Chapter 3 - The Blood Type
June broke her wrist falling from a scooter.
Nothing sinister.
Nothing connected to Blake.
I almost laughed from relief when doctor said “simple fracture.”
Trauma makes ordinary accidents suspicious.
At hospital, intake nurse asked:
“Blood type known?”
“No.”
They ran routine preoperative labs because reduction under sedation might be needed.
Her chart showed:
B POSITIVE.
I stared longer than necessary.
The nurse noticed.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
But something had moved in memory.
Rebecca.
O positive.
Me.
O positive.
June.
B positive.
I knew basic genetics from high school well enough to feel wrong.
Two O parents generally do not produce a B child.
There are rare exceptions and unusual blood-group phenomena.
I did not leap to conclusions.
I asked pediatrician.
Dr. Karen Holt said:
“Blood types can be recorded incorrectly. Before you worry, verify everyone.”
Good.
I obtained my blood type from Red Cross record.
O positive.
Rebecca’s oncology record:
O positive.
Could Rebecca’s donor card be wrong?
Possible.
I contacted her former oncology clinic.
They confirmed multiple tests.
O positive.
Dr. Holt sat with me later.
“Ethan, this makes standard ABO inheritance inconsistent.”
My chest tightened.
“Meaning?”
“It means June’s B type would not be expected from two O parents.”
“Is she mine?”
“Blood type cannot establish paternity conclusively. It can raise questions.”
June sat outside with cast.
“Should I test?”
“That is a personal and legal decision.”
I hated.
Every answer created bigger question.
I did nothing for two weeks.
Then I took the hospital bracelet from Rebecca’s box to Mercy Ridge records department.
The building had changed names after a health-system merger.
A clerk scanned identification number.
“That’s odd.”
“What?”
“This band isn’t attached to your daughter’s finalized chart.”
“What is it attached to?”
“Archived neonatal episode.”
“Whose?”
She frowned.
“Restricted legacy record. I need supervisor.”
Forty minutes later, compliance officer named Lydia Marsh joined.
She examined bracelet.
“Where did you get this?”
“My wife’s box.”
“Your wife?”
“Rebecca Carter. She delivered June Carter here twelve years ago.”
Lydia searched.
Then:
“There are two encounter identifiers associated with Rebecca’s admission.”
“What does that mean?”
“It could be duplicate registration.”
“Could?”
She became careful.
“I need to review archived paper charts.”
“Why?”
“One encounter appears closed without ordinary discharge disposition.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was there another baby?”
“I am not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“That record is incomplete.”
She promised formal response.
Two weeks.
Three.
Nothing.
I called.
Legal review.
Then Blue Ridge got busy and life distracted.
But I did not forget.
I requested June’s complete birth certificate file from Virginia vital records.
Normal.
No duplicate.
June Carter.
Mother Rebecca Carter.
Father Ethan Carter.
Birth time:
1:54 a.m.
Weight:
Seven pounds one ounce.
I remembered she was smaller.
Rebecca always said six pounds twelve.
Maybe memory.
Then old photograph.
Hospital scale card visible behind bassinet.
6 LB 3 OZ.
I stared.
That was more than normal clerical difference.
I called Dr. Holt.
“Should I do DNA?”
She said:
“If you do, think about June first.”
Right.
She was twelve.
Rebecca gone.
Family estranged.
A DNA test could destabilize identity because I was anxious.
I waited.
Instead I requested Rebecca’s original obstetric chart through estate rights.
Mercy Ridge delayed because archives.
When records arrived, forty-six pages.
Page 31 missing.
Page 32 began:
Infant transferred to nursery after stabilization.
Which infant?
No identifier.
Then nurse note at 2:22 a.m.:
“Father updated. Infant remains under observation.”
I remembered sitting in hallway while Richard brought coffee.
Then at 3:10:
“Infant returned under Carter band.”
Returned?
From where?
I highlighted.
Then another note:
“Original band damaged during transfer, replacement generated.”
That could explain second bracelet.
Could.
Then one line had been crossed out.
“Baby Vale.”
I zoomed photograph of scanned paper.
Vale.
Not Carter.
My hands became cold.
Who was Vale?
Internet search.
Local archives.
Fifteen years? At this time 12 years ago.
A newspaper result:
YOUNG WOMAN KILLED IN OVERNIGHT HIT-AND-RUN NEAR MERCY RIDGE.
Megan Vale.
Age twenty-three.
Date:
June’s birthday.
Time:
Approximately 1:20 a.m.
Location:
Two miles from hospital.
The article said police were seeking dark luxury SUV with front-end damage.
Then final paragraph:
“Investigators are also attempting to verify the whereabouts of Ms. Vale’s newborn daughter, believed to have been in the care of relatives at the time.”
Newborn daughter.
I read again.
Megan Vale.
Baby Vale.
June’s hospital chart.
My pulse began pounding.
I clicked another article.
A week later:
INFANT’S LOCATION REMAINS UNCLEAR IN VALE CASE.
Police believed Megan had delivered a daughter six days earlier at a birthing center in another county.
Family members said the baby was with Megan on evening before crash.
No child was found at scene.
Megan’s sister told reporters:
“She would never go anywhere without Olivia.”
Olivia.
I closed laptop.
June walked into kitchen.
“Dad?”
I shut screen too fast.
She noticed.
“What are you looking at?”
“Work.”
“You’re bad liar.”
Rebecca used to say same.
I forced smile.
“Complicated paperwork.”
June opened refrigerator.
“Is Grandpa dead?”
“What?”
“That’s only paperwork you hide.”
“No.”
She grabbed juice.
Then:
“Good. I don’t want him dead.”
Despite everything.
I watched her.
B positive blood.
Hospital transfer.
Baby Vale.
Missing infant.
I still did not have proof.
Only coincidence.
May you like
But for first time I wondered whether the daughter I had raised for twelve years had entered my life before Rebecca ever held her.
And somewhere inside a fifteen-year-old police evidence room, there might be a file explaining how.
