Chapter 6 - The Third Floor Ward
By midnight, the third floor of the hospital was as quiet as a church after service.
The floor monitors flickered with green numbers—ninety-eight, thirty-six, one-twenty—their low beeps forming a slow, steady pulse through the long corridor.
At the end of the hall, behind a heavy door marked NEONATAL INTENSIVE CARE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, Emma was sitting on a low wooden stool beside the second warming box.
She was wearing a oversized pair of hospital scrubs that Renee had rolled up four times at the sleeves and knees, making her look like a small blue parcel sitting in the corner. Her hair had been washed, brushed, and braided into two neat plaits that hung down over her shoulders.
In the box beside her, Noah—the larger twin—was lying on his stomach, a yellow knitted cap covering his small head. His tiny fingers were hooked into the green plastic tubing that brought warm, humidified oxygen into his box.
Emma reached her hand through the rubber port on the side of the warmer and touched his thumb.
“You’re bigger than Eli,” she whispered to the baby. “Eli’s small like a turnip. You’re like a potato.”
The door behind her clicked open.
It wasn't the nurse.
A woman in a tailored dark blue suit with a silver pin on her lapel stepped into the room. She was fifty, her hair cut into a sharp, chin-length bob that didn't move when she walked. She carried a slim black leather briefcase under her arm and a small paper bag from the hospital gift shop.
“Emma?” the woman said, her voice smooth, warm, like honey that had been kept in the fridge.
Emma didn't pull her hand out of the warming box. She turned her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto the silver pin.
It was a small clover leaf made of mother-of-pearl.
“I’m your Aunt Catherine,” the woman said, stepping closer to the box and setting the paper bag on the side table. “Your mother’s sister. Do you remember me?”
Emma stared at her. “Mommy doesn't have a sister. Mommy has a brother who died in the well.”
The woman smiled—a small, quick movement of her mouth that didn't reach her gray eyes. “That was a long time ago, sweetheart. Your mommy was very sick when she told you that. I’ve been looking for you for two days. The police called me when they found your mother’s wheelbarrow.”
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a blue folder with three official-looking white labels stuck across the front.
“I have the papers from the court in Richmond,” the woman said, looking at the door behind her once before turning back to the child. “We’re going to take you and the boys home tonight. My car is downstairs.”
Emma pulled her hand out of the warmer. The rubber port made a small pop sound as her wrist cleared the seal.
“Where’s Dr. Marcus?” Emma asked.
The woman’s smile tightened slightly at the corners. “Dr. Vance is busy with the police right now, Emma. He’s in a lot of trouble because he took some papers that didn't belong to him from your daddy’s house.”
Emma stood up from the stool. Her oversized scrub trousers slipped down two inches, but she caught them with her thumb and pulled them tight against her waist.
“Dr. Marcus has my granddaddy’s ring,” Emma said. “He’s not in trouble. You are.”
The woman’s face didn't change, but her hand moved fast—faster than a woman in a blue suit usually moved. She reached out and grabbed Emma’s small forearm, her long fingernails pressing through the soft blue cotton of the scrub shirt into the thin bone beneath.
“Listen to me, you little brat,” she whispered, her smooth voice dropping into a flat, ugly rasp. “Your mother is going to be in a state facility by tomorrow morning, and those two babies are going into foster care in Norfolk unless you walk out those doors with me right now.”
“Let go of her,” a voice said from the doorway.
The woman turned around fast.
Dr. Marcus Vance was standing in the door frame. His coat was gone, his blue scrub shirt was torn at the shoulder, and his knuckles were gray with dry dirt from the Lineboro farm.
In his right hand, he held the oilskin notebook bound with the red leather strap.
May you like
Behind him stood Detective Miller and two uniformed hospital security officers with their hands resting on their utility belts.
“Catherine Vance,” Marcus said, stepping into the room, his boots making a heavy, wet sound against the floor tiles. “Or should I call you Catherine Crestline? The name on the Delaware corporate registry you signed six months ago.”
