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“Yes, please.” He nods, then adds, “Is there a social worker or case manager assigned to Izzy?”
Linda nods. “Donna. She’s been trying to find any next of kin, but so far, no luck. We heard the 9-1-1 call was made by a four-year-old. The name is Lora or Cora, but the EMTs couldn’t find her when they arrived.”
“The kids are safe,” I interject.
Linda’s eyes snap to me, hard and scrutinizing. “And you are?” she asks with a pointed edge to her voice.
I stand a little taller, meeting her gaze. “Isadora’s sister,” I declare.
Her expression hardens, a flare of anger briefly crossing her features. “Well, isn’t that nice? Maybe you could’ve gotten here sooner.” She turns back to Gabe, tone dripping with contempt. “If there’s no guardian, CPS will need to be contacted.”
Anger flashes hot inside me and I clench my fists. How dare this frigid nurse judge my family? We were scattered and dysfunctional long before today. At least I’m here now, trying to pick up the shattered pieces of my niece and nephew’s lives.
I want to slap the judgmental expression off this Linda’s pinched face. But Gabe speaks first, “My wife came as soon as she was able. Now please gather Ms. Lewis’ care team so we can be briefed on her condition.” His unyielding eyes bore into Linda until she looks away.
Linda’s eyes cut back to me, still unimpressed and faintly hostile. “I’ll see what I can do, but everyone is quite busy.”
I swallow down irritation. “Please, may I see my sister Izzy?”
“She’s sedated, no visitors allowed,” Linda replies bluntly.
Gabe inhales sharply, barely masking his irritation. “Just gather her team,” he insists. Clasping my hand firmly, he leads us away before his temper breaks.
The corridor is lined floor-to-ceiling with rooms of glass. Inside, loved ones cluster around patients, curtains partially drawn. At the far end, one room stands starkly, heartbreakingly empty. My pulse pounds as we approach.
Through the glass, I see her. Izzy. Hooked to machines, tubes, and wires. My throat seals shut, sorrow and guilt threatening to choke me.
The beep of the monitors punctuates the silence around us. “Do you know how this happened?” I ask Gabe, my voice barely above a whisper. “After all, you’re a doctor.”
He scoffs. “The answer isn’t that simple. I’m not a cardiologist or a neurologist.”
And now I wonder about his specialty. Did he become a pediatrician, or . . . he was undecided when I left and now. I remember him telling me earlier that if needed, he could do my routine screens to ensure the tumor wasn’t back. He’s probably a primary care physician.
Instead of answering, he turns the question back to me. “Are you sure she didn’t tell you what was going on?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember. As I mentioned earlier, she left a voicemail,” I say, pulling out my phone.
Hitting play to listen to Izzy’s voicemail. Her voice, weak and strained, fills the space between us. “Hey, little sister . . .” She pauses, and the weight of the silence is almost tangible. “I’m pretty sick and need your help to get better. Yeah, I know I’ve been shitty, but if you can see past my mistakes and all my fuck-ups . . .” Her words falter, slurring slightly. “Don’t do it for me, but think about your daughter. What would you do if she needed you? Please, come to Seattle as soon as possible before it’s too late.”
Gabe tenses, anger flashing in his eyes. “How the fuck does she know about our girl?”
I twist my hands, shrinking under his sudden fury. “Sometimes, when I was really sad, I would leave her voice messages. I mean, you were gone, and I had no one to talk to . . .” My voice fades as I remember those dark days. “If she listened to them, she knows everything that transpired between us. I called her almost daily until I left. After that, I let her go like I did everyone else.”
He reaches for my hand. “I’m not upset at you, but at her. Her call doesn’t tell us much. I hate that she used our baby to drag you here.” His gaze hardens as he looks at Izzy. “The real question is what she’s addicted to.”
I blink in confusion, struggling to keep up with his train of thought. “Addicted? What do you mean? Where did you get that idea?” I hold up my phone. “Nothing in here mentions that. Linda didn’t say that either.”
“Two of her doctors specialize in psychiatry and addiction medicine. I need to understand her full treatment plan here.” Gabe drags a hand over his face, some of the anger dissipating. But his eyes remain troubled, staring through the glass. “Her voice in that message . . . it was slurred. Did she have the stroke already, or was she intoxicated when she called? Were the kids abandoned for more than twenty-four hours . . .?” His voice trails off.
My thoughts fly to little Caleb and his inconsolable tears. “If she’s an alcoholic or an addict . . . what impact could that have had on the baby during pregnancy?”
He gasps. “We need to have him examined. Let me have Finn and Seth dig into Izzy’s medical history and track down Caleb’s pediatric records.” His jaw clenches, the lines of his face hardening. “His crying might be a result of prenatal exposure.”
A wave of sorrow crashes over me, thinking of the tiny, innocent boy. He’s possibly bearing the consequences from choices he never made.
Gabe goes on, “And we need to shield them, fast. CPS will likely want to get involved.” He peers at me. “What type of law do you practice again?”
“Family law—I’m not licensed to practice here, but I can ask my boss for guidance and help, though,” I suggest.
