Chapter 5 - Saint Jude’s Trauma Bay
The sterile smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol replaced the aroma of roasted turkey and sage.
The emergency room at Saint Jude’s Memorial was brightly lit and chaotic, but the staff moved with surgical efficiency the moment Tyler’s stretcher rolled through the trauma doors.
"Eight-year-old male, blunt force trauma to the right thoracic wall, shallow breathing, suspected rib fractures," Sarah called out to the waiting trauma team.
"Mommy!" Tyler wept as doctors surrounded him, cutting off his navy-blue sweater.
"I’m right here, Ty! I'm holding your hand!" I squeezed his fingers, leaning over the gurney so he could see my face.
Dr. Patel, a tall, intense pediatrician, shone a penlight into Tyler’s eyes and began palpating his abdomen. When his hands brushed Tyler’s right flank, my son let out a high, piercing shriek of pure agony that cut straight through my marrow.
"Let’s get a stat chest CT and ultrasound," Dr. Patel ordered briskly. "I want to rule out a splenic laceration and liver contusion. Give him four milligrams of morphine for the pain. Mom, step outside with the nurse for a moment so we can stabilize him."
"No, please—"
"Rebecca," a calm, firm hand grasped my shoulder. Marcus was there. He had followed the ambulance in his own car. "Let them work. They need room. Come with me. Megan is in room four."
I let Marcus guide me out into the tiled hallway. My legs felt like wet paper. The adrenaline that had kept me standing in my parents' dining room was burning away, leaving a hollow, sickening exhaustion in its wake.
Megan was sitting on an examination table, an ice pack pressed against her swollen jaw. A social worker was sitting beside her, speaking in a low, gentle voice, offering her a juice box.
When Megan saw me, she threw the ice pack aside and leaped off the table, burying her face into my waist.
"Mommy! Is Tyler going to die?" she sobbed, her entire body shaking.
"No, baby. No. Tyler is going to be okay," I lied through my teeth, praying to God with every beat of my heart that my words were true. I knelt down, ignoring the throbbing pain in my own neck and back, and held her as tight as I could. "The doctors are giving him medicine. He’s going to be fine. You were so brave, Megan. So, so brave."
"Grandma looked at me like she hated me, Mom," Megan whispered, her voice muffled against my hair. "Why did she hate me? I only told Grandpa to stop."
Tears finally breached my eyes, hot and angry. "She doesn't hate you because of who you are, Megan. She’s sick. They are broken, terrible people who only know how to hurt people. But they will never, ever touch you again. I swear on my life."
"Rebecca?"
A nurse approached us with a clipboard and a blood pressure cuff. "Dr. Evans needs to examine you now. You have severe contusions across your neck, and your voice is deteriorating. We need to do a soft-tissue neck scan to make sure your vocal cords and larynx aren't permanently damaged."
For the next two hours, the hospital became a blur of medical machines, freezing cold examination rooms, and police detectives.
Detective Martinez, a sharp-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair from the Special Victims Unit, sat in the corner of my room with a digital voice recorder. She documented every millimeter of the purple bruises that wrapped around my throat in the shape of my father's hands. She photographed the gash on the back of my head where the picture frame had shattered against my skull. She photographed Megan’s swollen face.
"We have the audio," Detective Martinez said, her pen scratching against her notepad. "Mr. Reed delivered the raw, time-stamped files directly to our intake server. In fifteen years of working SVU, Ms. Vance, I’ve rarely seen a domestic violence case this open-and-shut. Your father’s kick didn't just bruise your son. The radiologist confirmed Tyler has two fractured ribs—the seventh and eighth—and a bruised right lung."
My breath hitched. "His lung?"
"He has a minor pulmonary contusion," she said gently. "The good news is, there is no internal bleeding and no collapsed lung. He’s sleeping now. The pain medication is working. But legally speaking? That elevates your father’s charge to First-Degree Aggravated Battery on a Child with Great Bodily Harm. That is a non-probationary Class A felony in this state."
"And my mother?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Felony Child Abuse. With the audio record of her encouraging the attack on you, Marcus is also adding a charge of Accomplice to Aggravated Strangulation." Martinez closed her notebook with a snap. "Neither of them is going home tonight. And given the evidence, Marcus is requesting no bail at their arraignment on Monday."
I closed my eyes. A wave of relief so heavy it felt like lead washed over me.
"Thank you," I breathed.
May you like
"Don't thank me," Detective Martinez said, standing up. "Thank your own foresight. You walked into that house knowing they were monsters, and you gave us the cage to lock them in."
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