I blink. "A what?"
"A tumor," he explains. "On her adrenal gland. It's been pumping adrenaline into her system."
I stare at him. "Adrenaline… like?—"
"Like fight or flight. All the time." His voice is steady. "That's what those episodes were. Not panic attacks. Not anxiety. Her body was basically… hijacked."
My chest tightens. "The stroke…"
"Caused by it."
Silence fills the car.
"And it gets better," he adds, not sounding like he means it. "They think it's part of something called MEN2. A genetic condition you'll need to be tested for, too. It explains the thyroid nodules."
All those doctors. All those tests. All those years and nothing. And then one time in the hospital with a shitload of money thrown at them, and bang. I don't know if I should laugh or cry.
"How did no one catch this?" I whisper.
Gabe's expression turns cold. "Because they didn't look hard enough."
Of course they didn't. And of coursehedid.
I swallow hard. "I thought she was losing her mind…"
"Well, part of that is still debatable." He chuckles, softer now, "The disease didn't cause all of it."
I press my lips together. "What happens now?"
"She needs surgery." He doesn't hesitate. "They'll stabilize her first. Then they take it out."
I nod, but my head feels fuzzy. "And then she'll be okay?"
He holds my gaze. "They say we found it in time." He takes my hand before he adds, "The next episode could've killed her."
My breath stutters. "Oh my God…"
"She got lucky," he says.
No.Igot lucky. Because of him. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to think, but my brain is already racing ahead—to hospitals, specialists, surgery, money.
"Gabe…" My voice wavers. "I can't… we can't?—"
He moves before I can finish, his hand coming up, fingers closing around my chin, turning my face back to him. "Audra."
I freeze.
"Trust me."
My breath catches.
"I'll take care of your mother."
Just like that. No conditions. No hesitation. I search his face, waiting for the catch. The angle. The price. There isn't one. And that hits harder than anything else. Because I realize, he means it.
My fingers curl into his shirt without thinking, grounding myself. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," he murmurs. "I have another confession."
