Chapter 7 - THE DAY BLYTHE STOPPED BREATHING
On the fifth day, Blythe stopped breathing.
It happened at 6:42 in the morning.
I had fallen asleep in a chair beside Jonah.
Mara was curled beneath a blanket near the window.
The alarm woke us both.
Nurses rushed in.
Someone pulled me backward.
Blythe’s lips were turning blue.
I remember shouting her name.
I remember Franklin ordering oxygen.
I remember Mara’s hand against my chest, holding me back because I was trying to reach the bed.
“Let them work.”
“That’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“Move.”
“Lawson.”
“MOVE.”
She slapped me.
The entire room froze for half a second.
Even me.
Mara’s eyes filled with tears.
“If you interfere, you could kill her.”
I stared at her.
Then stepped back.
Thirty-seven seconds later, Blythe took a breath.
A tiny one.
But it was hers.
My knees almost gave out.
Franklin stabilized her.
The infection in her lungs had worsened overnight.
She needed stronger antibiotics.
More oxygen.
More time.
Time.
That word had become obscene.
Jonah woke at noon.
He looked toward his sister.
“Is Bly dying?”
“No.”
He looked at me with Genevieve’s eyes.
“You keep saying no.”
I sat beside him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
Six years old.
And he wanted the truth.
I took his small hand.
“The truth is she is very sick.”
“So am I.”
“Yes.”
“Are we going to die?”
Mara turned away.
I could have lied again.
I wanted to.
Instead I said, “I don’t know.”
Jonah nodded.
Strangely, he seemed relieved.
Then he whispered, “I don’t want you to be alone.”
My throat closed.
“You worry about getting better.”
“If we don’t…”
“No.”
“Dad.”
I looked at him.
“If we don’t, Aunt Mara can stay with you.”
Mara covered her face.
I bent down until my forehead rested against his.
“You and your sister are not arranging my life.”
A faint smile.
“Bossy.”
“Exactly.”
“Mom said that too.”
Of course she did.
At 2:15, Prescott entered with news.
Crosby had disappeared.
Federal agents raided three properties.
Empty.
Bank accounts were frozen.
Halloway Biomedical files were seized.
Kessler was cooperating.
But Crosby was gone.
“Let him run,” I said.
Prescott studied me.
“You mean that?”
“I’m not leaving this room.”
Something like approval appeared in his face.
“Genevieve would be impressed.”
“She was rarely impressed.”
“That’s because she knew you.”
At 4:00, Mara found me in the chapel.
I had never used it.
Genevieve had insisted the house include one when we renovated.
I told her I had no use for religion.
She told me rich men always believed in God eventually, usually when the market crashed or somebody they loved entered surgery.
She had been right.
Again.
I sat alone beneath stained glass.
Mara slipped into the pew beside me.
“Do you pray?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Does it work?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Convenient.”
She smiled faintly.
“You negotiate with everything, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“God might be difficult.”
“He hasn’t met a Mercer attorney.”
She laughed.
The sound felt strange in the chapel.
Then we sat silently.
After several minutes, Mara said, “I was eight when my adoptive mother told me I was adopted.”
I looked at her.
“She loved me. My father did too. I had a good childhood.”
“Genevieve wondered about you?”
“Always. She said she used to imagine a sister when she was little.”
Mara swallowed.
“When she found me, she showed up at the hospital cafeteria with two coffees and said, ‘Apparently our mother was terrible at timing.’”
I smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
“She was afraid you’d think differently about her.”
“Because her mother had a child before marriage?”
“Because Genevieve was raised to think secrets were shameful.”
I leaned back.
“She married the wrong man if she wanted a life without secrets.”
Mara looked at me.
“Maybe that’s why she loved you.”
“Because I was worse?”
“Because you understood what it meant to have parts of yourself you didn’t want examined.”
That hit harder than I expected.
At sunset, Franklin found us.
He was holding a lab sheet.
He was smiling.
I had never seen Franklin Yates smile while holding my children’s blood work.
I stood.
“What?”
“Jonah.”
“What about him?”
“We detected neutrophils.”
I stared.
“How many?”
“Not enough yet.”
“Franklin.”
“Engraftment has started.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Mara made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
I grabbed Franklin’s shoulders.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely?”
“Yes.”
“Check again.”
“We did.”
“Again.”
He laughed.
“We will.”
I ran to Jonah’s room.
He was sleeping.
I kissed his forehead.
For the first time in years, I did not care who saw me cry.
Blythe remained critical.
Her counts stayed flat.
One child was climbing.
One was still falling.
The next morning, Jonah’s numbers rose again.
Blythe’s did not.
By afternoon, Franklin became concerned.
“Sometimes one engrafts later.”
“How much later?”
“Several days.”
“Does she have several days?”
He hesitated.
“Maybe.”
At 7:00 p.m., Mara climbed into the chair beside Blythe.
She held her hand.
I stood outside the glass.
Mara whispered something.
Blythe’s eyes opened.
“What are you telling her?” I asked through the intercom.
Mara looked at me.
“A story about Genevieve.”
“Which one?”
“The time she stole our grandfather’s car.”
I stared.
“My wife never told me that.”
“She was seventeen.”
“She told me she was at debate camp.”
Mara grinned.
“She debated whether she could drive ninety.”
Blythe smiled weakly.
There it was.
Genevieve.
Not in photographs.
Not in recordings.
Alive in someone else’s memory.
And I suddenly understood why Mara had been sent to us.
Not only blood.
She had brought pieces of Genevieve none of us knew we had lost.
At midnight, Blythe’s oxygen improved slightly.
At three, her fever dropped.
At five, Franklin ordered new labs.
At 6:12 a.m., he entered carrying the result.
I had not slept.
Mara stood beside me.
Franklin looked at Blythe.
Then smiled.
“Neutrophils.”
Mara collapsed against me.
I caught her.
“How many?” I demanded.
“Thirty.”
“That’s nothing.”
“It was zero yesterday.”
“Is it real?”
“It’s real.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Jonah woke.
“What happened?”
I crossed to him.
“Your sister’s marrow is waking up.”
He looked toward Blythe.
“Does that mean she gets to come with me?”
“Where?”
“Home.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Then every security light outside the medical wing turned red.
Prescott’s voice came through my phone.
“Lawson.”
I answered.
“What?”
“We have a vehicle at the main gate.”
“Whose?”
“Crosby Vane.”
I went still.
“He’s alone.”
“Why?”
Prescott paused.
“He says he came to surrender.”
I looked at Mara.
Something was wrong.
Men like Crosby did not surrender.
Prescott continued.
“He says before he does, there’s something you need to know about Genevieve.”
I looked toward my children.
Six days earlier, I would have gone to that gate immediately.
Now I sat back down.
“Tell him to wait.”
Prescott was silent.
“Lawson?”
“My daughter just started making white blood cells.”
A smile entered his voice.
“Understood.”
May you like
For the first time in my life, Crosby Vane was waiting for me.
And I discovered I liked it that way.
