She paused just outside of the doorway that led into her father's room. The antiseptic smell of the hospital which normally smelled familiar and comforting, like her second home, only now reminded her of her last moments with her mother, and when she woke up after losing her daughter. From where she stood, she could see into the room, see her father lying asleep in the bed, and hear the heart monitor beside his bed that made a soft beep with each beat of his heart.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, holding her jacket in front of her like a barrier she needed to put between them. Though, what more he could do to her now, she didn't know.
"Abby, you're here." Abby turned her head to see her father's sister, Annabell, rise from the chair beside the bed. Abby didn't move from where she stood by the door, only gave her aunt the barest hint of a smile in acknowledgment. "He's been asking for you," she told her in a low voice then, "Would you mind sitting with him while I go grab something to drink, dear?"
She wanted to tell her aunt she was just stopping by quickly enough to say her goodbyes, but her aunt looked pale and tired. If Abby got lucky her father would stay asleep, and she wouldn't have to worry about having to talk to him. So instead she nodded, and told her, "Sure."
Her aunt gave her arm a gentle squeeze, then when she was gone, Abby made her way over to her vacated seat.
Her father's failing health as of late made him look older, thinner, but she could still see the man he was, despite his sallow skin and pronounced cheekbones. So much so that her gaze lifted away from him over to the window. It was still so hard to look at him.
She breathed deep and fixated on the city outside. The approaching spring brought with it rain, and it had been falling for days now. Standing there at the window with it coming down like it was, it took her back to the last time she was alone with her father like this.
Her tears had slid down her cheeks, mirroring the rain that was falling in rivulets down her New York City apartment window. The morning had been dark, and clouds above were heavy, unleashing a storm that showed no signs of relenting.
Her father's angry voice was still shouting at her from across the room and she hadn't expected he would tire of it anytime soon. "A musician, Abigail? Good God, I thought I'd raised you better than this. You honestly think some backwoods Scotsman from nowhere is going to take care of you? Or better yet, want anything to do with you now?"
"You don't know him-" she had begun, turning to face him, not bothering to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks or mask the hurt from her eyes.
"And what about school?" he interrupted, barking at her like she was an inexperienced child. Beneath the hurt, his outrage had her anger simmering. He had never cared about what was important to her. "Three years into medical school and you're just going to give it all up?"
"No, I won't," she insisted, her tone rising right along with his. "This changes nothing. I'm still going to be a doctor-"
"And raise a child on your own?" He scoffed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, his green eyes bore into hers and she stared back, defiant. She had never hated him more in her life than she had at that moment.
Abby tilted her chin up. "No. Not on my own."
His face had fallen then, along with his shoulders, suddenly looking like all the fight had gone out of him. It caught her off guard, because he wasn't one who gave up so easily or as quickly. "I see you're determined."
"I am," she told him and crossed her arms across her chest.
"If this is the way it has to be, so be it, but," he paused, came closer to her and narrowed his eyes before going on, "if you want me to continue to pay your tuition and the life you find so comfortable, I want you to do one thing for me."
She blinked at him, not knowing what to think. Why would he offer her anything? Why would he suddenly support her when he made it perfectly clear he thought it all a mistake? But then, he wasn't offering her anything, he was threatening. "What's that?"
"I want you to consider all of your options before you go telling this man. I want you to seriously consider what would be better, not for you, but for this child. You're so certain this man will want to be a part of its life but are you going to ask him to move here?" He tilted his head at her. "Give up his life while you go to school? Is that fair to him? Is it fair to the child?"
Stunned, she said nothing in return and turned back to look outside because until that moment she never doubted that she and Marcus could figure it all out, but now her father was making her question all she believed.
"You don't have to get rid of it, Abigail, but there are other options. There's adoption. You can't be selfish in this. You have to think about what kind of future you want your child to have. What kind of future does it deserve and if you can honestly say you can give it that, then fine. But I want you to think long and hard before you go making any decisions. Before you go ruining not only your life but his. Because that's what you'll be doing."
She lifted her hand, touched the tips of her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"Thank God your mother isn't alive to see what a disappointment you've become."
Moments later the door slammed shut behind him in his wake. Her shoulders shook from her quiet sobs muffled by her hand that now covered her mouth.
The last thing she ever wanted to do was ruin Marcus' life.
The sound of the voice by the very man who manipulated her that day suddenly filled the room.
"Abigail," he rasped as he woke. She could tell he was having trouble speaking, and the doctor in her had her rise to her feet and take the cup of water from beside his bed to hold out for him. He looked at her, startled by the gesture, she thought, and good. Let him see despite all that he'd done to her, he hadn't turned her into the monster he was. "I'm glad you're here," he told her once he had taken a few sips.
"I didn't come here for you," she started cutting him off. "I came for Annabell."
He gave her another look, she suspected it to be guilt maybe but wasn't so sure he was capable of such a thing. "Whatever it was I'm still glad you came. There's something I need to tell you."
She put the cup back on the table. "What is it?"
"The baby," he paused to take a labored breath, "your baby…"
Her eyes widened. Oh, God no. No, no, no, no. She didn't want to hear anything he had to say about her daughter. She turned away, hoping that by not looking at him she could stop the emotions and memories from that day from returning but it was no use. She was already crying. Anger rose up in her, filled her with more hatred that she thought she could possess. He couldn't do this to her now. He couldn't ask this of her because she wasn't willing to forgive him. Shaking her head, told him, "Dad, don't-"
"She's alive."
Abby blinked and spun back to face him unsure she heard him right. "What?"
Now he was the one who was crying and with every word that came from his mouth, she didn't recognize the man in front of her. "I went to my lawyer before she was born and had it all arranged. It was me who signed the papers with your signature. I told the doctors and nurses not to mention the baby or the adoption because it would be too painful for you and then I let you believe she didn't survive."
She took a step back and then another. Betrayal stung in her heart like she had never felt. "How could you?"
"You had your life in front of you… I couldn't let you throw that away." His tone was stronger now. More resolute. And it made her sick to think that deep down he still believed he did the right thing. "I need you to forgive me, Abigail."
She's alive. His words came back and became a mantra in her head. Her daughter was alive.
"Where is she?" she demanded.
"The adoption agency's information is in the folder on the cart, along with a confession notarized by my lawyer. His number is in there. He will help you with any legal issues you may have."
Her steps carried her around his bed and over to the cart where she took the stack of papers then made her way to the door.
"Abigail," he pleaded, and she paused in the doorway, didn't bother to turn to look at him. She couldn't. "I was only trying to protect you."
Protect her. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to turn and shout at him that he didn't know the first thing about protecting someone. But the longer she stood there, the longer she was from finding her daughter and she was done letting him keep her from her.
"Please, don't call me again," she said, then made her way at a run to the elevator.
The following morning, Marcus woke to a call from his mother. He was still half asleep while she carried on about something that had happened at the church with Father Carrington's flock of doves that -if he had heard her correctly- involved a lot of shit in the pews and would he go drop by the house and take the kids to school. He'd grumbled an affirmative, and after hanging up with her, stumbled groggily around his room trying to find a clean pair of jeans.
Once he was dressed, he stopped in the kitchen long enough to make himself a large mug of coffee before he left.
He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, and put on his sunglasses while making his way to his car and cursed under his breath. Eight in the morning was too sodding early for any activity that included leaving the house.
A half an hour later, he was back in the car with the wee devils finally on their way to school. They chatted noisily in the back, while he listened to an older alternative station that usually didn't play his songs, but this morning seemed to be a morning he wasn't going to escape them because the third one came on since they started to the school.
More familiar with all of his songs than he was, his ten-year-old nephew, Bellamy asked from the back of the car, "Why don't you sing your own songs?"
Marcus smirked and gazed into the rearview mirror. "Because I'm not that good."
"Yes, you are, Uncle Marcus!" Octavia piped up from next to her brother. Her five-year-old fiery brow furrowed in disapproval. "Granny says so."
He grinned at the irrefutability in her little voice, as though her grandmother's word was law.
"Well, I'm a better writer than I am a singer," he told her, and when her frown didn't disappear he added, "Besides I only sing them for my best girl, and that's you."
"And gran?" she asked leveling a stare at him.
He shook his head and right before bringing the mug to his lips to take a sip he said, "And Gran, yes."
His sister's kids lived with his mum but there are some weekends he took them to give his mum a rest. And in the summer when he wasn't working so much, would take them for a week or two at a time. They were good kids, if not a bit rowdy. His sister would have been proud of them.
In truth, he could be singing his own songs, but that would involve touring and days, weeks, months away. His mum could handle the kids on her own, but she shouldn't have to. He didn't regret staying home to help his mum raise them. He promised his father when he passed on to take care of her and he planned to keep his word.
Besides, he'd never been one for the big stage. Singing in small pubs was one thing, being thrust up onto a pavilion stage with thousands of fans was another. It wasn't his thing. He'd rather write the songs, maybe try them out himself on a small, unknowing crowd in the city with his mates before he demoed them to his record label, but not professionally.
"When can we come stay with you?" Octavia asked.
"In a few days," he reassured her, "on the weekend when you're out of school."
Of the two kids, Octavia was the one most attached to him. While he was cool uncle Marcus to his nephew, Octavia had only been a little under two when her mum died, and she placed him in that missing parental role in her life.
"Are you still coming to my spring concert?" she asked with hope in her tone.
"Wouldn't miss it for the whole world," he promised as he pulled up to the school. "Alright, off you go. Be good. Gran will be here to pick you up."
"See you later!" Bellamy called then flung the car door open.
Octavia smiled from the back seat, and cried, Bye! then ran off after her brother.
He waited until they were at the door for their school before he started to drive home where he would probably sleep for a few more hours then make some more coffee and get to work on a new song.
The only thing about not singing his own songs was knowing if she ever heard them, she'd never know they were written for her.