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Pulling the medical files out of the box, I set them aside and shine my flashlight on the rest of the contents. The next layer reveals two textbooks Atlas of Anatomy and Principles of Internal Medicine. They are both heavy and well-worn. I take them out and set them to the side. I need more than just these remnants of Dad’s medical career, but I’m fearful that might be all I’ll find.
Under the textbooks, things are more promising, more personal. I pull out a golden stethoscope. An image flashes before my eyes . . .
The stethoscope hanging off Dad’s neck as he presses it to my chest. He listens for a minute, then goes on to tickle me.
A smile stretches my lips, my heart aching at the memory. I turn the chest piece and find Dad’s name engraved on the back. After a good look, I stick it in my backpack and check the receiver to confirm Luke’s position hasn’t changed. It hasn’t.
I go back to the box and pull out a wallet. I open it and find Dad’s driver’s license still in the ID compartment. I ache at the sight of his young face, younger than I remember it.
“Dad,” I murmur. “I wish you were still here.”
In an effort to keep it together, I tear my eyes away from the image and, instead, search the other compartments. All I find are a few, old business cards and an even older two-dollar bill. I’ve never come across one of these before. If I had, I’m sure I would have saved it as well. I put the wallet in my backpack too and check the receiver again. No change.
The next items in the box are three sealable plastic bags with what looks like t-shirts inside. I move them closer to the window to get a better look, but it doesn’t help. I’m about to open one of the bags when I decide against it. Maybe they hold some of Dad’s DNA. It’s a long shot, but not impossible. They go in my backpack as well.
I find other things in the box that also go in my fattening pack. Dad’s dog tags, his wristwatch, a Seahawks cap, an old photo album with pictures of people I don’t recognize—most likely his Chilean ancestors—and a set of nice pens with his name engraved on them.
In spite of the treasures I’ve found, I feel vaguely disappointed. The box contained nothing definite to help clear up my questionable paternity. I stare at my hands for a few minutes, lost in thought. Distractedly, I reach for the medical files and set them on my lap.
There are four folders with colorful letters and numbers stickers on the side tabs. I frown.
The letters are GUE.
So not just any files but our files. It makes sense. A doctor would keep a close eye on his family’s medical records. But why are there four of them? The question is stupid, and the answer obvious. Dad must have gathered “Max’s” information from the hospital, however little there was, anyway.
I open the first folder, the thickest, and confirm my suspicions. It reads:
First Name: Karen
M.I.: B.
Last Name: Guerrero
Date of Birth: 09/30/1976
I thumb through the pages and find a detailed medical history, blood test results, prescription copies for antibiotics and flu medications. All very standard stuff.
The second file is Dad’s.
First Name: Brian
M.I.: S.
Last Name: Guerrero
Date of Birth: 08/05/1974
The contents of this file aren’t very different from the first. There’s some additional stuff about his military service and veteran status, but little else.
The third folder is light in my hands. It has to be Max’s . . . Luke’s. I open it with a sense of dread, thinking of the pain Dad must have felt at handling the scant medical data the doctors collected from that infant boy before he was kidnapped.
First Name: Maximilian
M.I.: V.
Last Name: Guerrero
Date of Birth: 12/03/1999
There are only two pages. The first one contains extra data like time of birth, length, and weight. There are also hemoglobin and oxygen and blood sugar levels. Things they check as standard procedure in all newborns, I presume. I turn to the next page, expecting much of the same, but my heart takes a tumble when my eyes zero in on a circled section of the page.
Probability of Paternity: 0%
The alleged father is excluded as a biological father of the tested child.
My lungs freeze. My mind reels for understanding. This doesn’t make sense.
The alleged father.
Alleged. Alleged. Alleged.
The word hammers against my heart the way it must have hammered against Dad’s.
Luke was not his son.
I shake my head, more confused than ever. What the hell is going on here? How is this possible? How can Luke be Karen’s son but not Dad’s? It’s not like Karen was cheating. She was artificially inseminated for the love of—
A knot of disgust twists itself inside my stomach as, for the first time, I look at this from the right angle.
God! I turn away from the awful realization.
I press a hand to my stomach in an attempt to hold back the rising vomit.
Dad suspected something grave enough to order this test. The pages shake in my hand as I look over them. The test was performed on January 20th, 2006. Five years after the birth? What? Maybe I’m looking at this wrong. Maybe these are someone else’s files, and I’m having some sort of delusional episode. Where would they have gotten Luke’s DNA at that point? Did they save his blood? His umbilical cord? Maybe they had to after he was kidnapped, as a precaution. Makes sense.
The file falls from my hands as my mind takes a leap into a sea of possibilities. Ideas wash over me, like battering waves. One particular possibility taunts me, but I refuse to look at it.
It’s too sick, too sick!
Desperately, my fingers fumble for the last file. This is thicker than all the other three combined. My heart beats, beats, beats as if it will drill a hole through my chest and tumble onto my lap.
First Name: Marcela
M.I.: V.
Last Name: Guerrero
Date of Birth: 12/03/1999
I flip the pages in a mad dash, looking for one in particular. They rustle and wrinkle under my nervous touch. For a moment, I fear there will be no DNA test for me, but it’s there, waiting patiently at the very end of the file. There, circled in a similar manner as Luke’s page, is the result. My heart stills. I shut my eyes and allow myself a moment of satisfaction.
Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%
My eyes close. A hot, exhausted breath breaks through my lips. Tears spill past my lowered lids and down my cheeks. Slowly, something like pride or truth rebuilds inside of me, restoring certain strength into my bones that I didn’t know had been missing.
I was right. I was right.
Brian Scott Guerrero is my father. I am his daughter, and no one, no one, will ever be able to take that away from me.
The word relief isn’t enough to describe the feeling that washes over me. I am whole again. Vindicated, somehow. It’s ridiculous how little it hurt to lose Karen compared to the dread of losing Dad. I guess it’s impossible to mourn what you never had.
After a steadying inhale, I open my eyes. Almost by accident, my gaze falls on the receiver, and I’m reminded why I’m here. I blink at it, the feeling that something is wrong not quite registering. It takes me a paralyzed moment to comprehend what the problem is.
The dot is gone!
I curse at myself. Damn, I should have waited to go over Dad’s things. Now I have no idea if Luke left or the tracker just blinked out of existence. If the latter, I’m screwed because that would mean he discovered it.
Stupid. Stupid.
Hurriedly, I gather the medical files and zip them securely into my backpack. The only things left on the minivan’s floorboards are the empty box and medical textbooks. I’m trying to decide whether to take them or leave them when the sound of approaching engines makes the decision for me.
I leave the books behind, strap the heavy pack on and jump out of the van. I crouch next to my bike. Are the cars just passing by on the adjacent road? Or are they closer? I listen intently.
Closer. Definitely closer.
Adrenaline shooting through my veins, I hop on my bike and hit the ignition. The engine roars to life and I race forward. I’m almost to the exit when a large SUV pulls up in front of me. I brake and, planting one boot on the ground, turn on a dime. I head back the way I came, the SUV hot on my trail. I drive between two long rows of cars, twisting the accelerator to the max. I’m almost clear of the lined-up rentals when a truck sprouts out of nowhere and blocks this end of the street. I squeeze the front brake. Tires squeals, rubber burning. I veer to one side, hoping to drive between two of the parked rentals, but I lose control of the bike.
I fall sideways, feel my bones break into a million pieces. The Kawasaki slides away from me, scraping the road with an ear-splitting screech.
I struggle to my feet, ignoring the pain. Headlights shine directly on my face. My vision blurs. I put an arm over my eyes and glance to the side, looking for an escape. I’m about to take off running when a voice booms through the air, splitting the night in two.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
Fear and shadows clog my vision. I freeze on the spot.