Chapter 2 - The Hospital Room and the Missing Mother
By 9:30 p.m., the pediatric ward of St. Jude’s Memorial smelled of antiseptic, sterile sheets, and the quiet, artificial hum of IV pumps.
Theo was sleeping soundly, his color returning to a healthy pink as the saline flushed the dehydration from his system. The ER physician assured us he would make a full recovery, though he would need to be monitored overnight for signs of heat stress.
Maisy lay in the adjacent bed, her scraped arms slathered in antibiotic ointment and wrapped in clean gauze. She had refused to let go of my hand since we walked through the hospital doors. Every time a nurse walked past the doorway, her eyes widened with a silent, hunted panic.
“The police located your mother’s car,” Detective Vance said, stepping quietly into the room.
He was a tall man with tired eyes and a rumpled suit that suggested he hadn't seen a bed in twenty-four hours. He closed the door softly behind him, sealing us off from the fluorescent-lit hallway.
I looked up from the edge of Maisy’s bed. “Where was she?”
“Parked behind a 24-hour diner off Route 9,” Detective Vance said, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “When officers approached the vehicle, she was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead with the engine off and the radio playing static. She didn't realize hours had passed.”
A cold dread pooled in my stomach. “Is she having a medical episode? Dementia? Stroke?”
“Paramedics evaluated her on the scene. Physically, she’s fine. Mentally... that’s complicated,” Vance said, flipping open his notebook. “She told officers she went inside the grocery store to pick up a few items for dinner, but she couldn't remember why she left the children in the car. When she came out and found the car empty—because Maisy had already fled with the baby—she panicked, drove away, and just... lost track of time.”
“Lost track of time?” My voice rose, sharp enough to make Maisy stir in her sleep. I lowered it instantly, my hands shaking. “She left a fifteen-month-old baby and a seven-year-old child in a closed vehicle in July while she went shopping? That isn't losing track of time, Detective. That’s gross negligence. That’s child endangerment.”
“We’re looking at multiple felony counts of child abuse and neglect,” Vance replied quietly. “And that brings us to your father.”
“What about Curtis?”
“When we searched his pockets down at the station, we found an empty prescription bottle for heavy antipsychotics prescribed to your mother, alongside a half-empty bottle of bourbon,” Vance said, watching my reaction closely. “Your father hasn't been taking his own medication for his cognitive decline, and he’s been doubling up on your mother’s sedatives to cope with his erratic behavior. That’s why he was unresponsive in the woods. He wasn't just confused—he was heavily intoxicated and heavily medicated on a cocktail of neuro-suppressants.”
I stared at the detective, the horrifying puzzle pieces clicking together into a picture so dark it made my chest ache.
My parents hadn't just made a mistake. Their lives had spiraled completely out of control, and they had brought my children right into the crosshairs of their private disaster.
“Can she see me?” a small voice whispered from the bed.
I turned. Maisy was awake, her large brown eyes watching us with a maturity no seven-year-old should ever possess.
“I’m right here, baby,” I murmured, leaning over and pressing my lips to her forehead.
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“Are we going back to our house?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Are the bad people gone?”
“We are never going back there, Maisy,” I promised, my voice ringing with a fierce, absolute vow that nothing in this world would ever break. “Our house is the only place we’re going. And nobody will ever hurt you again.”
