CHAPTER 4 : THE FATHER BEHIND THE WHITE COAT
Dr. Samuel Grant was the director of hematology research at St. Vincent Medical Center.
He had worked three floors above Sophie since the day she was admitted.
I found his photograph on the hospital website before midnight.
He was sixty-one, with dark gray hair, thoughtful eyes and a reputation for developing experimental treatments for aggressive blood cancers.
The cruel irony was almost impossible to understand.
Sophie’s biological father was one of the most respected blood specialists in Chicago, yet she had grown up without proper monitoring for the disease that was now killing her.
“Why didn’t your mother tell him?” I asked Lena.
We sat in the intensive-care waiting room while Sophie slept.
“According to Mom’s letter, Samuel was engaged when they met. Mom ended the relationship after she discovered she was pregnant. He offered money, but she refused it.”
“Did he know Sophie was his?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“She never explained everything. The letter says Samuel agreed to stay away because Robert wanted to raise Sophie as his own daughter.”
Robert Bennett had been the only father Sophie remembered. He had died in a construction accident when she was sixteen.
“Does Samuel know she’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said he works at this hospital.”
“That doesn’t mean he knows every patient.”
“He runs hematology.”
Lena looked uncomfortable.
“There may be another reason Mom kept the truth hidden.”
“What reason?”
“Samuel was the doctor who identified the genetic mutation when Sophie was a child.”
I stared at her.
“He examined his own daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And still let Margaret hide the diagnosis?”
“That’s what the records suggest.”
Anger rose through me.
Another adult who had known.
Another person who had decided Sophie was better off ignorant.
I stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To find him.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“I don’t care.”
“You can’t storm into a doctor’s office and accuse him of abandoning a patient.”
“Watch me.”
Lena stepped in front of me.
“Sophie doesn’t know the truth.”
“She needs a donor.”
“A biological parent is only a partial match in most cases. And Samuel is over sixty.”
“A partial match may be better than no match.”
“Ethan, this isn’t your secret to reveal.”
“No. It’s her life.”
A voice came from behind us.
“What secret?”
Sophie stood several feet away, supported by a nurse.
Her face was pale, and an IV line ran beneath her hospital robe.
The nurse looked apologetic.
“She insisted on walking.”
Lena and I exchanged a glance.
Sophie’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you hiding?”
“No one should have this conversation in a hallway,” Lena said.
“Apparently, hallways are where everyone tells me my life isn’t what I thought it was.”
The nurse helped Sophie into a nearby chair, then stepped away.
Lena sat across from her.
“Robert loved you,” she began.
Sophie’s expression hardened.
“Why are you talking about Dad?”
“Because he was your father in every way that mattered.”
“Lena.”
“But he wasn’t your biological father.”
Sophie stared at her.
The words seemed to hang in the air without meaning.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
Sophie looked toward me.
I could not pretend.
Her face emptied.
“Who?”
Lena told her.
For several seconds, Sophie said nothing.
Then she laughed.
It was a small, disbelieving sound.
“The head of hematology?”
“Yes.”
“The man whose name is printed on half the research pamphlets in my room?”
“Yes.”
“And he knew?”
“We think he did.”
Sophie pushed herself upright.
“I want to see him.”
“Sophie, you need to rest.”
“I want to see him now.”
Dr. Patel was reluctant, but when he understood the circumstances, he made a call.
Samuel Grant arrived forty minutes later.
He entered the consultation room wearing dark trousers and a white shirt without a tie. He looked tired until he saw Sophie.
Then he stopped breathing.
The resemblance was not obvious at first. But once I knew, I could see it in the shape of their eyes and the way they held their mouths when frightened.
“Sophie,” he whispered.
She remained seated.
“You know who I am.”
Samuel closed the door behind him.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known I was in this hospital?”
His eyes lowered.
“Since your first admission.”
The room turned cold.
“You knew for two months?”
“I reviewed your case because of the mutation.”
“You reviewed my case because I’m your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Did you plan to tell me?”
“I didn’t know how.”
Sophie’s hands tightened.
“You’re a doctor. Try words.”
He flinched.
“I made a promise to your mother and to Robert.”
“They’re dead.”
“I know.”
“And I’m dying.”
Samuel looked stricken.
“Do not say that.”
“Why? Does the truth make you uncomfortable?”
“I have spent every day since your admission trying to find a treatment.”
“From a distance?”
“I thought my presence would create more pain.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Sophie’s voice rose, and a monitor attached to her finger began beeping faster.
Dr. Patel moved closer, but she held up one hand.
“No. I want answers.”
Samuel sat across from her.
“Yes, I knew you were my daughter. Yes, I identified the mutation when you were nine. Your mother refused to tell you, and at the time, the condition appeared inactive. I should have fought harder.”
“Did you know pregnancy could trigger it?”
His silence was enough.
Sophie’s face crumpled.
“You knew.”
“The risk was uncertain.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And when I became pregnant?”
“I didn’t know.”
“My mother-in-law had the reports.”
Samuel looked toward me.
“Marjorie Carter?”
“You know her?” I asked.
“We served on the hospital board together years ago.”
Of course they knew each other.
Sophie leaned forward.
“Could the pregnancies have caused the leukemia?”
Samuel chose his words carefully.
“The hormonal and immune changes may have accelerated an existing condition. But no one can say with certainty.”
“So my babies died because everyone around me believed I was too weak to hear the truth.”
“No,” Samuel said quickly. “The miscarriages were not your fault.”
“I didn’t say they were.”
Her voice shattered.
“I said they were yours.”
Samuel’s eyes filled.
He accepted the accusation without defending himself.
After several moments, Sophie asked the question that mattered most.
“Can you be my donor?”
“I’ve already asked the transplant team to test me.”
Her head lifted.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And?”
Samuel’s face changed.
“I’m a partial match.”
Hope entered the room cautiously.
“Then we can do the transplant,” I said.
“It isn’t that simple,” Samuel replied. “My age and cardiac history increase the risk. More importantly, Sophie’s current infection makes transplantation extremely dangerous.”
“What other options are there?” Sophie asked.
Samuel looked at her with the helplessness of a father who had spent a lifetime refusing to become one.
“There is an experimental therapy being studied at another hospital. It uses modified immune cells to target the specific mutation.”
“Will it cure me?”
“It might put the disease into remission long enough for a transplant.”
“Might?”
“The trial has only treated twelve patients.”
“How many survived?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Eight.”
Sophie absorbed the number.
“And the others?”
“Two died from complications. Two did not respond.”
I felt her hand search for mine beneath the table.
This time, I did not reach first.
She held on tightly.
“When can I start?” she asked.
“The trial is currently closed.”
“Then why mention it?”
“Because I believe they might make an exception.”
“Might?”
Samuel looked down.
“The principal investigator is my wife.”
Sophie’s hand went rigid in mine.
“Your wife knows about me?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since before you were born.”
The room fell silent again.
Samuel continued reluctantly.
“She opposed my involvement in your life. She believed acknowledging you would destroy our family.”
Sophie let go of my hand.
“What family?”
Samuel’s eyes closed briefly.
“I have a son.”
Something about the way he said it made me uneasy.
“How old?” Sophie asked.
“Thirty-two.”
Sophie looked at him.
Samuel’s voice dropped.
“His name is Daniel Grant.”
I knew that name too.
Everyone in Chicago did.
Daniel Grant was a television journalist known for exposing medical corruption and hospital cover-ups.
Two weeks earlier, he had announced an investigation into St. Vincent.
Samuel looked directly at Sophie.
“Daniel doesn’t know you’re his sister.”
At that exact moment, someone knocked once and opened the consultation-room door.
A man entered carrying a camera bag.
He was tall, dark-haired and instantly recognizable.
Daniel Grant looked at Samuel, then at Sophie.
“I came because someone sent me evidence that St. Vincent concealed a patient’s genetic diagnosis for twenty-five years.”
May you like
His eyes settled on the file box beside my chair.
“Judging by everyone’s faces, I’m guessing I found the right room.”
