Chapter 5 - The Hospital Room
The children’s ward of St. Jude’s Regional Hospital smelled of boiled cabbage, lemon disinfectant, and the artificial cherry scent they pumped through the air vents to cover the smell of fear.
It was 4:00 a.m. when I finally walked past the nurses' station on the third floor. The night nurse—a tired-looking woman with graying hair pinned up in a messy bun—looked up from her computer screen as I approached, her eyes lingering on the dark circles under my eyes and the mud dried along the hem of my jeans.
"Visiting hours ended at eight, Mr. Vance," she said quietly, her voice tired rather than hostile. "And Mrs. Vance is already inside with the children."
"She's not their mother," I said, my voice flat.
The nurse paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She didn't argue. In a regional hospital that serves three counties of logging towns and depressed farm country, nurses see things they don't put in the official charts. They know which bruises match the story and which ones don't.
"Room 312," she said, looking back at her monitor. "The doctor said the boy’s leg is set in a plaster cast, but he hasn't spoken a single word since they brought him in from triage. The little girl is asleep in the cot."
"Thanks," I muttered.
I walked down the linoleum-floored corridor, past doors with small square glass windows where pale faces drifted in the shadows like ghosts.
Room 312 was at the very end of the hall. The door was cracked open about two inches, enough to let out a sliver of yellow light and the low, steady hum of an intravenous drip machine.
I didn't knock. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and stepped inside.
Reena was sitting in the vinyl armchair beside Drew’s bed. She had removed her trench coat, revealing the black turtleneck underneath, and was leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees, her face only inches from the boy’s pillow.
She wasn't yelling. She wasn't shaking him. She was using that terrible, quiet, conspiratorial voice—the one adults use when they’re telling a secret that isn't a secret at all, but a warning.
"...and when the nice social worker comes back tomorrow morning to ask you questions, Drew, you're going to tell her what we practiced," Reena was saying, her fingers rhythmically tapping against the edge of the white hospital rail. "You’re going to tell her that you climbed out the window because you wanted to play in the woods, and that you fell off the rock pile. You won't mention the cellar. You won't mention your uncle Julian, because Julian is sick in his head and wants to take you away from your home."
Drew lay flat on his back, his right leg elevated in a white plaster sling suspended by a metal overhead frame. His face was turned toward the window, where the dark silhouette of the hospital water tower loomed against the pre-dawn sky.
He didn't answer her. He didn't blink. He just stared into the glass, looking like a boy who had already died once and was waiting for the rest of him to catch up.
"Drew," Reena whispered, her voice dropping an octave, turning sharp and brittle. "Look at me."
"Leave him alone," I said.
The words didn't come out loud, but they filled the room like a physical presence.
Reena spun around in the armchair, her blonde ponytail whipping against her back. When she saw me standing in the doorway with my hands jammed deep into the pockets of my jacket, her expression didn't show surprise—it showed cold, hard irritation, like a manager interrupted by an annoying customer just before closing time.
"You shouldn't be here, Julian," she said, standing up and smoothing the front of her black turtleneck. "The security guard told you downstairs—family only. And legally speaking, you aren't his legal guardian. I am."
"Not for much longer," I said.
I walked past her without looking at her face, stopping right beside the hospital bed. I looked down at my nephew. His skin had the yellow, translucent look of parchment left out in the sun, and his lips were dry and cracked.
"Drew," I said softly, dropping down onto one knee so I was at eye level with the edge of the mattress. "Buddy. Can you look at me?"
Slowly, with infinite reluctance, Drew turned his head from the window. His dark, hollow eyes drifted across my face.
"Julian," he whispered.
"I’m here," I said, reaching out to place my hand over his small, cold fingers resting on top of the white sheet. He didn't pull away; instead, his fingers twitched inside mine, his grip tightening with a pathetic, desperate strength. "You did good, Drew. You got us here. You don't have to be brave anymore."
Reena stepped around the foot of the bed, her face tightening into a mask of righteous indignation. "If you don't walk out of this room right now, Julian, I am calling the administrator and having you removed by the county sheriff. You are harassing these children. You’re mental, just like your father was at the end."
I stood up slowly, turning to face her across the narrow expanse of the hospital bed where Sissy was sleeping soundly in a small plastic bassinet in the corner.
"My father died of a stroke in his bed, Reena," I said, my voice dropping into that low, flat register that made her take half a step backward. "He didn't drive his truck off a bridge at two in the morning after packing a suitcase to leave."
Reena’s eyes flickered—just for a second. "What are you talking about?"
"I was in Thomas’s truck today," I said. "Down at the impound lot. I found the notebook."
The silence in the room became so absolute that I could hear the faint, rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the IV pump across the room.
Reena didn't yell. She didn't deny it. She just stood there by the window, her hands slowly uncurling at her sides, her chest rising and falling in a deep, rhythmic pattern.
"Thomas was a weak man," she said, her voice dropping into a conversational, almost conversational tone that made my skin crawl. "He thought love was enough to keep a family together. He didn't understand that discipline isn't about being nice—it’s about survival. You can't raise children on the ridge by being soft."
"He found out about the cellar," I said. "That’s why he was leaving."
"He was leaving because he was a coward," Reena corrected, her eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying, absolute sincerity. "He couldn't handle the truth of what it takes to keep a household running when the world is falling apart. So he made his choice."
"His choice?" I repeated, my teeth grinding together until my jaw ached. "You mean you made it for him."
Before Reena could answer, the door behind us swung open with a soft click.
A tall woman in a navy blue tweed suit with a silver badge clipped to her lapel stepped into the room. She held a thick leather folder under one arm and looked from Reena to me with the tired, professional neutrality of a veteran state child protective services investigator.
"Mrs. Vance?" she asked, her voice clear and sharp. "And Mr. Vance?"
Reena’s entire posture shifted in less than a second. The cold, calculating predator vanished, replaced instantly by the grieving widow, the overburdened stepmother fighting against a hostile world.
"Yes," Reena said, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion as she took a step toward the investigator. "Thank God you're here. My brother-in-law has been following me around the hospital, making wild accusations about my husband’s death and threatening me in front of the children. I need a restraining order filed immediately."
The investigator—her nametag read Supervisor Miller, State Department of Family Services—looked at Reena for a long, silent moment. Then she looked down at Drew, whose small hand was still locked inside mine.
Then she opened the leather folder, pulled out a three-page document covered in official state seals, and looked back up at Reena.
May you like
"Mrs. Vance," Supervisor Miller said, her tone completely devoid of warmth. "Before we discuss restraining orders, I need you to step out into the hallway with Deputy Henderson. We have a few questions about the timber road behind your property, the condition of the lower-level fruit cellar at 414 North Ridge Road, and an entry in your personal journal dated May fourteenth."
Reena’s face didn't pale. It went completely, unnaturally gray.
