Chapter 3

Alice cleared every relative out of the room.

Once the door shut, she looked at me.

"The scoring only helps me sort out what matters most. He was never supposed to know about it."

"I'm not the one who told him."

"Then who else would keep drilling that seven into his head?"

I took out my phone and pulled up the household affairs system.

Alice had insisted we install it a year ago.

Every time Arthur or I needed to reach her, we had to log the matter, the time, and how urgent it was first, and then she would rescore it.

The screen laid it all out.

Arthur's first time on stage: two points.

Arthur running a fever on his birthday: three points.

Arthur trapped in a mall restroom: four points.

My acute appendicitis: five points.

Last night's critical-condition notice: seven points.

And in Kevin's records, not one thing scored below nine.

I held the phone out to her.

"He didn't hear it from me. Last week you put the system up on the living room screen, and right in front of him you changed his request for you to come to the parent meeting from five points down to one."

Alice pressed her lips together, her face darkening.

"I didn't know he was standing behind me."

"So as long as he can't hear you, it's fine to do it?"

Kevin took hold of her sleeve.

"Alice, please, don't fight. Arthur just stabilized. He can't handle any stress."

I turned to him.

"Then why are you here?"

His face went a little pale.

"I was only worried about Arthur…"

"Worried, so you brought a cat?"

Kevin stepped back at once, his eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry. I thought he liked Fluffy, I wanted to cheer him up. Since everything I do is wrong, I'll just go."

Alice caught him by the wrist.

"No one told you to leave."

She turned back to me, her voice colder.

"Kevin had a scare last night and he still remembered to come see the child. You won't stop until you've forced him to cry?"

The monitor let out a sharp string of beeps.

A nurse hurried in and checked the readings.

"The child's heart rate is climbing. Please, no arguing in here."

I shut my mouth right away.

But Alice called the doctor out into the hall.

"When can he be transferred?"

The doctor said, "I don't recommend moving him now. The child is showing signs of sepsis. Any transport could add to the risk."

"The Farley family's private physician thinks you've been overmedicating him. I've already arranged for another hospital."

"Ms. Farley, a patient is not a piece of property. You can't move him around on a schedule."

I pushed the door open and stepped out.

"I don't agree to the transfer."

Alice looked at me.

"They can't even control the basic risks here."

"At least the doctors here come running when he's dying."

"Lawrence."

She caught my wrist lightly, her manner leaving no room for discussion.

"Don't make decisions for our son out of emotion."

"His attending physician says he can't be moved."

"Three o'clock this afternoon. The ambulance will come."

"I won't sign."

"I'm his mother. I have just as much say."

At two-fifty that afternoon, the people Alice had arranged arrived.

Arthur was still on oxygen when they lifted him onto the transport gurney.

He was terrified, but he didn't dare cry. He only reached out and grabbed the hem of my shirt.

"Daddy, I won't be any trouble to Mommy."

"Don't be scared. Daddy's here."

Alice stood by the elevator and took the risk-consent form the nurse held out.

"It's a twenty-minute drive. There's no need to blow it out of proportion."

The elevator had barely dropped one floor when Arthur went into violent convulsions.

The monitor alarmed again and again.

The doctor slammed the stop button.

"His oxygen's dropping. Get him back to the ICU now!"

The transport team pushed the bed back at a run.

Alice's phone rang at the same moment.

Kevin was standing downstairs, his voice frantic.

"Alice, someone from the press got a shot of me coming to the hospital with you. They're asking if I'm Arthur's father. What should I say?"

Alice answered while keeping pace with the bed.

"Don't explain anything. I'll handle it."

A few minutes later, a message from her appeared in the family group chat.

"Kevin is someone I'm responsible for looking after. Please don't give him a hard time. Lawrence has been emotionally unstable lately. Regarding the child's condition, only the information I release is to be trusted."

I read it, then looked up at her.

"This emotional instability you're talking about, does it mean I won't gamble our son's life to go along with your plans?"

Alice didn't answer.

A nurse rushed out of the ICU.

"The child needs an emergency platelet transfusion. He has a rare blood type, so immediate family need to do a match right now."

Alice and I put out our arms at the same time.

Ten minutes later, the results came back.

The nurse looked at the report and walked quickly over to her.

"Ms. Farley, only you're a match."