The Others

Step 1: The Blood Test

Three clear, plastic vials sat on top of my mother's beloved coffee table. It was that same table, in which I was grounded for three weeks after placing a chilled beverage on the glass without a coaster. Now, it held three of 2 ounces of my blood. The third and last ounce was being pulled from my arm by an old man, with a twisting mustache. He wore a white lab coat and a light blue surgical mask which hung around his neck as he poked at my arm, searching for a juicy vein. My mother watched through her crescent-shaped spectacles, the ones dangling on the bridge of her nose, while she nervously bit at her nails.

Finally, after what felt like eternity of prodding, the doctor found a vein to his liking and plunged the needle into my flesh. Greedily, he sucked the last ounce of my blood into the chamber of the syringe and emptied its contents into the final vial. The latex gloves snapped as he pulled them off one by one. His lips thinned into a hard line, at least I believed they did, it was hard to see with the small rodent clinging to his upper lip. My mother finally seemed to snap free from her reprieve and walked over to the couch where I sat. My knee bobbed as I waited for the doctor to speak. But he cleaned his tools and neatly tucked them back into his metal briefcase, wordlessly. Fiddling with his jacket, he revealed the official U. S. Government seal embroidered on his right coat pocket and then handed my mother a white sheet of paper. The receipt.

"This should take about a month to process. You'll get back the results on her birthday," he glanced down at his clipboard, "November 12th."

My mother folded the paper and slipped it into her jean pocket. Putting it not only out of sight but out of mind, at least for another month.

"You have other children, correct?" The doctor raised a brow. My mother nodded reluctantly, her copper curls bounced ever so slightly as they fought against the layers of hairspray.

"Yes, two. Christine and Adam."

Looking through the bronze fringe of my bangs, I stared at the family portrait hanging above the fireplace. My father sat beside my mother, their hands folded neatly on their laps, while their pale faces twisted with forced smiles. Christine and Adam sat in front of our parents, in their matching school uniforms- blue sweaters with khakis pants. An eagle embroidered above their hearts. They were kids when the painting was commissioned, no older than four, maybe five, and I had yet to be born. I was born a year later but the portrait would not be changed.

Christine claimed it was an artifact of the 'Glory Days.'

"Then I'm sure you understand that there is nothing to worry about. Only 1 in one tenth of the children tested will contain the gene, this is simply standard protocol. Every child, one month before their sixteenth birthday must be tested. As you know it is better to be safe than sorry."

"It's the law," My mother walked the doctor to the door.

She offered him a final word of parting before slamming the door behind his back and slumping against the wall.

Standing off to the side, I cradled my bruised arm to my chest and scoured my brain for something to say. Anything. But my mind was filled with static. I couldn't think with my heart raging in my chest and with my palms quivering, and laced with sweat. The doctor's words echoed in my mind, "this is simply standard protocol," and my mother's murmured statement, "it's the law." I knew all about the mandated blood test. Throughout my entire life, I watched teenagers send three ounces of their blood to Government labs, where they would be tested and then, hopefully rejected. And while most of the kids at school claimed that it was easy and nothing to sweat about, I found myself terrified. Tormented by the silly question, what if?

"Now, we wait." My mother seemed to muster her strength, as she stepped away from the wall and stumbled towards the kitchen. She left me with, "I need a drink," and then disappeared.

I don't know what I expected from her, certainly not a comforting hug or even a glance of sympathy. There was nothing else for me to do and though I hated it, she was right- like always. So, I waited.