Chương 5
Rebecca noticed her looking.
“Do not clean the room.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were making a list with your face.”
Tasha brought an extra blanket and told them Dr. Ortiz would return in the morning. She had also contacted the hospital social worker and risk-management office because the collection kit appeared to have been prepared without clear maternal consent.
Grace disliked the phrase risk management. It made her feel as if she had become an institutional problem before understanding her own.
At midnight, a pediatric transplant coordinator called from Harbor Children’s after receiving a message from the maternity unit.
Her name was Mallory Chen. She spoke carefully, verifying Grace’s identity and asking whether Caleb was present.
“He’s not allowed in the room.”
“Thank you. I need to explain what our program has and has not been told.”
Rebecca leaned closer.
Mallory said the directed collection request had been initiated by Caleb as Mason’s biological father. The program had mailed the kit after receiving preliminary information from the obstetric practice, but final consent from the delivering mother was still required before collection. No cord blood could be processed for Mason without Grace’s authorization.
“What did he tell you about me?” Grace asked.
“That you were aware Mason was his son and supported directed donation.”
Grace looked at the ceiling.
Rebecca mouthed something that Tasha would have made her repeat more politely.
“Did he sign my name?”
“No. The maternal consent section is blank.”
“Did he tell you the baby might be delivered early?”
“He said delivery could occur anytime because of a high-risk pregnancy.”
“Did he ask whether delivering sooner would help Mason?”
Mallory paused. “He asked about timing. I told him collection should occur only when your obstetric team determined delivery was medically appropriate.”
“Did you tell him the baby was a match?”
“No. There is no confirmed match. Cord blood would need to be collected, tested, and evaluated. Even then, it might not contain enough usable cells.”
Grace pressed her lips together.
“So he knows.”
“I can’t tell you what he understood. I can tell you what we documented.”
“Is Mason dying?”
Mallory’s voice softened without becoming vague. “Mason is seriously ill. I’m not part of his direct clinical team tonight, and I can’t disclose his private information without authorization. His mother can choose to speak with you.”
“Does she think I know?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Grace thanked her and ended the call.
Rebecca sat with both hands between her knees.
“That woman sounded like she wanted to crawl through the phone and strangle him with a consent form.”
“She sounded professional.”
“She sounded professionally furious.”
Grace reached for the water cup and discovered her hand was shaking. Rebecca held the straw steady without comment.
At two in the morning, the contractions slowed.
At three, Grace slept for twenty minutes and dreamed she was searching an airport for a child whose face kept changing. When she woke, Rebecca was standing by the window, eating crackers from a plastic packet and watching ambulances move below.
“Go home,” Grace whispered.
“No.”
“You have work.”
“I called out.”
“You can’t keep calling out every time my life becomes inconvenient.”
Rebecca turned. “Your husband concealed a human being for nine years. I think this qualifies.”
Grace looked toward the door.
Caleb had sent fourteen messages. The first seven apologized. The next three explained. The remaining four shifted between pleading and accusation.
I never wanted to hurt you.
You need to understand what it is like to watch your child disappear.
Ethan has been waiting for a chance to divide us.
Please don’t punish Mason for my mistake.
The final message contained a photograph.
A thin boy sat on the edge of a hospital bed wearing a green knit cap. His mask had been pulled beneath his chin for the picture. He held a model airplane in both hands and looked annoyed rather than ill.
Grace stared at his face.
The shape of his mouth belonged to Caleb. So did the slight unevenness of his eyebrows.
Rebecca reached for the phone, then stopped.
“Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“He looks like Caleb.”
“I know.”
Grace zoomed in before she could stop herself.
Mason had a strip of medical tape across the back of one hand. A whiteboard behind him showed the name Nora and a list of medications written in blue marker. In the corner of the frame, barely visible, was a folded gray sweater identical to the one in Caleb’s overnight bag.
Grace set down the phone.
“He goes there enough to leave clothes.”
Rebecca said nothing.
The next morning, Dr. Ortiz confirmed that Grace could be discharged if the contractions remained controlled and there was no further bleeding. She recommended staying close to the hospital, avoiding unnecessary activity, and returning immediately for pain, bleeding, fluid leakage, or reduced fetal movement.
She also asked whether Grace wanted a different maternal-fetal medicine group to manage the rest of the pregnancy.
“Is Ethan refusing to see me?”
“He has formally recused himself because of the accusation and his prior personal connection.”
“Did he tell you what that connection was?”
“He said you knew each other before he became your physician.”
Grace looked at Rebecca, who raised one eyebrow.
Lena continued. “He also documented that his clinical recommendations were reviewed and supported by me.”
“Would he have delivered the baby if he didn’t care about me?”
“No competent physician would perform a premature C-section because a spouse demanded it.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” Lena said. “But it is the answer relevant to your safety.”
Grace appreciated the refusal even while resenting it.
She chose to transfer her care to Lena.
Before discharge, a social worker named Denise helped Grace complete a visitor restriction and discussed temporary safety planning. Grace resisted the word safety again.
“Caleb isn’t going to attack me,” she said.
“Safety is not limited to physical assault.”
“He panicked.”
“Possibly.”
“His son is sick.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“He has never acted like this.”
Denise folded her hands on a yellow legal pad. “You are explaining him to me more than you are describing how you feel.”
