Chapter 5 - The ICU Waiting Room
We didn't go straight to our new house.
After Luke unpacked the essential nursery gear at our north-side bungalow and my best friend, Sarah, came over to watch Arlo for two hours, I asked Luke to drive me to OSF Saint Francis Medical Center.
""Are you sure you want to do this?"" Luke asked gently, his hand resting on my knee as we stopped at the red light on Knoxville Avenue. The intersection was still scarred. Black skid marks curved violently across the asphalt, ending near a crumpled light pole and a patch of pulverized safety glass that glittered under the afternoon sun like crushed ice.
""I have to,"" I said. ""Kenzie tried to make my son grow up visiting his mother in prison for this. I need to see what my family did.""
The pediatric intensive care waiting room was silent except for the low, monotonous drone of a wall-mounted television reporting local weather. In the corner sat a woman in faded blue floral scrubs. Her hair was pulled back in a tangled hairnet, her nursing clogs scuffed with gray dirt. She was slumped over an untouched Styrofoam cup of coffee, her shoulders shaking with silent, rhythmic sobs.
Beside her sat a young Catholic priest and an older man in an oil-stained mechanic's uniform.
I hesitated at the threshold, clutching my purse against my ribs. I felt dirty just carrying the Dunleavy name into that room.
""Mrs. Martinez?"" I whispered.
The woman raised her head. Her face was completely ravaged by grief, her eyes bloodshot, dark purple circles bruising the delicate skin beneath them. ""Yes? Are you... are you with the hospital social work department?""
""No,"" I choked out, taking a trembling step forward. ""My name is Marisa. It was my car... that was stolen last night.""
The air in the room instantly froze. The mechanic stood up, his jaw tightening into iron, his fists clenching at his sides. ""You’re the sister?"" he demanded, his voice thick with a mixture of rage and terror. ""The one they arrested first?""
""I was home with my newborn,"" I said, tears spilling down my cheeks. ""My sister took my keys while I was sleeping. When the police came, my sister and my mother tried to blame me. But I didn't come here to defend myself. I came here to ask about Chloe.""
Mrs. Martinez looked at me for a long, agonizing moment. She saw the milk stains on my shirt. She saw the dark rings under my eyes and the raw, bone-deep tremor in my hands. The rage in her eyes softened into the shared, terrible understanding of a mother.
""She’s out of surgery,"" Mrs. Martinez whispered, her voice cracking into pieces. ""They had to remove a section of her skull to relieve the pressure on her brain. She has two broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and severe pulmonary contusions. The surgeon... the surgeon says the next forty-eight hours will tell us if she will ever wake up.""
I dropped to my knees in front of her chair. I couldn't help it. The sheer weight of what Kenzie had done crushed me.
""I am so sorry,"" I sobbed, reaching out toward her trembling fingers before pulling back, terrified she would reject my touch. ""I am so, so sorry. My sister is in jail. I will testify against her. I will hand over every text, every piece of evidence, every lie they ever told. I will make sure she never hurts another soul.""
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Mrs. Martinez reached out with calloused, hardworking hands and wrapped them around mine. ""It wasn't your hands on that wheel, mija,"" she wept, pulling me toward her. ""The police told us everything. They told us the younger girl blamed you while you held your baby. What kind of monster does that to her own blood?""
""The kind who has never been told no in her entire life,"" I said into her shoulder.
