I grabbed my bag and ran. Interstate 5 north was a blur of gray pavement and evergreen hills. I drove ten miles over the speed limit, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, replaying Dr. Whitman’s words over and over until they became a pulse in my blood. Acute myeloid leukemia. Critically low white blood cell count. Bone marrow transplant. I had not seen Sophie since the last custody hearing. She had been eight then, small for her age, with Graham’s dark eyes and my stubborn chin. The judge had granted him sole custody based on a psychiatric evaluation claiming I suffered from bipolar disorder, alcohol dependency, and emotional instability severe enough to endanger the children. Every word of it was a lie. Dr. Martin Strauss, a psychiatrist Graham had paid off, had written a report claiming I had missed appointments, refused drug tests, and exhibited erratic behavior. None of it was true. But Graham was a lawyer, smooth and convincing, and I was a single mother running a failing business. He knew how to make me look unreliable. The judge believed him. The restraining order prohibited me from coming within five hundred feet of Sophie or her twin sister Ruby. Graham moved them to Seattle, changed their school, cut off every line of communication. I sent letters, gifts, birthday cards. Every single one came back unopened. And now Sophie was dying.
Seattle Children’s Hospital rose like a fortress of glass and steel against the washed-out morning sky. I parked in the visitor lot and ran through the automatic doors, following the signs to the pediatric oncology unit on the fourth floor. Dr. Sarah Whitman met me at the nurse’s station. She was tall, maybe mid-forties, with kind eyes and graying blond hair pulled into a tight bun. She extended her hand.
“Ms. Hayes, thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Where’s Sophie?” I asked. “Can I see her?”
“In a moment. First, I need to explain the situation.”
