Chapter 6 - Across the Exam Table
The sign for Oakridge Animal Hospital swung gently in the cold mountain breeze. It was a neat, wood-sided building surrounded by tall pines. My heart pounded against my ribs like a sledgehammer as I sat in the front seat of my car, staring through the front glass windows.
I had spent the entire drive rehearsing what I would say. Would I walk in and announce myself? Would I show her the hospital records? Would she call the police? Would she think I was an escaped lunatic from an asylum?
I looked down at the passenger seat. Lying on the upholstery was Gordon’s final handwritten letter, still bearing the faint scent of cedar wood and tobacco that had clung to his clothes. Tucked into my coat pocket was the faded baby blanket I had kept in my cedar chest for thirty-two years—the pale yellow flannel with hand-embroidered ducklings that I had sewn with my own hands before going into labor.
Taking a deep breath that tasted like pure adrenaline, I stepped out into the frigid air.
The bell above the clinic door chimed softly. The waiting room smelled of antiseptic, dog shampoo, and dried cedar shavings. Behind the front desk, a receptionist looked up from her computer screen with a bright, professional smile.
""Hi there! Do you have an appointment, or are you picking up medication?""
""I... I don't have an animal with me,"" I said, my voice barely above a whisper. ""I'm looking for Dr. Walker. Is she in today?""
""Dr. Faye is just finishing up an examination in room two. Can I tell her what this is regarding?""
Before I could answer, the white interior door opened.
A young woman walked out, holding a clipboard. She was laughing, speaking over her shoulder to a veterinary technician about a golden retriever's ear infection. She wore royal blue scrubs. Her hair was tied up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.
When she turned to face the lobby, her eyes met mine.
The breath was knocked completely out of my body. It was like looking into a mirror that reached backward thirty years in time. She had my eyes—that peculiar, hazel-green shade with specks of amber near the pupil that nobody else in my family possessed. She had my hands, long-fingered with slightly square nail beds. But when she tilted her head in curiosity, the tiny furrow between her brows was Gordon's. Exactly Gordon's.
""Can I help you, ma'am?"" Faye asked, her voice rich, calm, and musical.
I stood frozen in the middle of the linoleum floor. The entire universe seemed to shrink down to the six feet of space between us. My lips parted, but no sound came out. The room spun.
""Ma'am? Are you feeling alright?"" Faye’s medical instincts took over immediately. She dropped her clipboard onto the reception counter and stepped forward, catching my elbow as my knees began to buckle beneath the sheer weight of three decades of suppressed grief.
""Sit down here, please,"" she urged gently, guiding me to a vinyl bench. ""Tara, get a cup of cold water, please.""
Faye knelt right in front of me on the cold tile. Her hands—warm, steady, and alive—gripped my trembling fingers. ""Take a slow breath. You're very pale. Are you having chest pain?""
I looked into her hazel eyes, so close I could see the reflection of my own weeping face in them.
""No,"" I choked out, tears finally spilling over my lashes, hot and unstoppable. ""No pain. Just... thirty-two years of waiting.""
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Faye blinked, confused, her brow furrowing deeper. ""I'm sorry? Do I know you?""
With trembling fingers, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the yellow flannel blanket with the embroidered ducklings, laying it gently across her scrub-clad lap.
