I hadn't even seen my blind date's face. I'd just sat down at the café when the hospital called—urgent, come back now.
A newborn with albinism had been stolen from the maternity ward. Every available staff member was searching. Nothing.
No leads on that end, and on the other, the mother was losing it.
She insisted her son was perfectly healthy and accused the hospital of secretly swapping her baby—taking her big, healthy boy and palming her off with a child with albinism.
The screaming and thrashing during her postpartum observation triggered a massive hemorrhage. Her condition turned critical.
And right now, half the department's doctors were tied up and the rest were away on training rotations. I was the only one available to handle this kind of emergency.
I scrubbed in, pushed through the doors, and stopped short. The patient everyone had been talking about was Rowena Rodriguez.
She must have lost a lot of blood already. Her eyes were glazed, her voice a drifting mutter: "Senior Paddy really screwed me this time. I told him to use protection but he whined that it didn't feel good. Hiding that the baby's his is one thing, but you can't hide albinism. If only Clint hadn't done that genetic screening..."
...
"At least Senior Paddy took the baby away."
The assisting physician and the anesthesiologist in the operating suite both turned to stare at me.
But right now none of that mattered. We had to save her.
I'd just signaled the anesthesiologist to bring the surgical consent form when Rowena's expression snapped into focus. She grabbed my wrist and screamed, "I refuse surgery!"
Saving her was the priority, but we couldn't override a patient's wishes.
I pulled my hand free as naturally as I could, took the consent form, and said evenly, "You've lost over a thousand milliliters of blood. Without surgery, you could die."
She surged forward and slapped the consent form out of my hands.
The metal clip on the clipboard scraped across my ankle. She glanced down at it sideways, cold and utterly indifferent.
Then she put on the look of someone who'd seen right through us, her voice cutting: "You're just worried I'll die here and you'll have to answer for it."
She hadn't recognized me behind the surgical cap and mask.
The assisting physician shot back, "That's your own dirty mind talking. Don't lump us in with you."
That set her off. She sat bolt upright and jabbed a finger at me, snarling, "Look at her! What kind of attitude is that? Try me. I'll buy this whole hospital and fire every last one of you.
"They all take orders from you, don't they? Tell them to give me back my healthy son. Otherwise I'll die right here on this table, and you can explain that to the hospital. You can explain it to my fiancé."
The sheet beneath her was soaking red again. I glanced at it. "Your son has albinism. The hospital is taking it very seriously, and staff are searching as we speak. Right now, your condition is critical."
I was running out of patience, but I kept trying to reason with her.
Saving lives is my bottom line as a doctor. It always has been.
"No. I gave birth to a healthy son. I want you to give me back a healthy son.
"Without him, Clint will find out I cheated. He won't marry me.
"I'm going to be a rich man's wife. I'm going to live in luxury."
She bared her teeth, her eyes bloodshot, fingers twisting the sterile green drape beneath her.
In her eyes I was the one robbing her of a lifetime of wealth.
She lurched to her feet on the surgical table, hunched over me, and locked both hands around my throat. "Find a healthy baby and bring it here. Or I'm dragging you down with me."
The child was nothing to her but a bargaining chip to claw her way up. As long as she could use it, as long as the lie held, nothing else mattered—not a trace of a mother's love for her own son.
A chill ran through me.
Whatever patience I'd been holding onto burned away in an instant.
But before I could pry her hands off, her strength gave out and she collapsed back onto the table with a dull thud.
