Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Tea
The revelation hit me like a physical blow.
Every memory of my childhood began to reframe itself in my mind like a terrifying film strip played in reverse. The strange "vitamins" my mother forced Georgia and me to drink every morning before school. The way Georgia always seemed slightly dazed, floating through life while my mother managed her bank accounts, her marriage, and her medical care. The sudden "illnesses" that seemed to strike anyone who tried to stand up to Eleanor Vance.
"We need to get Georgia out of that hospital," I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor.
"Clara, wait," David caught my arm. "Georgia tried to kill our baby two nights ago!"
"Georgia didn't try to kill him, David!" I cried, tears streaming down my face in the dim restaurant light. "Georgia was being poisoned! She was living in an artificially created nightmare constructed by our mother! If my mother controls Georgia, she controls the primary witness in the murder case! She's going to eliminate Georgia before she can talk!"
We didn't wait for Evelyn's legal filings. We drove straight to Greenwich Hospital.
Because of the high-profile nature of the kidnapping attempt, the psychiatric wing on the fourth floor was locked down. Two armed Greenwich police officers stood outside Georgia’s door.
As we walked down the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor, I saw a familiar figure standing by the nurses' station, wearing a long mink coat and holding a silver thermos.
It was my mother, Eleanor.
She was speaking softly to a young night nurse, her voice oozing with that aristocratic, gentle charm she used to manipulate everyone in her orbit. She was handing the nurse a tray of home-baked pastries and two paper cups.
"Mother!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the sterile hall.
Eleanor turned slowly. Her silver hair was immaculately coiffed, her makeup flawless, her posture regal. She looked like a woman attending a charity gala, not a criminal whose daughter was locked in a padded room.
"Clara, darling," Eleanor smiled, her eyes cold as polished marble. "You shouldn't be here. You look positively exhausted. David, really, you should take her home. She looks so frail."
"Get away from that desk," David snarled, stepping between Eleanor and the nurse.
"Officer," Eleanor said smoothly, turning to the two guarded police officers. "I am Georgia's legal guardian and mother. I brought her some chamomile tea to help her sleep. The doctors said she was having an episode."
I rushed to the nurse's station and snatched the paper cup out of the nurse's hand before she could take a sip.
"Don't touch that!" I screamed.
"Mrs. Vance, what is the meaning of this?" the head officer asked, stepping forward, his hand resting on his holster.
"Run a toxicology screen on this tea," I said, holding the cup out to the officer, my hand shaking with rage. "Run a screen for synthetic scopolamine and high-dose liquid benzodiazepines. My mother has been poisoning Georgia for four years!"
Eleanor’s smile did not fade, but her eyes narrowed into tiny, lethal slits.
"You've always been so dramatic, Clara," Eleanor said softly, adjusting her mink collar. "Just like your father. You never had the stomach for what it takes to keep a family together."
She leaned in close to me, her expensive floral perfume suffocating my senses, and whispered in my ear:
"You think you've won because you have that baby in your house, Clara? Look at your wrist."
I looked down at my left wrist.
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Sometime during the chaos at the restaurant, or perhaps in the garage, a small white medical sticker had been placed on the cuff of my jacket—a tracking label from the Ridgefield Women's Health Center.
"The police are searching your house right now, darling," Eleanor whispered, a terrifyingly sweet chuckle escaping her lips. "I filed an emergency motion two hours ago claiming you were suffering from postpartum psychosis and hiding illegal narcotics in Sam's crib. Enjoy your final night with him."
