He made a choking sound and pitched forward. I lunged for him, breaking his fall with my body. I heard Charlotte cry out behind me and struggled to sit upright with Walter's weight on top of me.
"Turn him over," I heard Harley instruct and Walter's weight was quickly lifted off me.
Everything seemed to slow, voices coming from underwater, the sound of my heart thumping loudly in my ears. I heard José on the phone with 911 as I kneeled over Walter. He was gasping for air, his hand still over his heart as Charlotte and I kneeled over him. "Help's coming," I croaked, my chest filled with fear.
Charlotte was crying silently as she rubbed his hair. He seemed to be trying to say something, first to her and then to me, but no words were emerging, only gasps and grunts for air. Finally, he reached for my hand, squeezing it tightly in his as he choked out, "Like . . . my . . . own son."
My heart squeezed so tightly in my chest that I gasped for air myself.
"Don't talk," Charlotte said. "And don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare, you stubborn old goat."
Walter let out one final gasp and collapsed, only to lie still and silent. Panic prickled my skin. My breath came out in sharp exhales. I heard one word being repeated again and again. "No, no, no." I finally realized it was my own terrified voice pleading the word like a desperate prayer.
**********
The hospital room was dim and silent, the early glow of dawn filtering through the blinds, the steady beat of Walter's heart being sung by the heart monitor next to where he lay. I sat hunched over in a chair next to his bed, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Charlotte had gone home several hours ago to rest and feed Sugie. She'd wanted to spend the night, but there wasn't an extra bed anywhere in the hospital and it wasn't likely Walter would wake during the night, even though he was now stable. So I'd volunteered to stay, telling her my back was younger, and I'd call her if he woke before she arrived in the morning.
Bringing one hand to the back of my neck, I massaged the tight muscles.
"I hope you don't mind me saying," I snapped my head up at Walter's voice, "that you look like hell, sir."
I released a breath. "When has what I minded ever made a bit of difference with you, Walter?" I asked, attempting to conceal the grin that wanted to break free.
"Never," he admitted.
I stood up and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table next to his bed and helped him hold the cup as he took several long drinks. Laying his head back on the pillow, he regarded me. I sat back down on the chair and pulled it a bit closer to his bed. Pulling out my phone, I said, "It's just like you to pull dramatics like you did last night. I'll let Charlotte know—"
"Wait just a few minutes," Walter said, his voice serious as he held his hand up. I paused and then put my phone away. "I didn't go to all that dramatic trouble to have you walk out of here without hearing me out."
I gave him a small, wry smile, but nodded my head. "Okay. Fine then."
For a moment, Walter didn't say anything. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. "When I was lying at the bottom of the stairs, you know what I kept thinking?" I shook my head. "I kept thinking, please don't let me leave this world without telling that boy how I feel about him."
"Walter—" I said, running my hand through my hair, emotion rising in my chest. I'd never discussed feelings with Walter.
"We had a son," he said, clearing his throat as his voice broke subtly on the word son.
I tilted my head. "What? You never said—"
"No, it's difficult for us to speak of Henry. We lost him when he was just a baby. Charlotte, she . . . grieved terribly, as did I."
"I'm sorry, Walter," I said hoarsely. He nodded. I’d seen that sadness in his eyes before today. I’d seen that face every time my father had dished out his punishments—most of them cold and all of them hurtful. All this time, Walter had cared so deeply about how I'd been treated, and I’d never known of his and Charlotte’s loss.
"We couldn't have more children after that. Being there, in the home where we'd had him, became unbearable. And so," he took a deep breath, "we decided to come here, to America, to begin a new life. We started working for your family and we found a bit of happiness again. And then, one day, a knock came at the door and there you were. Despite the way Ford and Jessica Hawthorn reacted, to Charlotte and me, to us, you were our gift, and you have been every day since. Not a day has gone by when we haven't been proud of you. I want you to know that."
"Walter—" My voice broke.
"We couldn't always be there, and we couldn't always intervene, because we feared your father would send us away and we'd be no good to you at all, but we did all we could to let you know . . . that you weren't alone—not then, and not now. Not ever. We only withheld the true motive of your father’s bequest because we love you and tried to bear that terrible burden for you as long as we could. We didn't do it out of dishonesty. We did it out of love. I hope you can come to understand."
I sat back in the chair, allowing his words to flow through my heart. Of course I'd always known—Walter and Charlotte were more my parents than my actual father and stepmother had ever been. But . . . what if Walter and Charlotte were wrong and he wasn't? "What if he was right about me, Walter?" I choked, voicing my deepest, darkest fear.