Chapter 2 - The Death CertificateThe silence in the principal's office lasted so long that I could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
I looked from my father to my mother.
Neither would meet my eyes.
Dr. Brennan finally pushed a folder across the desk.
“We shouldn't be discussing this here.”
“Then where?” I demanded.
My voice sounded foreign.
“Apparently I’m dead.”
My mother covered her mouth.
Dad stood.
“Connor, you need to calm down.”
“Calm down?”
I laughed once.
It wasn't funny.
“My teacher says she delivered a dead baby two days before I was supposedly born. Now you're looking at me like you don't know who I am.”
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Enough.”
“No.”
I pointed at the folder.
“What's in there?”
Dr. Brennan answered.
“A copy of the death certificate.”
I stared at her.
“For the baby?”
She nodded.
“Male. Unidentified at first. Later registered under a temporary hospital number.”
I felt dizzy.
“What's the name?”
She hesitated.
Then she turned the document toward me.
I read it.
Infant Male Hayes.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Hayes?”
My father's face turned white.
“That's my surname.”
“Yes,” Dr. Brennan said.
“Why?”
She looked at my parents.
“They told me the mother was named Sarah Hayes.”
My mother began crying harder.
I slowly turned toward her.
“Mom?”
She couldn't answer.
My father finally said:
“We were told the baby was alive.”
Dr. Brennan stared at him.
“What?”
Dad's hands were shaking.
“We were told our son had been transferred.”
“That isn't what happened.”
“You weren't there.”
“I was the physician who delivered him.”
“You were in another room when the nurses came.”
Dr. Brennan's expression changed.
“Which nurses?”
Dad didn't answer.
She leaned forward.
“Which nurses told you your baby had been transferred?”
Dad looked down.
“Thomas.”
“Thomas who?”
“Evelyn Thomas.”
Dr. Brennan's face went blank.
Then she whispered:
“Evelyn Thomas died eleven years ago.”
Nobody spoke.
I felt like the floor had shifted beneath me.
“Who was I transferred to?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“We never found out.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
My mother suddenly looked at me.
“You were brought home two days later.”
“From where?”
She was crying too hard to answer.
“From St. Mary’s,” Dad whispered.
I looked at Dr. Brennan.
“You said the baby died.”
“He did.”
“Then how did I come home?”
No one had an answer.
The principal stood.
“This conversation can't continue without legal counsel.”
“Why?”
He didn't respond.
Dr. Brennan stood instead.
“I need to see your birth certificate.”
Dad stiffened.
“What?”
“Your son's original certificate.”
“We have it.”
“Bring it tomorrow.”
She picked up her coat.
Then she stopped.
She looked at me.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“When I read your name today, I remembered the baby I delivered.”
My heart pounded.
“What did you remember?”
Dr. Brennan's eyes filled with tears.
“He had a small crescent-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.”
I froze.
My hand slowly moved beneath my shirt.
I've had that birthmark my entire life.
I had always thought it was meaningless.
Dr. Brennan saw my expression.
“Connor?”
I pulled my shirt down.
“No.”
She stared.
Then she whispered:
“You have it.”
Before anyone could speak, the office door opened.
A police officer stood there.
He looked at me.
Then at Dr. Brennan.
Then said:
“Don't let him leave the building.”
My father jumped up.
“Why?”
The officer reached into his jacket.
He held up a photograph.
“Because someone tried to access this boy's hospital file forty minutes ago.”
He placed the photograph on the desk.
It showed the hospital's basement archive.
And beside a row of old patient files was a fresh note.
May you like
Three words were written in black marker:
HE KNOWS NOW.
