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“What do you think about taking her record player in for her? She could use something other than our voices to listen to.”
His lips lift into a grin as he pats my shoulder. “You’re a good one, she’ll thank you for that.”
My stomach dips and I know that it’s now or never. “I want this to be Amelia’s room,” I blurt out.
His brow raises and he looks around. “What do you mean?”
“I was talking to Traci a few weeks back about having her home in time for Thanksgiving and—”
“Whoa, you did what?” He folds his arms over his chest as he stares at me.
“It was just a conversation, I wanted to know what a place would need for her to be able to come home from the hospital.” I square my shoulders. “I want her to come and live here with me when she’s able to.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “Absolutely not, she’s my daughter, she’ll be coming home with me.”
He starts to walk out of the room, dismissing my plan without hearing me out. “If you’d just listen to me, I’ve researched everything I need to.” He stops in his tracks, his hand braced on the doorframe. “My home is on one floor, no steps at all apart from up to the roof, and I already have plans to put in a stair lift. I have the space to give her her own therapy room and a pool so she can receive hydrotherapy. I’ve been looking into it and they say hydrotherapy is an incredible way for people with back injuries to heal.”
He spins around. “And I suppose we’re just supposed to stand back and let you take over?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do at all. You know I love Amelia and would do anything for her, and seeing her in the hospital is killing me as much as it is you. I want her out of there to bring her back to somewhere she can have more independence.” He doesn’t answer, storming back to the garage. “I have the means to pay for everything myself and this house is big enough for her to maneuver around in her wheelchair without feeling like she’s constantly being babysat.”
He stops once again, hand on the door handle of Amelia’s SUV. “You think you can throw around your money and make us look bad?”
I take a visible step back as I run a hand through my hair. “This isn’t about money, I’m just trying to do what’s best for Amelia.”
“Then you’ll let her come home with her family,” he grinds out before jumping in the SUV and driving out of the garage without me.
“And then she said we shouldn’t be bringing food onto the ward!” Mom scoffs as her hands wave about in the air. “We don’t have that condition in our hospital, it’s ludacris. If a child having chemotherapy wants a burger and fries, then give them a burger and fries!”
“Yeah,” I say, not agreeing or disagreeing but feeling like I need to say something rather than keeping silent.
The door to my room is flung open and I twist my head, watching as Dad stomps inside, his face a mask of anger before he schools his features.
“Dad?” I ask, seeing his hands opening and closing at his sides.
“Carl?” Mom stands up, walking over to him. “What’s going on?”
Footsteps near and then Nate walks into the room, his eyes meeting my dad’s for a beat before he searches me out and smiles gently.
The atmosphere is stifling, but Dad shrugs Mom off and walks over to me. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” I tell him, a smile pulling at the corner of my lips. “Therapy was good. Traci took me to the pool—”
“The pool?” His voice is gruff and I frown at his tone.
“Yeah, hydrotherapy—”
He scoffs under his breath before he realizes what he did and says, “That sounds great.”
I turn my gaze to Mom before looking at Nate, trying to work out what’s going on, but when I catch sight of what Nate is holding in his hands, my stomach fills with butterflies.
He walks over and places the box on the table at the end of my bed before lifting something off the top and holding it up.
“My record player,” I gasp, sitting up straighter.
“Thought you could use a bit of music.” His gaze flashes over to my dad before moving back to me. “I only brought a few records for now but I can bring more if you get bored with these ones.”
He lifts the box and brings it closer to me and my greedy hands riffle through what he’s brought. My fingers cease when I see the red case, my eyes reading over the Ray Charles title. “This one,” I say, my voice low. “I want to listen to this one.”
