The Fetal Position 3 by Leyla Harrison Disclaimer: I don't own any of the ER characters. Sure wish I did, though -- I betcha I'd be rich! Rating: R for potentially disturbing themes and situations. Read on at your own risk. Timeline: This story takes place after Point of Origin (late season 5) and has spoilers and/or references for that episode, Nobody Doesn't Like Amanda Lee, and Love's Labor Lost. Summary: A patient with troubling symptoms plays a prominent role as Kerry finds herself plagued by frightening dreams that have a meaning she can't understand. Note: I'm not a doctor, or a medical expert. However, there is a bunch of medical stuff going on in this story. I did some research, but I know I still didn't get everything right. **** Five hours later, I sit at a booth in Doc Magoo's with Carter next to me. I told him I could handle this alone, but he insisted on being there. He's on the inside of the booth, leaning slightly against the wall. Across from us, Jerry Mitchell, Carter's family friend and private investigator, has made some phone calls and gotten some faxes and basically performed miracles, as he's told us repeatedly. He shuffles through the papers. He's wearing a very expensive suit, and calls Carter "Johnny". "Well, I've checked her out, like you asked," he tells me. "You have no idea how hard it was to get all of this information this quickly." I wrap my hands around my coffee cup. "And?" "Julia Morgan, that's her married name. Maiden name was Reilly. She's fifty-four years old. She had a baby, a healthy baby girl, according to hospital records at Lakepoint, when she was fifteen." He pauses, and I quickly do the math in my head. That would make her daughter thirty-nine years old. The same age as me. "Normal delivery. No complications. Discharged four days later. The next record we have on her is a little less than two years later. She was brought back in to Lakepoint with smoke inhalation and minor burns." "A fire," I say softly, uselessly. He nods. "Police records show that a fire unit responded to the building where she was living with her father. No mother around -- died when Julia was six or seven. The father died in the fire; he was trapped in a back room. She managed to get out to the front room and was grabbed out of a broken window by fire and rescue." I look at Carter. My mouth won't work, won't say the words I need to say. He helps me. "What about the little girl?" Carter asks. "Fire and rescue found her in a closet. The door was open a few inches. If it hadn't been she might have died from smoke inhalation by the time they found her." "Was she injured?" I ask, my voice low. I put my fingers against my lips, to keep other words from spilling out. "Yep. Suffered smoke inhalation and minor burns, like her mother. She was -- " he leafs through a few sheets of paper until he finds the one he is looking for, "in pretty bad shape. Doctors found that she was alert but non-responsive. Seemed to be in a lot of pain, and they couldn't figure out what it was from until they found a hip dislocation -- they weren't sure how long it had been dislocated, maybe a few months, they thought. She also had badly healed fractures on that same leg. She could barely walk." I'm so tense that I think the coffee mug will explode and shatter due to the pressure I'm putting on it from my tightened hands. My adoptive parents never told me any of the circumstances of how I came to their home; they claimed not to know anything about my natural parents. As a child, they told me only that they loved me; that they had waited many years for me, and that when they had found me, they had never been happier. As an adult, I had more questions, but they never had concrete answers. "You were just a little girl, Kerry," my mother once told me. "It was a long time ago." I had searched in their personal papers after their death, assuming that they had wanted to keep the truth from me, whatever it was, but I found only an empty steel strongbox at the bank. Carter has sensed my tension and touches my hand, trying to loosen my fingers from the cup. Jerry Mitchell looks up and sees it. He gives Carter a look. Carter ignores the look. "Is there more?" he asks instead. "Julia was questioned by the police after the fire. Said she didn't know how it got started. Something in the kitchen. She had been cooking something; she turned her head for a minute and when she turned back half the kitchen burning." I moisten my lips with my tongue. "What did she say about -- about her daughter?" "Said she couldn't find her once the fire got going. She said she panicked -- the fire got out of hand fast, and she thought her daughter was playing hide and seek or something. She tried to find her in the house, called her name a bunch of times but couldn't find her. The whole place was in flames." He taps a piece of paper on the table with his finger. It's a grainy newspaper photo, distorted by the fax. "North Side Home Burns, 1 dead, 2 injured", the headline reads. There's nothing to see but rubble. "And -- " I hesitate. "The injuries. To the child." "Julia claimed that her father did it. That he was a nasty drunk. Wouldn't let her take the poor kid to the doctor or to a hospital." "Did they believe her?" Carter asks. "At first, yeah. The father was dead. They only had her word for it. But people were suspicious -- hospital staff, especially. They said when Julia was brought in she never once asked how her daughter was. Didn't ask if she was all right and finally said she didn't want to see her. They left her alone for a minute, and when they went back to check on her she had taken off. Left the little girl at the hospital alone." He takes a sip of his coffee, his words so casual, so calm. As if he is not holding a life's worth of answers in his hands. "So, moving on, the little girl was taken in by social services and adopted. Pretty fast, too -- they found a placement for her within two weeks. Must have been nice people," he says, plucking one sheet of paper from a pile and bringing it to the surface. "Taking in a child who's been so traumatized can't be easy, and then there was the matter of her leg -- " He stops suddenly, and looks at me, and his eyes jerk off to one side and for the first time, it seems, he notices the crutch propped up against the edge of the table and puts it all together. "Oh Jesus," he says. "I didn't -- " It's dawning on him. For a private investigator, he's quite dense. Even Carter looks annoyed. I shake my head and look away. There is a long moment of awkward silence. Finally he clears his throat and speaks more slowly, more kindly. "When's your birthday?" he asks. "October 27, 1960," I respond. "And your parents were Charles and Mary Weaver." I nod. He glances at me, then at Carter, then back down at the papers. He nods his head slowly. "It's you, all right." I already knew. I knew from the moment he started talking. I lean back against the cushioned back of the booth and close my eyes. **** "Is there any way that she could somehow know that Kerry's her daughter?" Carter asks Jerry a few cups of coffee later. He shrugs. "The adoption records are sealed to all parties involved. But there are ways around that, no question about it. I mean, if I can get certain information in the middle of the night, there's bound to be others who can get it." "Maybe she doesn't know," I murmur. I'm gazing past Carter, through the slatted blinds, out the window at the beginnings of the day. Jerry Mitchell thumbs through more papers and continues to speak as if he hasn't heard me. "Julia Reilly married Nicholas Morgan in February of 1968, and, well, as you mentioned, she has another daughter. Sarah Renee, born on January 13, 1969." "Is Julia still married?" I hear Carter ask. I watch a young woman on the sidewalk, holding a little girl's hand. They are waiting for the light to change so they can cross the street. The mother bends down and says something to the little girl, and the little girl, who is clutching a well-worn teddy bear to her chest, giggles. "Nope, husband died last year. Car accident." "And there's no information on Kerry's natural father." "Nothing. No name on the birth certificate." Words and phrases run through my mind. No name on the birth certificate. No mother around -- died when Julia was six or seven. Julia's father -- could he have been my father? The thought fills me with disgust, and I feel my stomach turn, even though I haven't eaten in over twelve hours. I turn to look at the two men. "That's enough," I say, quietly. "Kerry?" Carter looks at me, questioning. "I said, that's enough. I don't want to hear anymore." And with that, I get up, gather my things, and walk out. **** "Kerry, wait," I hear Carter calling to me as I cross the street. "Kerry!" I don't slow down. He jogs up alongside me, catches my arm. "Let go, John," I say. I'm too exhausted to pull my arm free from his grasp. "She probably doesn't even know who you are," he tells me. "You heard how she talked to me. Like I had done something. To her -- " I can barely get the words out. "To her daughter. The daughter that she kept." "Kerry, you've told me about your parents. How they were. What they were like. They were there for you. They loved you. Do you think it would have been better if she had kept you? God knows what else might have happened to you. You could have been killed in that fire." "I almost was," I answer, bitterly. "And do you think it was an accident?" Carter releases my arm. "You think she was trying to kill you? Why?" he asks, incredulous. "Take the obvious reason, Carter." His eyes are flashing, challenging me. "Which one is that?" "She didn't want me!" I sputter, and I drag one hand over my mouth to keep sobs from escaping. Tears leak out from the corners of my eyes. And who would want me, I almost say, but I have my hand over my mouth. A baby born out of something so ugly. Oh, God. Carter steps closer to me. He touches my cheek gently. "You don't know that she was trying to kill you, Kerry." He looks at me tenderly. "And regardless of that -- she didn't deserve to have you. You were meant to be with people who loved you, who took care of you. The way your parents did." I turn my head, brushing the tears away. "She's got problems, Kerry, and it seems like she's had them for a while. I don't know if she knows who you are -- there's no way of knowing." "I have to find out," I manage to get out. "I have to know if she stood there today and looked me in the eye knowing that I was the little girl she left behind in the hospital that day." Carter looks at me, thoughtfully, and nods. **** I make my way upstairs alone and approach the nurses station. "I'm looking for Sarah Morgan -- she was brought up from the ER for a c-section." I show her my ID badge. "I was wondering how she was doing." As I wait for the clerk to find the chart, I have a moment to realize that there is a part of this that I haven't even thought about. Sarah is my sister. Half-sister, but my sister nonetheless. "She's still in recovery," the clerk tells me. "She has family waiting in the lounge if you'd like to -- " "No, no, thank you." I'm not ready for that yet. I hurry away from the desk and head towards the recovery area. One of the nurses stops me. "You can't go in there," she tells me. "I'm Dr. Weaver, ER chief," I inform her. "I need to see one of your patients, Sarah Morgan." The nurse eyes me and then my ID badge. "You'll have to get gowned up," she says, pointing to the locker room. I change and enter the recovery room. I see Sarah's red hair from across the room, askew on the pillow from having been inside the surgical cap. I approach her bed slowly. Her eyes are closed. I check her chart, her vitals. She's stable. "Are you family?" one of the recovery nurses asks from behind me, startling me. I don't recoginize her. A float, maybe, from another unit. I turn around slowly. "I -- yes. I'm her sister." The words are unfamiliar to me. The nurse smiles, making notations on another chart. "I thought so. You two look a lot alike." I don't respond to that. "She's all right?" I ask. The nurse nods. "She's fine, still out of it from the anesthesia. She's taking her time waking up." "The baby," I murmur. "What did she have?" "A girl. She's over in the nursery if you want to see her." She motions towards a door. "You can cut through there, if you'd like." I take another long look at Sarah, her red hair the same shade as mine. I touch her hand, careful not to disturb her IV, and then head over to the nursery. It doesn't take me long to find her. A small card is attached to the baby warmer. "Baby girl Morgan," I read aloud, in a whisper. The baby is wrapped in a blanket, and is moving around slightly. A pink cap on her head. She has a perfect face, just like her mother, fine, delicate features. My niece. And my sister. I breathe a sigh, grateful that I didn't know that before, when she was seizing. I would have fallen apart. "What are you doing in here?" I whirl around to face Julia Morgan. Every muscle in my body is on alert. "I wanted to see how she was doing," I answer tersely. "Sarah's fine," she says, coldly. "The baby's fine too. They're both fine. You got what you wanted, and now you can leave." I look at her face, at her features; her eyes that are so much like mine. How can I come from this? How could I be related to this woman? "Mrs. Morgan," I ask, carefully. "Do you know me?" She looks me up and down. "You're the doctor from the emergency room." I nod my head, slightly. "Do you know me?" I ask again, more slowly. She stares at me, then suddenly, reaches for my wrist and practically drags me out of the nursery and into the hall. "You listen to me," she says. "I told you to stay away from my daughter. And I want you to stay away from my granddaughter as well." "I -- " "Of course I know who you are," she continues. "When I was fifteen years old, when I found out that you were a handful of cells in my body, you destroyed my life. So yes, I know who you are." Shock ripples through my body. I tighten my grip on my crutch for support. "I left you at the hospital that day and never looked back," she says. Her words are like knives to my heart, each one piercing a new hole. She didn't want me. She never wanted me. And not only didn't she want me, she actually abandoned me. "Why?" I ask, my voice breaking. "Why would you do that?" She shrugs. I remember more clearly now the look she gave me when she first saw me, the first time Sarah was brought into the ER. It was a look of angry recognition. "How did you find out who I was? You had -- you had to care if you bothered to look for me." I remem She doesn't answer. "Does Sarah know?" I ask, my voice weak. She shakes her head. "She knows that she was conceived by two people who loved her -- and who loved each other," she responds, each word loaded with meaning. Sarah was loved. Sarah was wanted. You were not. "I don't want you anywhere near my family," she says. "Do you understand?" I find that I can't speak, and so I simply nod my head, tears in my eyes, and without another word, she walks away. **** That night, at home, I sit in front of the computer, the monitor blank. "Kerry?" Carter asks, coming into the living room. "I made you some tea." I smile up at him, weakly, and take the steaming cup from his hands. "Thank you." He sits on the couch, eyeing me as I take a tentative sip from the mug. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asks me after a moment. "Maybe you should, I don't know, talk to someone. A therapist or something. This is a lot to take in, to try to deal with." I nod my head and set the mug down on the desk. I gaze over at a photo of my parents. The picture was taken the day of my graduation from medical school. I look eager. My parents are flanking me, one on each side. I remember the day so clearly. Gabe Lawrence was on the other side of the camera, taking the picture. "My parents told me I was adopted when I was very young. I knew they loved me. But I always wanted to know where I came from. Who my real parents were." It's true; I had always wondered, wondered why they had given me up. I had gone over a million scenarios in my mind, but this one had never crossed my mind. Silence fills the room. I sip at my tea, looking at the faces of my mother and my father. They look happy, proud. We were standing under a large maple tree that afternoon, the sun peeking through the leaves, dappling the blue of my mother's dress. My father, who rarely smiled, is beaming. "You know who your real parents are, Kerry," Carter says, softly, kindly. And then he gets up, touches my shoulder, and leaves me alone. **** Dear Sarah, I don't know if you will remember me. I was the doctor who took care of you in the emergency room. I hope this letter finds you well. I came up to see you after your surgery but you were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you. I also peeked in on your daughter. She is beautiful. There is so much I want to say to you in this letter, so much, and yet there is so much that I must leave unsaid. I know that you are wondering why I am writing to you. To be honest, I'm wondering the same thing myself. I'm hoping I'm not making a terrible mistake by writing to you, by telling you what I need to say. Nine years before you were born, your mother had a baby girl, who she gave up for adoption. I recently learned that I was that baby. I'm not writing to ask anything of you. I don't even want you to respond to this if it upsets you or makes you at all uncomfortable. The only thing I wanted to tell you -- the only thing I want, truly, is for you to know that I am here. I know that we don't know each other, that we are blood relations but nothing more than that; we are strangers. But if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to know that you can come to me, and I will do whatever I can to be there for you. I hope you and your daughter are doing well. I keep both of you in my thoughts. **** I fold up the letter and slide it into an envelope. I want to address it with a firm hand, but instead I seal the envelope and put it into the drawer of my desk. I can't mail it. I walk over to the bookshelf, where the framed picture of my parents stands. Picking it up, I touch the tip of my finger to their faces. They are in my memory forever. They loved me and wanted me. They are my real parents, and it has taken me so long to see that. Too long. I set the picture back down on the bookshelf and wipe away a few tears. I take one more look and then I head off to bed. END / The Fetal Position (part 3 of 3)