Chapter 2 - Doctor Althea Sterling
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My mind spun into vertigo.
Althea Sterling. The name sounded like something from an academic textbook, cold and distant. For twenty-eight years, this woman had been Martha Vance. She was the mother who packed ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, who worked double shifts as a bookkeeper at a local lumber yard, who stayed up until 2:00 AM helping me build cardboard dioramas for sixth-grade history.
She was the quiet widow who had never once raised her voice in anger, who avoided having her photograph taken at my college graduation, claiming she was "not photogenic."
Now, she sat on a hospital gurney while the Chief of Surgery addressed her as an international fugitive scientist.
“Jonathan,” my mother finally spoke.
The name sounded foreign coming from her lips. It wasn't the tentative voice of a frightened patient; it was the crisp, precise diction of someone who had commanded research divisions.
“How did you find me?” she asked, looking Dr. Hayes straight in the eyes.
Dr. Hayes let out a long, shuddering breath and pulled down his surgical mask. “The moment your surgical admission blood work was processed through the automated hematology analyzer at 7:00 AM, the system flagged your chimeric antibody markers. An alert bypassed the hospital mainframe and went directly to my secure terminal. I had to see it with my own eyes.”
“The blood markers,” she murmured, closing her eyes in self-reproach. “I forgot the knee inflammation would mobilize the memory lymphocytes.”
“Wait!” I shouted, unable to keep the panic from my chest. “Stop talking like I’m not in the room! Mom, look at me! Who are you? Who was my father? Why does your skin have electronics inside it?!”
My mother opened her eyes. The maternal warmth that had shielded me my entire life returned, mixed with a heartbreaking ocean of guilt.
“Your father was Dr. David Sterling, Julian,” she whispered, reaching out to grasp my hand with her trembling fingers. “He was the most brilliant virologist Europe had ever seen. And twenty-six years ago... he was murdered by our own employers.”
Dr. Hayes gestured to the two security officers. “Lock down the pre-op corridor. No nursing staff, no orderlies, no visitors until I clear the floor.”
The guards nodded and stepped outside, pulling the door shut once more.
May you like
“Julian,” my mother said, squeezing my fingers with desperate strength. “I never lied to you about loving you. Every meal, every story, every hug was real. But if I had told you who we were, you wouldn't have survived to celebrate your fifth birthday.”
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