Chapter 11 #2
“It’s me,” I say, clearing my voice.
The nurse checks her file. “We need to take a blood sample to check your blood type and see if it matches Mr. Harrington.”
I nod.
“You can come with me.”
Judas is still holding my hand. Letting go feels harder than it should, so our fingers brush as I step past him and follow the nurse down the corridor.
I glance back once.
But his gaze is fixed on the floor.
The nurse leads me into a small room on the right. Four white walls, with a single mint green stripe running across them. The smell inside is too sterile. I hate it.
A padded chair is in the center, one armrest angled toward me, already prepared. The nurse moves to the computer, snaps on gloves, and gestures to the chair.
“Have a seat.”
I sit.
She guides my arm onto the padded rest and turns my palm up. My sleeve rolls past my elbow. A blue band tightens around my upper arm, pulling my skin tight.
“Make a fist.”
I do.
Her fingers press along my vein. First she taps, then pauses.
She swabs my skin with alcohol. And all I can see are my scars. Out in the open. Obvious. But she doesn’t say a word about it, she doesn’t even look twice.
“Stay still.”
My face goes cold.
Needles. I hate them.
It’s strange how I can hurt myself without hesitation, but the idea of someone taking a small vial of blood makes my stomach roll. Sweat beads at my hairline. I close my eyes.
It does not help.
When I open them again, Judas is in the doorway. He leans against the frame, his two different colored eyes locked on mine.
I focus on him as the needle slides in. I breathe through my nose. I watch him instead of my arm as dark red fills the thin tube beside me.
The nurse switches the vial without looking up.
The band loosens, and the needle is already gone.
But he is still there.
“Hold this,” she says, pressing gauze to my skin. My fingers tremble as she tapes a bandage over it.
She labels the tubes and says, “This won’t take long.”
“You can wait outside.”
I stand, and the room tilts just a little.
Judas is there in a second. His hands catch me and guide me back into the hallway.
As soon as we step out, I lean against the wall, my face drained.
He turns to me, cups my cheeks, his thumbs brushing my skin. His eyes drops to my arm. He gently pulls my sleeve down, covering the scars like they never existed.
Simona notices us and walks closer.
She looks at both of us before she finally asks, “Is everything okay?”
She can’t see us like this. I step back. Judas does too.
Space opens between us.
“I feel dizzy,” I say, clearing my throat.
“You look pale, kiddo.” Simona moves closer and reaches for my cheek.
Catherine appears from the middle of the corridor and rushes in, grabbing Simona’s wrist.
“Don’t touch my kids,” she says, shoving her back. “Why are you even here?”
“It’s all over the news. The accident,” Simona says. “I called around to find out where he was, and when I did, I came to see how he is.”
Catherine’s jaw tightens. Her hands curl into fists. For a moment, she is too still.
Then she moves.
“Oh, he will be better than you when I am done with you,” she says, and lunges.
Judas catches her. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her away.
“Judas, let me go. She has to learn her place.”
He signs something to her, guiding her backward as she fights him. Simona and I stand frozen, watching Catherine unravel again.
He drags her further down the hall toward the waiting room.
“Carmen,” Simona says, turning back to me. “I…”
A nurse steps out of the room, a paper in her hand.
“Any news?” Simona asks.
The nurse looks at me. “It’s a match. You have the same blood type.” She hesitates, then clears her throat. “We also noticed similarities in the sample. This might seem like an odd question, but Mrs. Harrington said you were adopted.”
“Yes,” I say, my brows pulling together. “What do you mean, similarities?”
“Like with relatives,” she says. “He could be your father. Or an uncle. But the markers point to a close blood relation.”
I turn to Simona.
Her face drains of color.
“We can continue the blood donation in the room, miss,” the nurse says. “Miss?”
The hallway fades, and the voices blur.
My mother never told me who my biological father was. I always imagined someone who didn’t want me. Someone who walked away without looking back. I never let my mind go anywhere near Judge Harrington.
I nod.
The nurse guides me back into the room. My legs move on their own. I lower myself into the chair again.
Her voice comes from far away now. “We can run a DNA test if you would like to know for sure. We will need Mrs. Harrington’s permission first.”
I nod, and roll my sleeve up.
Take it all, I think. Every drop you need.
I need him to live.
I need answers.
Why did you leave me? Why did you leave my mother?
Dios, por favor.
A tear slips down my cheek.
I don’t pray. I never have. Belief never gave me anything to hold on to.
But my lips still move.
And for the first time, I hope something out there is listening.
That sucker has to live to give me answers I need.