The Blood Bank Daughter

Chapter 2 The Only Value

I tasted blood before I saw it. Two drops from my nose struck the back of my hand, dark against my skin.

More ran over my lip and left a metallic taste in my mouth. I packed several tissues under my nose until the bleeding slowed.

The tumor was moving faster than the oncologist had predicted.

I held tissues to my face and crossed the hall to Arthur's study. The oak door stood ajar, and I waited outside until his business call ended.

His low voice carried into the hall as he discussed a market position. The receiver clicked down, and the stock ticker continued moving across his monitor.

He kept watching the stock ticker when I entered. Blood had soaked through the tissues and onto my fingers.

"What is it?"

"Father."

The question had followed me home from the oncology center. I hated that I still needed his answer. "If I died soon, would you be sad?"

Arthur looked at the blood, then at me. He leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach.

"Your only value, Evelyn, is to die on an operating table with your organs ready for Chloe. Any other death would be a waste and an inconvenience."

That was enough. I nodded once. "I understand."

He turned back to the monitor before I reached the door.

I walked upstairs without wiping the blood from my hand. Each step felt steady now that there was nothing left to ask him.

In my bathroom, I unfolded the diagnosis. *Glioblastoma. Stage IV. Terminal. Estimated time: three months.* The date sat at the top in black type.

I tore my copy into small pieces and flushed them. The hospital would keep its record; Arthur would never get this one from me.

White scraps circled the bowl until the printed date disappeared. I washed the blood from my fingers and looked at my face in the mirror.

Then I called our family's private physician, Dr. Julian Vance. He answered on the second ring.

"Dr. Vance, this is Evelyn."

"Evelyn? Are you all right? You sound strange."

"I want to stop treatment for the brain tumor today."

Julian went quiet. I could hear paper moving at his end of the call.

When he tried to speak, only a short breath reached me. He had already received the oncology report and understood exactly what I was refusing.

"I also need the forms for a DNR and a full organ donation agreement."

"Do you understand what stopping treatment means?"

"Yes. Prepare the papers, please."

He said my name once. After another long pause, he answered, "I'll prepare them."

I signed every page in Julian's office that afternoon. My name stayed clear even when my hand began to ache.