Chapter 3 - The Split Wing
The tension in the hospital corridor was palpable as the staff began to look over at our group. Realizing they were creating a scene, my father quickly stepped forward, trying to grab my elbow to guide me back into the room.
"Get your hands off me," I said, my voice dropping an octave.
Richard froze, his hands hovering in the air. "Olivia, please. We are your family. There was a medical emergency. The doctors said if Eleanor didn't get the transplant immediately, she wouldn't survive the week. We didn't want to worry you—"
"You didn't want to worry me?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh that sent a spike of agonizing pain through my healing ribs. "You let me believe I was just in a car accident. You let me lie here for five days thinking you didn't care enough to visit. In reality, you were hiding the fact that you took a piece of my body while I was barely conscious!"
"You signed the papers, Olivia!" Vanessa snapped, her guilt finally mutating into her signature defensive anger. "The hospital has your signature! You wanted to save Mom. Don't try to play the martyr now just because you want attention."
"I was concussed, Vanessa!" I yelled, the physical effort forcing me to lean heavily against Carla’s shoulder. Carla immediately wrapped a supportive arm around my waist. "I was on heavy painkillers, terrified, and slipping in and out of consciousness. Who gave me those papers to sign? Who brought the notary to my bedside while I was delirious?"
My father’s silence was my answer.
"It was you, wasn't it, Dad?" I whispered, tears of pure betrayal finally hot on my cheeks. "You brought the hospital liaison. You told them I was fully aware. You signed off as my primary contact to rush the paperwork through."
"The hospital in Chicago had a two-year waiting list, Olivia," my mother, Eleanor, finally spoke. Her voice was weak, but her tone was as cold and calculating as ever. She stood a few feet back, looking remarkably healthy for someone who had just undergone a transplant. Her skin, which had been yellowing for months, was already regaining its normal color. "I am your mother. I gave you life. It was your duty to help me."
"My duty?" I looked at her, the woman who had ignored my college graduations, who had made me pay rent the moment I turned eighteen, and who had saved every penny of her affection for Vanessa. "And what was your duty to me, Mom? To leave me in a standard, drafty recovery room while you recovered in the VIP wing? To not even send a single text message to see if I survived the surgery?"
Eleanor didn't answer. She simply adjusted her designer silk scarf, looking away as if my anger was an inconvenience.
"Mr. and Mrs. Vance," Carla said, her voice shaking with a quiet, professional fury. "I suggest you leave this wing immediately. Olivia is still in critical recovery. If you do not leave, I will have security escort you out, and I will personally document this interaction for the hospital’s risk management team."
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My father looked at Carla, then at me, his eyes dark with a silent warning. "This isn't over, Olivia. We will talk about this at home. When you are discharged tomorrow."
"I'm not going home with you," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Ever again."
