doctor in him taking over. The clinical mind running through everything it had observed. My weight loss. My fatigue. My shaking hands. My lab results.
And then, slowly, terribly, something else connected.
"Leukemia," he said again, very quietly. "Blood cancer."
He looked at me.
"Ethan had blood cancer."
The room went very still.
"Sophia. Why do you have the same cancer my brother had?"