Chapter 9 - Mother’s Instinct
“You touch that child without my client’s signature and you’ll spend the rest of your life in federal prison!” Brenda yelled, stepping in front of Dr. Reed.
Dr. Reed didn't even blink. “Get out of my hospital before I have security restrain you as an active biological hazard.”
Richard pushed himself off the water fountain, his face twisted in rage. “Sarah, you sign that consent and if she dies on that table, I will make sure you are charged with manslaughter!”
I looked Richard dead in the eye.
For seven years, I had shrunk under his voice. I had apologized for his bad moods. I had taken extra shifts so he wouldn't complain about the grocery bill. I had let him make me feel small, weak, and replaceable.
Not today.
“If you ever come near my daughter again, Richard,” I said, my voice drops to a deadly, razor-sharp whisper, “you won’t have to worry about prison. Because I will destroy you myself.”
I shoved past Brenda Vance, walked straight to the nurse’s clipboard, and scrawled my signature across the emergency surgical consent form with such force the pen ripped through the paper.
“Let’s go, Doctor,” I said.
Dr. Reed grabbed my hand. “Come with me to the scrub room. You can hold her hand until the propofol takes hold.”
The doors hissed shut behind us, locking the screaming lawyers and the corrupt father out in the sterile hallway.
Inside the operating theater, the temperature was freezing. Blue monitors beeped in erratic, syncopated rhythms. Chloe lay on the narrow operating table, draped in green sterile paper, her chest rising and falling to the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.
The black mark was no longer a line.
It had expanded into an intricate, terrifying web of black frostbite, completely encasing the left side of her neck from her jawline down to her chest. Beneath the translucent skin, the thick central trunk of the organism was thrashing violently, suffocating her tissues as it sought an exit into her heart.
“Chloe,” I whispered, rushing to the head of the table. I took her tiny, limp hand in mine.
Her eyelids flickered. Through the haze of the anesthetics, she recognized my touch. Her fingers squeezed mine with microscopic pressure.
“Mommy’s here,” I cried, tears dropping onto the sterile green sheet. “You’re so brave, my baby. You’re so strong. Mommy is not going anywhere.”
“Beginning anesthesia induction,” the anesthesiologist announced. “Pushing rocuronium and fentanyl.”
Chloe’s eyes slowly closed. The monitor showed her brain waves smoothing into deep, protective unconsciousness.
Dr. Reed stepped up to the table, her gloved hands holding a micro-scalpel.
May you like
“Scalpel,” she commanded. “Turn the surgical cameras on. Record everything. We are making medical history tonight—or we’re watching an execution.”
***
