The Blood Bank Daughter

The folded brain cancer diagnosis pressed against my hip. Harris had a needle in my arm before I could take off my coat. The paper had been there since I left the oncology center that morning. I kept touching its folded edge to make sure I had not imagined the words. "Miss Chloe is feeling weak again, Miss Evelyn," he said as he tightened the rubber strap. Of course she was. I fixed my eyes on the wallpaper. Arthur Croft stood by the fireplace with his newspaper open, the corner of his mouth lifting when the needle went in. "Hurry up, Harris. That blood is as tainted as her mother's. I don't want it lingering in the air." I had survived this room too many times to react. Arthur kept me under his roof because my blood, marrow and organs might someday serve Chloe. To him, I was the mistake he had made two decades earlier. Keeping his legitimate daughter healthy was the only use he had found for me. Harris filled the vial and pulled out the needle. When I stood, the room shifted. I caught the mahogany side table, but the porcelain vase went over and broke on the rug. The dizziness had started with the tumor. That morning it lasted long enough for the broken pieces to stop moving before the floor steadied under me. Arthur lowered his newspaper. For a second I expected his hand across my face. He took a navy silk handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it near my knee. My fingers moved toward it before I could stop them. Once, years earlier, I had seen him offer that handkerchief to Chloe for a paper cut. I mistook the same motion for concern now. "Clean that up. If you collapse before Chloe's next treatment, Harris will answer for it." The handkerchief was for the rug. Even then, some part of me had managed to misunderstand him. Chloe came down the staircase in white silk pajamas. "Evelyn, you're back. You look awful. Here, have some milk." She offered me a glass and watched my hand reach for it. I knew the game, but refusing would only give her a different reason to complain. "Oops!" She opened her fingers. Milk ran across the Persian rug and between the broken pieces. Chloe pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm so clumsy." Cold milk soaked the knees of my jeans. Chloe stayed well clear of the shards while Arthur looked from the stain to me. Arthur pointed at the floor. "On your knees. Clean up the mess you made." A shard bit through my jeans when I knelt. I gathered the pieces without making a sound. My face appeared in one curved fragment, white and narrow. My pocket crackled. The candy wrapper inside had been there for ten years, since the night Arthur found me burning with fever and drove me to the hospital. He had driven fast through the rain but left me at the entrance. The candy was the only thing he put in my hand. "Don't die," he had said as he put the candy in my lap. "You're still useful." I had saved the wrapper as proof that he cared. Every time he used me, I told myself love might come later. Across the rug, Chloe hid a smile behind her hand. Arthur had already returned to his newspaper. I placed the last piece of porcelain in the dustpan. Ten years of waiting ended there. Arthur had claimed my blood for long enough. I could decide when it stopped.