Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Call-3
The name on the flashing screen read: Dr. Harrison - St. Jude.
Clara made a wild, desperate grab for the phone, but my father easily pushed her arm aside. He swiped his thumb across the screen and put the call on speakerphone.
"Clara?" a deep, authoritative male voice came through the speaker, crisp and entirely oblivious to the drama unfolding in my backyard. "I’m calling from the private lab. We just received the secondary lab results from the biopsy you insisted we run on the donor site tissue."
Clara stood frozen, her eyes wide with absolute panic, her throat moving as she tried to form words, but no sound came out.
"Clara, are you there?" Dr. Harrison asked.
"She's here," my father said, his voice flat and deadly. "And so is the rest of the family. You're on speaker, Doctor."
A brief pause hung on the line. The doctor sounded suddenly cautious. "Who is this?"
"This is David Vance. Clara’s husband," my father replied. "And I think you ought to tell us why my wife has a skin graft on her stomach that matches my son-in-law's surgical scar."
Silence stretched over the phone for three long, agonizing seconds.
"Mr. Vance..." Dr. Harrison’s tone shifted instantly from casual to heavily guarded, legalistic, and tense. "I cannot discuss a patient’s medical history over an open line. Mrs. Vance, please come to my office on Monday morning so we can discuss the pathology results in private."
"No!" I screamed, stepping right up to the phone in my father's hand. "Doctor, my name is Maya! My daughter just identified her father's scar on my stepmother's stomach! If there is something illegal going on here, I am calling the police in thirty seconds!"
"Ms. Vance—or Mrs... whatever your married name is—please remain calm," Dr. Harrison said, his voice clipped. "There is nothing illegal about Mrs. Vance’s procedure. It was a private, elective tissue transplant performed at a specialized facility overseas two years ago. St. Jude’s merely handles her post-operative care."
"An elective tissue transplant?" I repeated, my brain short-circuiting. "You're saying she chose to take skin from my husband?!"
"I am saying," Dr. Harrison said carefully, "that the tissue sample Mrs. Vance submitted for cellular testing last week shows a 99.9% DNA match to Glen Miller. How or why that tissue was acquired is a matter between Mrs. Vance, Mr. Miller, and the private clinic in Mexico where the procedure was conducted."
Mexico.
The word hung in the humid afternoon air like a cloud of poison gas.
Sixteen months ago, Glen had disappeared for two weeks. He had told me he was going on a solo fishing trip in Western Texas to "clear his head" after losing his corporate accounting job. When he came back, he had been strangely quiet, bruised around his ribs, and refused to let me see him shirtless for nearly a month, claiming he had fallen on some sharp rocks while camping and was embarrassed by his clumsiness.
I looked at Glen. He was staring at the concrete floor, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"The fishing trip," I whispered, the memory slotting into place with terrifying precision. "You didn't go to Texas, did you, Glen?"
Glen covered his face with his wet hands and began to weep hysterically. "I had no choice, Maya! I owed them money! They were going to kill me!"
"Owed WHO money?!" my father roared, stepping away from Clara and grabbing Glen by his shirt collar, pulling him upright until they were nose-to-nose. "Who did you owe money to, and what did my wife have to do with it?!"
"David, stop!" Clara shrieked, finally breaking her silence. "He’s lying! He’s trying to drag me down with him!"
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"Shut up, Clara!" my father barked without turning around. He glared at Glen. "Talk, Glen. Talk right now, or I swear to God I'll throw you in that pool and hold you under until you do."
Glen opened his mouth, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. "It... it wasn't just skin, Mr. Vance... Oh God, Maya, I'm so sorry... it wasn't just skin..."
