\n
I swabbed my cheek right there beside the bed while he watched. I didn\u2019t argue. My brother didn\u2019t know that the one person in that room who should have been afraid of the envelope was him.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s nothing personal, Beth,\u201d Wade said, sealing my tube in its plastic bag. \u201cIt\u2019s just the farm. Dad deserves to know who he\u2019s leaving it to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dad was asleep. Morphine every four hours. His hands lay on top of the blanket like a pair of old work gloves, stained and worn from fifty years of tobacco and cattle.<\/p>\n
\u201cSure,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Wade swabbed his own cheek, then leaned over the bed rail. \u201cDad, we need yours too.\u201d He waited. Dad didn\u2019t stir. Wade looked at me like I was supposed to stop him, then ran the swab along the inside of Dad\u2019s cheek anyway.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom was pregnant before the wedding,\u201d Wade said, dropping Dad\u2019s sample into its tube. \u201cEverybody knows it. Aunt June says you don\u2019t look like a single Harlan.\u201d<\/p>\n
Aunt June says. Aunt June, who hadn\u2019t visited once since Dad went into hospice. Aunt June, who I\u2019d never heard mention my resemblance until Wade apparently needed ammunition.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m the one who moved back to Clay County when Dad got sick. I drove him to chemo in Lexington forty-one times.<\/p>\n
I learned how to flush a port, how to clean a PICC line, how to hold a basin under his chin at three in the morning. I sold my condo in Louisville to pay for the hospital bed his insurance wouldn\u2019t cover. Wade came twice. Both times with papers.<\/p>\n
I thought if I just kept showing up, one day it would count. That\u2019s the trouble with being the good daughter. You think you\u2019re earning something, and all you\u2019re really doing is teaching everybody you\u2019ll take anything.<\/p>\n
The nurse, Pam, came in to check Dad\u2019s line. She glanced at the DNA box on the tray table, then at Wade. Her mouth tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s for the patient?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s for her,\u201d Wade said, pointing at me. \u201cAnd him. The lab needs his sample too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Pam didn\u2019t move. \u201cSir, your father can\u2019t consent to anything right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have his power of attorney.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSince when?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSince Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n
Pam looked at me. I hadn\u2019t known. My face must have said so, because she set down the IV bag and pulled me into the hall by the sleeve. She smelled like hand sanitizer and burnt coffee.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney, he came in Tuesday night with a man in a tie. Your daddy was barely awake. I told them to come back in the morning, and they didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid Dad sign?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSomebody held the pen.\u201d She squeezed my arm. \u201cI wrote it in the chart. Word for word. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019ll help you, but it\u2019s there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Word for word. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to cry. I went back into the room and did neither.<\/p>\n
Wade was on the phone with someone, pacing in the narrow space between the bed and the window. \u201cThe sale could close within the month,\u201d he was saying. \u201cNo, the house too. All hundred and forty acres.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at Dad. His chest rose and fell in that terrible slow rhythm that meant we were close now. A week, maybe less.<\/p>\n
Uncle Carl sat in the corner chair, the way he\u2019d sat every afternoon that week, turning the pages of the same Farm Journal he never seemed to actually read. Uncle Carl is Dad\u2019s younger brother. He and Wade have been thick as thieves since Wade was in diapers. People always said they had the same laugh, the same way of tilting their head when they were thinking. I used to think it was sweet, how close they were.<\/p>\n
That was before I understood what closeness cost.<\/p>\n
Nine days later, at 4:10 on a Thursday afternoon, the lab called. Dad was still hanging on. Barely. The hospice nurse said sometimes people wait for something, some permission or resolution. I didn\u2019t know what Dad was waiting for.<\/p>\n
Wade put the call on speaker. He wanted everybody to hear.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Kara with Keystone Genetics. Is this the Harlan family?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is,\u201d Wade said. \u201cGo ahead.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore I do, I\u2019m required to tell you the results include a finding about more than one family member. Do you want me to read them to everyone present?\u201d<\/p>\n
Wade grinned at me. He actually grinned. \u201cEveryone.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the bed. Dad\u2019s breathing had gotten worse that morning, wet and labored.<\/p>\n
If that lab said what Wade wanted, I\u2019d be off the farm before the funeral flowers were delivered. If it didn\u2019t, I had no idea what it would do to the man in the corner chair.<\/p>\n
Uncle Carl had gone very still. The magazine sat forgotten in his lap.<\/p>\n
Then Dad opened his eyes.<\/p>\n
He hadn\u2019t opened them in two days. The hospice team said he probably wouldn\u2019t again. But he looked straight at me, and his voice came out like dry paper tearing.<\/p>\n
\u201cSissy. Don\u2019t let them read it.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room froze.<\/p>\n
Wade laughed, too loud, too sharp. \u201cHe\u2019s confused. It\u2019s the morphine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not confused.\u201d Dad\u2019s hand moved on the blanket, reaching. I took it. His fingers were cold. \u201cYour mother told me. The winter before she passed. I promised her I\u2019d carry it.\u201d<\/p>\n
In the corner, Uncle Carl set the magazine down. His hands were shaking. In forty years I had never once seen Uncle Carl\u2019s hands shake.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Harlan?\u201d said the voice on the speaker. \u201cShould I continue?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Dad whispered.<\/p>\n
Wade grabbed the phone off the tray. \u201cYes. Read it. All of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My chest went cold. I couldn\u2019t look away from Uncle Carl. He was staring at Wade the way you\u2019d stare at a car accident you couldn\u2019t stop.<\/p>\n
\u201cSissy, listen to me.\u201d Dad\u2019s grip tightened. He had more strength in that moment than he\u2019d had in a month. \u201cBefore she reads anything, you need to know your mother and I were never going to tell Wade.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTell me what?\u201d Wade\u2019s voice cracked.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause the night you were born, Carl came to the hospital and told your mother he was sorry. That he\u2019d made a mistake. That he loved his wife and couldn\u2019t, \u201d Dad\u2019s breath hitched. He closed his eyes. \u201cYour mother made me promise. She said you deserved to grow up as my son.\u201d<\/p>\n
Wade went white. \u201cWhat are you, \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Harlan, I still have the family on the line,\u201d the woman from the lab said. \u201cShould I, \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cRead it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBeth, no,\u201d Carl said. It was the first time he\u2019d spoken all afternoon. His voice sounded strangled.<\/p>\n
\u201cRead it,\u201d I said again.<\/p>\n
There was a pause, the sound of papers rustling. Then Kara\u2019s voice, professional and even: \u201cWe tested three samples. Sample A, labeled Beth Harlan, shows a 99.9% probability of biological relationship to Sample C, labeled Robert Harlan. Sample B, labeled Wade Harlan, shows zero probability of biological relationship to Sample C. However, there are markers consistent with Sample B being a biological nephew to Sample C, which would indicate, \u201c<\/p>\n
Wade dropped the phone. It clattered against the tile floor, and Kara\u2019s voice kept going, explaining probabilities and paternal lineage and offering grief counseling resources, but no one was listening anymore.<\/p>\n
Wade turned to Carl. \u201cYou?\u201d<\/p>\n
Carl stood up. He looked old suddenly, older than Dad. \u201cIt was one time. One weekend when your mother and your, when Robert were separated. She didn\u2019t even tell me until you were two months old.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you just, \u201d Wade\u2019s hands were fists. \u201cYou let me, \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cI let you have a father who wanted you,\u201d Carl said. His voice broke. \u201cRobert raised you. He loved you. That\u2019s more than I could\u2019ve, \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cYou stood there.\u201d Wade was shaking. \u201cYou stood there and watched me try to prove Beth wasn\u2019t his daughter. You knew what that test would say, and you didn\u2019t, \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t think you\u2019d actually do it,\u201d Carl said quietly. \u201cI kept thinking you\u2019d stop.\u201d<\/p>\n
Wade looked at me. Then at Dad. Then at the DNA kit still sitting on the tray table, its cardboard box cheerful and bright against the beige hospice furniture.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe farm\u2019s yours,\u201d he said to me. His voice was flat. \u201cI don\u2019t, I can\u2019t, \u201c<\/p>\n
He walked out. Carl followed him. I heard their voices in the hallway, Wade\u2019s rising and Carl\u2019s low and pleading, and then the sound of the exterior door slamming.<\/p>\n
Pam came in a few minutes later. She picked up the phone from the floor and ended the call. She didn\u2019t ask what happened. She\u2019d probably heard every word from the nurses\u2019 station.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay, honey?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded. I wasn\u2019t, but I would be.<\/p>\n
Dad was asleep again, his hand still in mine. His breathing had evened out, and his face looked peaceful in a way it hadn\u2019t in weeks. Like he\u2019d been holding something heavy and had finally set it down.<\/p>\n
He died that night, just after midnight. Pam said it was quick. She said sometimes people hold on until they know the people they love are going to be all right.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know if I\u2019m all right. But I know I\u2019m staying. The farm\u2019s paid off, and the house still smells like Dad\u2019s coffee every morning even though I\u2019ve washed the pot three times. Wade came to the funeral. He sat in the back with his wife and didn\u2019t speak to Carl. He didn\u2019t speak to me either, but he nodded when I walked past, and I nodded back.<\/p>\n
Uncle Carl sent a letter last week. He said he was sorry. He said he never meant for any of it to happen the way it did, and he understood if I didn\u2019t want him around. I haven\u2019t written back yet. I don\u2019t know what to say to the man who gave me back the only inheritance I ever wanted by accident.<\/p>\n
Aunt June called yesterday to tell me she\u2019d always known I was a Harlan. That she\u2019d never said otherwise. I hung up on her.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m learning to run the farm. The tobacco\u2019s mostly leased out, but the cattle need tending, and the fence line along the back forty is a mess. I\u2019ve got Dad\u2019s work gloves in the barn, and some days I put them on just to remember what his hands looked like, steady and sure, on top of that blanket.<\/p>\n
Wade wanted proof. He got it. Just not the kind he was looking for.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
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