Chapter 8 - THE HOSPITAL ROOM
The taxi ride to Chicago Memorial Hospital was a blur of streetlights and panic.
I burst through the emergency room doors, still wearing my black-and-white maid’s uniform.
“Sarah Miller,” I gasped to the nurse at the front desk. “Room 412. I’m her daughter.”
“Go straight up, honey,” the nurse said gently.
When I reached the fourth floor, Dr. Evans was standing outside Mom’s room. His face was grim.
“Rachel. I’m glad you made it.”
“What happened?” I cried. “She was stable this morning.”
“Her heart gave out,” he explained softly. “The years of stress, the physical labor... it just became too much. We’ve stabilized her for now, but...”
He didn't have to finish.
I pushed past him and walked into the room.
My mother looked so small in the hospital bed. The machines beeped in a steady, slow rhythm.
Her eyes fluttered open as I sat in the chair next to her bed and took her cold hand.
“Rachel, baby,” she whispered, offering a weak smile. “Why are you in your uniform? Did you lose your job?”
I choked back a sob. “No, Mom. Everything is fine at work.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Good. You need that job.”
I looked at her tired face. The lines around her eyes, carved by thirty years of scrubbing floors to keep me fed and safe.
“Mom,” I said, my voice trembling. “I saw Richard Whitcomb today.”
Her monitor beeped a little faster.
Her eyes widened in fear.
“Rachel... no.”
“He saw the picture, Mom. The one in my locket. He recognized the necklace.”
Tears spilled from my mother’s eyes.
“I tried to hide you from them,” she cried weakly. “I tried to keep you safe.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, not angry, just broken.
“Lorraine found out I was pregnant,” Mom whispered, struggling to breathe. “She came to my apartment. She said if I didn't disappear, she would make sure social services took you away from me the moment you were born. She had the money to do it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Lorraine Whitcomb hadn't just destroyed Daniel’s family. She had destroyed mine, too.
“Richard didn't know,” I told her quietly. “Lorraine told him you lost the baby.”
Mom let out a heartbreaking sob.
“He loved me, Rachel. He really did. But he was weak. And I couldn't risk losing you.”
Suddenly, the door to the hospital room opened.
I turned around, expecting to see a nurse.
Instead, Richard Whitcomb stood in the doorway.
Behind him was Luca Moretti.
Mom gasped, trying to sit up.
“Sarah,” Richard choked out, rushing to the other side of the bed.
He dropped to his knees, ignoring his expensive suit on the hospital floor.
He took her other hand and pressed it to his forehead, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “Sarah, I’m so sorry. I didn't know.”
Mom looked at him, her eyes softening.
After twenty-six years of pain, she didn't look angry. She just looked tired.
“She’s beautiful, isn't she, Richard?” Mom whispered, looking at me.
“She’s perfect,” Richard wept.
Luca stepped into the room quietly. He walked over to me and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“The doctors said she needs a heart transplant,” Luca said softly. “I’ve already spoken to the hospital director. She’s being moved to the top of the private list. I’m covering all of it.”
I looked up at him in shock. “Mr. Moretti... I can't let you do that.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” Luca said firmly. “I take care of my people.”
Just then, Dr. Evans rushed into the room, looking frantically at a chart.
“We have a problem,” the doctor said.
We all looked at him.
“What is it?” Richard demanded, standing up. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“It’s not money, Mr. Whitcomb,” Dr. Evans said grimly. “Sarah has a rare blood type. O-negative with a specific antibody marker. We can't do the surgery unless we have a direct blood transfusion ready from an exact match. And we have none in the blood bank.”
He looked at me.
“Rachel, we tested you when she was admitted last week. You’re A-positive. You aren’t a match.”
My stomach plummeted.
“What about me?” Richard asked frantically. “Test me.”
“You’re AB-positive,” Dr. Evans said, reading the chart. “Not a match.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s my time.”
“No!” I screamed, gripping her hand. “No, we can’t give up!”
The room fell silent except for the slow beeping of the monitor.
Then, a voice came from the hallway.
“Test me.”
We all turned.
May you like
Caroline stood in the doorway, still wearing her wedding dress. Daniel was right behind her.
“I’m O-negative,” Caroline said, stepping into the room. “And we share a father. Test me.”
