An Impossible Dilemma: A Psychological Thriller Novel Read Online Free Page B

happening to our gorgeous girl?
    Emily, no longer interested in the book, glanced from me to her dad and back to the doctor. I realized she was listening to everything, and although I didn't think she'd understand, I didn’t want her to ask questions.
    “Is there any chance Emily can go and play in reception? She doesn’t want to listen to all this boring grown-up talk do you, Em?” My voice sounded much brighter than I felt.
    “Of course. I’ll get Diane to watch her.” He stood up and walked into the reception, returning with a middle-aged woman with spiky grey hair, laughing blue eyes and a smile to match.
    “How about I show you where we hide the best toys, sweetie?” she said to Emily, who had climbed onto Jon’s knee.
    She turned her face into his chest.
    “Come on, Em, we won’t be long. We need to talk to the doctor for a few minutes, and then we’ll go home to see Steph,” I whispered.
    “I’ve got a pretty dolly out here and her name’s Steph. She has lots of different dresses. Shall I show you?” Diane urged.
    Emily lifted her head.
    “Come on, sweetie.”
    Emily took Diane’s hand and followed her outside.
    “Thanks, Doctor. I don’t want her to hear what’s coming next.”
    “I understand.”
    I gripped Jonathan’s hand and braced myself.
    “Now, where were we?” Doctor Wilson said.
    “Can she be treated, Doctor?” Jonathan asked again.
    He shook his head. “This hormone is essential for her development. Without it, she’ll continue to deteriorate. I’m so sorry.”
    “I don’t understand. There’s nothing at all you can do?” I asked, my mind in a whirl. This was much worse than anything I’d imagined over the past weeks. My whole body shook. I couldn’t absorb what he was telling us.
    “No. It’s incredibly rare. There were a number of trials conducted a few years ago. Attempts were made to transplant from a living donor, a similar procedure to a bone-marrow transplant, but on each occasion the donor died within twenty-four hours. The trials were stopped.”
    “What if I donated mine?” I said, grasping at any possibility, my mind racing.
    “Even if you could donate yours, it wouldn’t work because, although you do still produce Proteum, you no longer produce the quantities needed for the development of a young girl. Anybody over the age of twenty-five won’t produce nearly enough.”
    “Do the donors have to be a match, like with a bone marrow transplant?”
    “No—but we’re getting way off track here, Mrs Lyons. The trials were stopped.”
    “What about someone who’s already dead, or dying?”
    “No. The Proteum needs to come from a living brain to be viable. I’m being purely hypothetical now as I know you’re trying to understand. If a potential donor is brain-dead, the Proteum won't be viable either.”
    “So in other words, my daughter is going to die,” Jonathan said, in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.
    “I’m afraid so, Mr Lyons—and I’m sorry.”
    Hearing the words spoken out loud made my head spin. “How long?” I asked, my teeth chattered, I was shaking so much.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “How long until she dies? How long do we have?”
    “It’s hard to say, as the symptoms vary from person to person. I suggest we do some more tests in two months. It will enable us to see how quickly she’s deteriorating and give us some idea of what to expect.”
    I wanted to scream at him—for his pompous, no-nonsense answers—for his calm manner—for his rotten lying mouth. But instead I felt my shoulders sag. An empty hole in the very centre of my being grew larger and more painful by the second. This couldn’t be happening.
    The posters on the wall were jumping out at me. One was entitled “Brain Jokes”. I didn’t read any further. Some fucking joke this was.
    I looked at Jonathan and noticed he hadn’t moved a muscle, except huge tears ran down his face and dripped off his chin.
    “Jon. Jon? Are you okay?” I pulled him to me and held his