My phone buzzed again. A text from Ava.
“Don’t ask Dad. Ask Mom.”
I showed it to Aunt Linda. She read it and shook her head.
“Your sister knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Everyone knows more than I do.”
I felt bitter laughter bubble up. I’m the only one who didn’t know my own medical history was being hidden from me. I left Aunt Linda’s house with more questions than answers and drove aimlessly for a while, just trying to process everything. Eventually, I found myself in the hospital parking lot where I’d been born, where I’d had countless childhood appointments, where apparently I’d spent time as a teenager that I couldn’t even remember properly. I sat in my car staring at the building. Somewhere in there were records about me. Records someone had altered or deleted or hidden. Records that might explain why my parents had made the choices they did.
My phone rang. My mom. I almost didn’t answer, but some small part of me still hoped she’d have a reasonable explanation.
“Lena.”
Her voice was tight with panic.
“Where are you? Please, you need to come home. We need to talk.”
“I’m not coming home.”
“This isn’t something we can discuss over the phone.”
“Then I guess we’re not discussing it.”
I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
“You don’t understand. There are things you don’t know.”
“That’s the problem, Mom. There are a lot of things I don’t know. Things you deliberately kept from me. Things you and Dad decided I wasn’t allowed to know.”
Silence, then quietly.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Does it matter?”
“Linda.”
Not a question—an accusation.
“She told you.”
“She told me enough.”
“Told me that when I was 14, I had a diagnosis that you ignored. That you used money meant for my medical care to pay for Ava’s music school. That you’ve been lying to me for years.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It seems pretty simple to me.”
“Please just come home so we can explain.”
“No.”
I hung up. My hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t just the medical symptoms. It was rage. Pure, clean rage.
I got out of my car and walked into the hospital. The records department was on the second floor, past the cafeteria, and through a maze of corridors that all looked identical. I found it finally, a small office with a counter and a middle-aged woman typing away at a computer.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to access my medical records. Old ones from when I was a teenager.”
She had me fill out a form, show my ID, sign releases. Then she disappeared into a back room while I stood there under the fluorescent lights, feeling like I was about to open Pandora’s box. When she came back, she looked uncomfortable. She set a thin folder on the counter.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, “your file is unusually sparse for someone your age, and several sections are marked as restricted.”
“Restricted how?”
“Restricted as in only a parent or a legal guardian can access them.”
“But they’re my records. About my health.”
