Chapter 8

The woman took out a brown envelope from her purse. "I shouldn't have held onto these.

"But when Emmalee passed away so suddenly, a lot of things just didn't make sense."

I jerked my head up.

"She's dead?" I blurted out.

She looked at me. "She suffered a massive hemorrhage after giving birth. They fought to save her for three hours.

"Taylor was outside, signing everything.

"He signed the forms as her husband."

My throat tightened. I could barely breathe.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the first page.

It was the surgical consent form.

The next one was for blood transfusion.

And then, the notice of critical condition.

Taylor's name was on every single one.

I knew that handwriting like the back of my hand.

I could pick it out blindfolded.

There was also a birth record in the envelope.

Freddie was born weighing just over four pounds.

it was premature, low birth weight.

There was also a guardianship transfer form tucked inside.

Taylor, as the father, would be the one to handle all the medical stuff and raise Freddie from then on.

He was the father, not just some friend, and not some do-gooder.

I asked, "Why did he keep this from me?"

She paused, not saying anything for a while.

"You should ask him yourself," she said. "But trust me. Don't bring it up yet."

"Why?" I asked.

She pulled out a fresh form from the bottom of the envelope.

The paper looked like it hadn't even been touched.

The date was from only a week ago.

It wasn't from Oakridge Hospital; it was from Westbrook Hospital.

Right there, clear as day, was Freddie's name.

I couldn't make sense of most of the diagnosis section.

But the words "matching request" jumped out at me.

And in the family notes section, there was a single line.

They were planning to contact his half-sister for a preliminary screening.

My fingertips went ice-cold.

The woman lowered her voice.

"Right after your daughter was born, Taylor came to ask about collecting her cord blood," she said. "You need to keep a close eye on your daughter.

"On Friday, he's planning to bring that boy to meet her."

As she slid the form across the table, her finger lingered on the "matching request" section.

"Don't cry yet," she said softly.

That was when I realized my face was already streaked with tears.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, but the words on the paper got even blurrier.

She handed me a cup of warm water.

I held the cup, the heat seeping into my palm, but I still felt cold to the bone.

She said, "Freddie's illness isn't something new."

She told me that at the end of last year, she ran into Taylor at Westbrook Hospital.

Back then, he wasn't asking about any treatment.

He was asking about finding a blood relative match.

I asked, "Why did you wait until now to come to me?"

She didn't say anything for a long time.

She finally said, "I honestly thought he would tell you himself."

I looked at her.

She avoided my gaze, then added, "I figured at the very least, he'd let you know about the other kid."

Someone walked by outside the archive room.

The footsteps echoed down the old hallway, dragging on and on.

I gathered up the copies, one by one.

With every sheet I put away, it felt like another layer of my heart was being sliced open.

I asked her, "Can these copies be used as evidence?"

She said, "Copies might not be enough, but they'll show you where to look.

"You need to go to the hospital, the housekeeping agency, and Sunnydale Kindergarten; hang on to anything you can get your hands on."

"What exactly are they planning for Friday?"

She shook her head. "All I know is Taylor already got someone to set up an appointment for him.

"The preliminary screening might just be a blood draw, or maybe they'll start with a cheek swab.

"For an adult, it's a quick procedure."

But for an eight-month-old baby, what was truly terrifying wasn't that moment; it was the helplessness behind it.

The real nightmare was that her fate had already been mapped out for her, and she didn't even know it.

I looked up at her.

She said, "If the preliminary screening turns out to be a match, do you really think that's where they'll stop?"

My stomach twisted painfully.

I remembered Isobel's little hands curled into fists as she slept.

I remembered how she'd learned to sit, wobbling but still smiling at me.

She couldn't even say "Mom" clearly yet.

But someone had already written her name into another medical record.

I asked, "Why are you taking such a risk?"

She looked down at her hands.

She said, "I was there the night Emmalee gave birth."

She said that when Emmalee was last conscious, she kept asking if the baby was okay.

She said Taylor was outside taking a call and came in a few minutes late.

I held my breath.

The woman's voice dropped even lower.

She said, "I don't know who called.

"All I remember is that when Emmalee saw him, her eyes went dead.

"I can't forget that look, even after all these years."

I left the old building with the paper bag in hand.

The sun was blazing outside.