Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY BASSINET
Hannah Jenkins.
I stared at the black ink on the neonatal chart until the letters blurred into jagged lines.
She had used his last name. On a legal, hospital document.
Bile rose in the back of my throat. The silver charm bracelet in my hand suddenly felt like a venomous snake. Bradley hadn’t just brought his mistress into my delivery room to humiliate me. They were acting as a unified front, claiming legal guardianship of my newborn son while I was bleeding out on the operating table.
I pressed the call button again. I held it down until the plastic cracked.
"Dr. Palmer, please, you need to rest," the floor nurse pleaded as she hurried back into the room.
"Get me a wheelchair," I demanded, throwing the thin hospital blanket off my legs. A blinding surge of pain ripped through my stitched abdomen, but the adrenaline masked the worst of it. "I am going to the NICU."
"Dr. Jenkins strictly ordered that you are to remain immobilized—"
"I am the Chief of Emergency Medicine in this hospital!" I roared, my voice carrying the raw, desperate fury of a mother whose child was in danger. "I outrank Dr. Jenkins. If you do not get me a wheelchair this second, I will crawl down that hallway on my hands and knees, and I will have your license for patient endangerment!"
She didn't argue again.
Within minutes, I was gripping the armrests of a wheelchair as she pushed me down the long, sterile corridors toward the neonatal intensive care unit. Every bump in the linoleum sent shockwaves of agony through my ruptured uterus, but I didn't make a sound.
We reached the heavy double doors of the NICU. I swiped my override badge, praying Bradley hadn't revoked my access.
The light flashed green. The doors clicked open.
The NICU was a dimly lit sanctuary of incubators and soft, rhythmic beeping. I scanned the room frantically, looking for the card with my last name.
I found incubator number seven. The card read: Baby Boy Jenkins.
I gripped the wheels of my chair and pushed myself forward, waving the nurse away.
I peered through the clear plastic box, desperate to see my son's face, to count his fingers, to promise him I would never let anyone hurt him again.
But as I looked into the incubator, the breath completely left my lungs.
The incubator was empty.
The blankets were perfectly folded. The oxygen tubes were disconnected.
"Where is he?" I screamed, the sound echoing through the quiet ward. "Where is my baby?!"
A senior neonatal nurse rushed over, her face pale. "Dr. Palmer! You shouldn't be out of bed."
"Where is my son?!" I grabbed the front of her scrubs, my hands shaking violently.
"He was transferred!" she stammered, pulling back slightly. "Dr. Jenkins authorized an emergency private transport twenty minutes ago. He said the baby required specialized cardiac care at St. Jude’s."
"He doesn't have a cardiac defect! His distress was from the prolonged labor!" I shouted, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. Bradley was moving my son out of my hospital, out of my jurisdiction, where my authority as Chief of ER meant absolutely nothing.
"Who went with him?" I demanded.
"Dr. Jenkins and the intern, Hannah," the nurse whispered, looking down at the floor. "They took the private elevator to the underground ambulance bay."
"Call security," I ordered, spinning my wheelchair around. "Lock down the ambulance bay. Do it now!"
I pushed myself down the hallway, my arms burning, ignoring the tearing sensation in my abdomen. Bradley wasn't just stealing my child; he was using the hospital's resources to facilitate a kidnapping.
I reached the private elevator and jammed my finger against the down button.
The doors slid open.
Standing inside, holding a clipboard and looking perfectly composed, was Hannah.
She wasn't in the ambulance. She was still here.
Hannah’s eyes widened slightly when she saw me in the wheelchair, but she quickly recovered, offering a sickeningly sweet smile.
"Dr. Palmer," Hannah purred, stepping out of the elevator. "You really shouldn't be pushing yourself. Your body has been through so much trauma."
"Where is my husband? Where is my son?" I demanded, blocking her path with my wheelchair.
"Bradley went with the baby," Hannah said smoothly. "He’s such a devoted father. He wanted to make sure our little boy was safe during the transfer."
Our little boy.
"He is not your son," I spat, my voice laced with venom.
"Oh, Allison," Hannah sighed, leaning down so her face was inches from mine. The sweet facade dropped entirely, revealing a cold, calculating cruelty. "You’ve spent the last seven years married to your career. Bradley needed a wife. He needed a family. And you were just a vessel that finally delivered one."
I stared at her, the sheer sociopathy of her words freezing my blood.
"You faked the injury in the delivery room," I whispered.
"I didn't fake it," Hannah smiled, holding up her arm to reveal a faint, self-inflicted scratch. "I just provided the motivation Bradley needed to finally stop indulging you. He told me weeks ago he was tired of your arrogance. He said if complications arose during a natural birth, the hospital board would deem you unfit for duty."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. She dropped it onto my lap.
"By the way," Hannah added, her eyes glittering. "My father is the chairman of the hospital board. He just approved Bradley’s request."
I unfolded the paper with trembling hands.
It was a psychiatric hold order.
Signed by Bradley Jenkins. Authorized by Chairman Knox.
Patient Allison Palmer exhibits severe postpartum psychosis, violent tendencies (destroyed hospital property), and poses an immediate threat to herself and others. Mandatory 72-hour psychiatric confinement required.
"The psych team is waiting for you in your ICU room, Allison," Hannah whispered. "You don't have a job. You don't have a husband. And you don't have a son. You have nothing."
She stepped around my wheelchair and walked away, her heels clicking softly against the linoleum.
I looked down at the psychiatric hold order.
Answer one, open two. Hannah wasn't a medical intern. She was the board chairman's daughter, playing doctor while using her father's power to manipulate my husband. And Bradley had sold me out to pay for his ambition.
I was bleeding. I was broken. I was legally about to be stripped of my rights.
But as I looked at the signature on the paper, the despair suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, brilliant fury.
They thought I was just a hysterical wife.
They forgot I was a woman who saved lives in the most chaotic, blood-soaked emergency room in the city. I thrived in catastrophes.
May you like
I gripped the wheels of my chair, spun around, and headed straight for the stairwell.
They weren't taking my mind. And they were never, ever keeping my son.
