Chapter 3

The emergency room lights were so bright they hurt my eyes.

Rachel was rushed into the resuscitation room, and Mom ran after her, nearly getting caught in the doorway. A nurse stopped her outside, but Mom refused to leave. She clung to the glass doors and stared inside.

Dad steadied her.

"Let the doctors do their job first."

Mom cried so hard she could barely get a full sentence out. Her whole body shook.

When the doctor asked about Rachel's condition, Mom's answers came out in a confused jumble. Dad had to fill in the gaps.

A nurse handed Mom an admission form. Her hands still trembled as she took it, making her handwriting crooked and uneven.

Patient's name: Rachel Smith.

Age: Four.

Medical history: Asthma.

Previous medications.

Allergies.

Date of last attack.

Mom filled in every line without hesitation. She remembered every detail about Rachel as clearly as day. Nothing escaped her.

I crouched beside her chair and watched her complete the form.

Under Family Members, she listed three names:

Father.

Mother.

Patient.

I waited for her to finish.

I waited for her to put down the pen.

After a while, she finally did. She handed the form back to the nurse.

It was not that she had deliberately left me out.

She simply had not remembered there was another child in this family. A child who was not standing beside anyone at that moment.

Suddenly, I wondered what would happen if the nurse asked, "Is this your only child?"

Would Mom finally remember?

However, the nurse glanced at the form, slipped it into a folder, and asked nothing.

According to that piece of paper, we were a family of 3.

We had always been a family of 3.

Dad paced the hallway outside the resuscitation room. He signed forms, paid bills, collected medication, and asked nurses for updates. His footsteps were quick, just as they had always been.

Whenever he was in a hurry, he could focus on only one thing at a time.

The first time he passed the temporary holding area at the far end of the emergency department, the curtains were closed. Several stretchers stood quietly against the wall, each covered with a white sheet.

An attendant sat on a stool in the corner, flipping through a logbook.

Dad's gaze swept over the area.

He did not stop.

Clutching a payment receipt, he hurried past, turned the corner, and disappeared down the hallway.

The second time, he was on his way to collect Rachel's test results. He walked even faster.

This time, a draft lifted one corner of the curtain.

Inside stood a very small stretcher.

It was so small that anyone could tell it was not meant for an adult.

Dad's steps faltered.

For less than a second, his eyes landed on the stretcher before darting away. He gripped Rachel's test results so tightly that sweat softened the corners of the paper.

Still, he did not walk over to look.

He turned and left.

Nearby, a middle-aged attendant stood and pulled the curtain closed again.

In a quiet voice, she said to a colleague, "They brought this little one down from the fourth floor. She's so young. No family has come to identify her yet."

The hallway was full of noise. Machines beeped. Carts rattled past. Someone shouted that medication had been delivered to the wrong bed.

Her words disappeared into the commotion.

Dad never heard them.

Even if he had, he would not have thought of me.

In his mind, Suzanna was not the kind of child who got into trouble.

Suzanna never had problems.

After a long wait, Rachel's vital signs finally began to improve.

The doctor came out and told them she would need to be monitored overnight, but the worst of the danger had passed.

Mom collapsed onto a bench in the hallway. Dad leaned against the wall beside her and pulled out his phone.

At last, he remembered to call me.

The phone rang for a long time, but no one answered.

He tried again.

"The number you've dialed is currently unavailable."

He frowned.

"Maybe her watch got damaged when she fell. The signal might be bad."

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, then looked at Mom.

"Do you think Suzanna went to Hannah's house? She's gone there after school before."

Mom leaned back against the bench with her eyes closed.

"Of course she did. That girl can always figure something out wherever she goes."

A weary note of relief crept into her voice, as though saying she can handle it meant she no longer had to worry about me.

When she finished speaking, she closed her eyes again. One hand remained resting on Rachel's small hospital bed.

I crouched at her feet.

'Mom, my watch isn't broken. I just can't answer you anymore.'

That night in the emergency department, I followed Dad back and forth countless times. He moved from the payment window to the nurses' station to the pharmacy, passing those curtains every single time.

I was right behind him.

Under the white sheet was me.

Nothing separated us except a thin piece of fabric.

Yet no one came to lift it.

No one came to look.