Chapter 14

LeavingCaleb and Cora at Piper's is excruciating. Caleb's anguished sobs feel like knives twisting in my heart. His little face screws up, big tears rolling down his plump cheeks. The neighbor said he cries constantly—Gabe thinks we should call the pediatrician to check if he's colicky or sick.

Meanwhile Cora stealthily crams sandwiches and apple slices into her pockets when she thinks we aren't looking. My throat tightens—she's hiding food for later. My heart aches just thinking of why she feels the need to do that.

Derek, Piper's other husband, looks at me after we see that Cora is trying to steal food from the plate next to her, too. "While you visit their Mom, figure out how often they ate," he says almost casually.

Gabe nods. "We will. I'm afraid that the kids are malnourished, and maybe Cora doesn't get to eat as often as she should."

Just remembering the state of their house makes me wonder if they even have money for food. From the pro bono cases I handle, I know it happens more than anyone likes to believe—kids with empty cupboards and hollow bellies gobbling up whatever I bring like it's their last meal. It takes patient reassurance before they trust the hunger pangs won't return.

As we leave Piper's house, the familiar ache of helplessness settles in my chest. My mind races with thoughts about Izzy. How is she coping? Is her illness keeping her from work, from caring for her children?

This all feels hauntingly familiar, too much like when Mom was terminally ill, refusing to face her reality. Losing her just as we were reconnecting shredded my heart.

"Is it gonna be the same with Izzy? Will she die?" The words slip out in a whisper, half to Gabe, half lost in my own fears. The dread of experiencing that kind of loss again wraps around my lungs, leaving me gasping for air.

"It's going to be okay," Gabe says, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

Easy for him to say. His family isn't here suffering from something or another on the brink of losing their lives. Me, on the other hand . . . I feel like I should be earning loyalty points for every heartbreaking moment I spend in this institution—the fifth loss is free.

Pushing aside these dark thoughts, I force a smile, trying to hold onto hope. The drive to the hospital feels endless, each mile stretching on as I teeter between panic and forced calm.

We pull into Seattle Memorial's parking lot. This is too familiar. I don't say it out loud. We walk toward the building in silence. I step out and breathe deep, bracing for the usual wave of memories and emotions that crash over me as soon as I get that too-clean hospital scent attacking my nose.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate hospitals?" I mumble, trailing after Gabe's long strides. "So, how do you know where Izzy is anyway?"

He glances, lips pressed in a grim line. "I made a few calls."

"So, I'm sure by now you know what happened to her. Mind telling me, please," I ask, as we pause in front of the elevator.

He pokes the button, then turns to face me, his expression serious. "I didn't find out much. I was told she's in the ICU, she had a stroke."

"Who told you this?" I narrow my gaze because his response doesn't make sense. "Actually, is it even possible to know you're going to have a stroke days in advance?"

"No. Why would you ask that?" Gabe tilts his head.

"She called me Monday morning. I didn't get to her voicemail until that evening, and it was only yesterday that I decided to come here," I explain, feeling a twist in my stomach. "But if you recall, her neighbor mentioned the ambulance only took her a few hours ago."

Gabe studies me intently, his gaze not just on me but seemingly peering into my thoughts. As the elevator dings and the doors slide open, he gently places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. "Something's off," he murmurs. "Let's see what her doctor says."

The elevator is crowded, so we fall into a silent understanding. When the doors slide open, Gabe's fingers weave through mine. Gotta admit, his skin against my skin roots me in the present, keeping me from being swept away by the rising surge of panic.

As we approach the nurses' station, my gaze lands on a pretty nurse in her mid-forties. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a practical yet stylish ponytail. The lines around her eyes, carved with the kind of wisdom that only years in a demanding job can impart, soften as she looks up at us. Her badge, stating ‘Linda' in bold letters, catches the light as she moves.

Her smile widens when she sees us. "Dr. Decker. What a surprise. I didn't expect you on rounds today. How can I assist you?"

"We're here to see Isadora Lewis," he responds with a tone I've never heard before. A mix of professional and dismissive."Could you tell us who's on her case?"

She glances at her computer, while typing on her keyboard. After a few seconds she says, "Dr. Voss, Navarra, Kovalenko, and Thibodeaux are in charge of her case," Linda informs us.

Gabe frowns. "Voss and Navarra make sense. They're the neurologist and cardiologist. But . . ." he trails his voice. "Kovalenko is a psychiatrist and Thibodeaux is one of the rehab specialists. What's the deal? Who's the internist overseeing her care?"

"You can speak to Dr. Boyd," Linda says. "I can page her for you, if you'd like."

"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.

"If you think he can assist, that's good. If not, we have resources, too," Gabe assures me.

"Let's figure out what's happening to Izzy. Then we'll make a plan."