Chapter 2 - The Face in the Glass
MARK.
The name hung in the heavy air of the pediatric unit like an order.
Outside the double doors, Diane’s voice rose, sharp and hysterical, cutting through the sterile hum of the hospital monitors.
“I am his legal guardian! You have no right to keep me from him! Open this door right now!”
Ben flinched violently, pulling his injured leg tighter against his chest. The plastic grocery bag rattled, a pathetic sound of empty bottles shifting against one another. He buried his face in his knees, his small shoulders shaking.
“She’s going to take me back,” he whispered into the fabric of his shirt. “She said if I talk to strangers, the bad men take us both. She said you’re one of them.”
My heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. For five years, my sister—the person I shared childhood memories with, the aunt who had held him as an infant—had warped my son’s mind into a prison of terror.
“Ben, look at me,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady, overriding the panic threatening to choke me. “Look at my eyes. No one is taking you anywhere. Not while I’m breathing.”
He raised his head slowly. His tear-filled eyes searched mine, looking for the lie. He found none.
Mark stepped back from the doorway, his hand resting on his service weapon, his expression carved from granite. “Claire, she’s trying to force her way past security. Two officers are holding the stairwell door, but she’s causing a scene. Families in the adjacent rooms are starting to look out.”
“Don’t let her near this room,” I said, standing up and towering over the space between Ben and the door. “Clear the hallway. If she’s arrested for trespassing, obstruction, or disturbing the peace, use whatever charge gets her away from my son first.”
“Consider it done,” Mark said, his radio clicking as he issued a crisp directive to the corridor detail.
Through the wired glass window of the patient door, I saw Diane’s face pressed against the pane. Her hair was pulled back in a greasy, unwashed ponytail, her cheeks hollowed out by whatever dark obsession had driven her across state lines. Her eyes darted wildly across the room until they locked onto mine.
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. The frantic, righteous guardian act vanished, replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated panic.
She knew. Or she suspected that I knew.
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She slammed her palms against the glass. “Claire! Let me in! Don’t let them poison him against me! He’s mine!”
“She’s not your mother,” I whispered to Ben, stepping directly into his line of sight so he couldn't see the woman at the glass. “You belong to someone else. And we are going to get your real life back.”
