My Son's Father Is the Wrong Brother novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Rabbit

At dawn Timothy swabs his cheek at the hospital and Milo hands him the rabbit; the doctor lays out the only safe donor, and the result lands: he is the father.

Milo had his weekly infusion at seven, so at ten to six I carried him through the glass doors of Eastbrook Children's.

Timothy was already in the lobby.

He still wore last night's black suit, and he held two paper cups of coffee that he had clearly stopped drinking.

"You didn't sleep," I said.

"Neither did you."

He held out the second cup. I shook my head, and he set it on the desk without a word.

Milo stirred against my shoulder, saw a stranger, and hid his face in my neck.

"He's shy in the morning," I said.

"So am I."

A technician in blue scrubs met us at the elevator with a swab and a form.

Timothy signed the form without reading it.

He opened his mouth and let her run the swab along his cheek.

Then he watched her seal it in a tube.

"The lab promised me an answer by tonight," he said. "I paid them to promise it."

"Of course you did."

His eyes came up to mine, sharp and grey, and I found out I had said it almost kindly.

On the fourth floor a nurse laid Milo on the infusion bed and found the vein in his hand.

Milo screamed. He always did.

I held his shoulders. The nurse held his arm. Milo's free hand shot out and closed on the first thing it found, which was Timothy's sleeve.

Timothy looked down at the small fist.

He didn't pull away.

"Rabbit," Milo said between sobs, pointing at the floor where the stuffed animal had fallen. "Rabbit, rabbit."

Timothy picked it up and set it in Milo's arms.

Milo held it against his face and went quiet, and he did not let go of the sleeve.

"His name is Biscuit," I said.

"The rabbit?"

"Yes."

"Biscuit," Timothy said to my son. "Understood."

The doctor arrived as the drip started.

She looked at me, then at Timothy, then at the sleeve in Milo's fist.

"You must be the father," she said.

"I might be," Timothy said. "I'm waiting for a number."

She did not make him wait for the rest.

"Milo's tissue type is rare," she said. "If you're a half match, a transplant from you is possible, but at his age it carries a serious risk of rejection. A full sibling is the safe donor. Same mother, same father, cord blood saved at birth."

Timothy stayed very still.

"Safe," he said. "Meaning the risk goes down."

"Meaning most children in his position come through it."

"And you have about a year," I added, because I couldn't stop myself. "With the treatment."

"About a year," the doctor said. "Sooner is better."

She checked the pump and left us alone.

Timothy sat down on the plastic chair beside the bed, leaving the sleeve where it was.

For a while he watched Milo's chest rise and fall.

"Why didn't you look for me?" he asked.

I kept my voice low. "I didn't know your last name. I went back to the Marlowe the next week and the front desk wouldn't tell me anything."

"You went back."

"Once."

"You left before I woke up."

"I know."

"No note."

"I didn't think I would want one," I said. "I was twenty-three and I had never done anything like that in my life."

He nodded slowly. He didn't tell me it was all right, and I was grateful he didn't.

"And Calvin?" he said.

"I met Calvin ten months ago at a donor lunch for the children's ward. He doesn't know. Nobody knows. Your mother paid for the lunch."

"My mother pays for a lot of things." He rubbed his thumb along his scar, and I wondered if he knew he did it. "Does Calvin know about the sibling?"

"I only heard about it yesterday afternoon."

"A baby by Calvin wouldn't help."

"No. The doctor said so. It has to be the same two parents."

He looked at me then, and there was a question in his face I didn't want to answer yet.

"Then you have a problem," he said.

"We do," I said. "If the number says what I think it will."

Milo's eyelids drooped.

His fist slowly opened and fell onto the blanket.

Timothy lifted his sleeve free with two fingers.

My phone buzzed at four that afternoon.

I was at the dental office with a patient's mouth full of cotton, and I read the screen on the counter.

The lab had sent one line: Probability of paternity, 99.99 percent.

Under it was a message from an unknown number.

Come to my house tonight. Alone. He is my son.

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