LEWIS GORDON: RETURN OF THE FORGOTTEN HEIR

CROSSROADS OF FATE

Lewis opened his old car, the hinges groaning like an exhausted man, stepped down, and carried the old woman into the car despite the trauma clawing at him.

The weight of guilt pressed heavy on his chest as he lifted her fragile frame. On the zebra crossing, pedestrians froze mid-stride, their curious eyes following the scene like spectators at a street drama.

Some whispered, some gasped, but no one moved to help, only watching as he entered the car and drove off, leaving a cloud of dust swirling behind like a curtain falling on a stage.

A few minutes later, Lewis pulled up at Clinton Clinics, one of the special hospitals around Buffalo, though usually for the average masses. The neon sign buzzed faintly above the doorway, casting a cold glow over the building.

He immediately rushed out, flinging the car door open and carrying the old woman in his arms as if she was his last chance at redemption. Bursting through the glass doors, he shouted to the nurse at the front desk, his voice shaking with urgency.

“Where should I take her? She’s in a serious condition.”

The nurse, startled but composed, stood up quickly and gestured.

"Sir, please follow me up; let me show you the exact ward."

Lewis followed close, hanging the old woman on his shoulders. Sweat ran down his forehead, his breath heavy as his shoes echoed against the tiled floor. The nurse pushed a door open, and they entered. He laid the woman gently on the bed, his hands trembling with both fear and pity, then turned sharply to the nurse.

“Please go and notify the doctor immediately, the patient is deeply unconscious. Don’t waste time!”

The nurse nodded kindly and rushed out, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

Minutes stretched like hours before the doctor finally entered. Mr. Clinton, dressed in a crisp white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck like a badge of authority, carried a firm yet calm look that filled the room with quiet weight.

His eyes, however, flicked not only to the patient but also to Lewis’s shoes and worn-out clothes, as if already calculating how much this man could afford. To him, emergencies were bills waiting to be tallied.

"You're welcome, sir," he said smoothly. “Tell me exactly what happened so I will know which treatment to administer."

Lewis, standing stiffly with shoulders hunched and eyes restless, replied with a mixture of confusion and pity carved into his face.

"Doc... She's unconscious; I accidentally hit her with my car and she collapsed. Please do the needful."

The doctor nodded once, steady as a stone. "I've heard what you said. Let me check her present condition."

He stepped closer to the bed, bending down with practiced precision, and placed the stethoscope against her chest. A faint breath, fragile but steady, rose and fell.

"Gentleman," he said, straightening up, "hopefully she's still breathing well. But what's much needed is to give her medications while in this hospital for at least two to three days till her full recovery."

Lewis’s voice cracked with desperation. "But will she be conscious today? And what's the total cost of her treatment and medication?"

The doctor’s tone was clipped and professional, but underneath it was a salesman’s polish. “Yes, hopefully she will be conscious before the next day.This will cost at least $5,000 depending on her recovery and the tests. he said, as if reading from an invoice rather than treating a life. “That includes my prescribed drugs and possibly a drip, which will be considered tomorrow through her condition.”

Before Lewis could respond, the doctor gestured toward the hallway.

“Please go to the billing clerk and confirm the charges. After that, my nurses will begin treatment.”

Still numb, Lewis stepped out into the corridor. At the far end sat a woman behind a glass window, her face blank as if carved from stone. Without looking up, she slid a form across the counter.

“Patient ID?” she asked mechanically.

Lewis pointed back toward the ward. “The unconscious woman the doctor just saw.”

The clerk typed something, the keys clacking like hammers, then printed a slip and pushed it through the gap.

“Estimated cost: $5,000. Payment can be full or installment, but treatment won’t proceed until this is acknowledged.”

Lewis stared at the paper, the numbers burning into his eyes. His throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Shaken, Lewis returned to the doctor, holding the slip like it was a death sentence.

"Doc... The price tag is too expensive. I'm not on funds right now. Can you do me a favor by reducing the price?"

The doctor’s gaze was steady, cold as glass. “That’s the price, and I can’t reduce it. These are prescribed drugs, sir, purchased through suppliers. I don’t set the costs; the hospital does,” he said flatly, though his voice carried the ease of someone who had recited this excuse countless times.

Lewis’s chest tightened like a noose, but he had no other option. He finally nodded, voice low but firm despite the tremor.

"Okay, I finally agreed. But I will pay it bit by bit till the completion. Do you agree with that?"

The doctor gave a small nod. "Any format is acceptable, as long as it still amounts to the agreed price."

Lewis looked at him with pitiful eyes, surrounded by nurses who quietly observed. The doctor, unmoved, finally said,

"Sir, my nurses will bring injections right now, so it'll be injected into her to be at least conscious before further treatments."

Immediately he turned and walked out, followed by the nurses, their coats fluttering like silent shadows. Seconds later, two of them returned with injections gleaming under the ward light. They approached the old woman, pricked her vein gently, and left the room. Lewis sat in the chair behind her, his face buried in his hands, watching and drowning in thoughts of what he had passed through before this accident.

Two hours later, the old woman stirred. Her frail body shook, she sneezed softly, then slowly opened her eyes. Relief hit Lewis like a wave, and he exhaled in gratitude. She turned her eyes toward him, her gaze sharp with fear and confusion.

"Who are you? And what am I doing here ?"

Lewis leaned forward, voice soft but urgent. "You're an accident victim, and I'm the one that caused it. As I was driving, I mistakenly kicked you with my car, and I happened to bring you to this hospital for treatment. Please forgive me for what happened; I'm really sorry!"

The woman blinked, her mind slowly clearing, then whispered weakly.

"I've heard you, son. I truly appreciate your kind help, even though you're at fault. Some people would have done so and driven off with their cars, but you treated mine seriously. I will forever appreciate you, and may God bless you abundantly!"

Lewis shook his head, his chest tight with emotion. "Thanks very much, Ma’am. My heartfelt regards and gratitude."

The woman’s eyes softened, and she stared at him with a shocking, almost unbelievable intensity.

"You remind me of my son. You look exactly like him, even his blue eyes and taller frame."

Lewis laughed lightly, trying to push away the strange pull of her words. "Normally people do resemble their fellow human beings; it’s a normal thing. And if I may ask, what’s his name?"

The woman smiled faintly, though sadness lined her lips. "Oh, my son… His name is Lewis Gordon. But I've not been in contact with him for years. It's a long story."

Lewis froze, his whole body locking in disbelief. The room spun for a moment, and his breath caught.