Chapter 10 Heading to the ward, Eleanor skimmed the papers, her focus narrowing. Then, a voice—cloying, too familiar—drifted through the hall. “Logan, I’m sick of this chair. Carry me, please?”
Eleanor froze, the air catching in her throat like a snag on jagged stone. She turned, her gaze drawn inexorably to the voice’s source—Logan, pushing Riley’s wheelchair toward the elevator, his silhouette a familiar shadow against the sterile hospital light. Riley sat poised, her eyes lifted to him, brimming with a love so blatant it shimmered like sunlight on glass. Despite the summer’s lingering warmth, a shiver traced Eleanor’s spine, cold and sharp, her fingers trembling around the thick stack of documents she clutched. The harder she fought to shed her past, to unburden her heart, the more relentlessly these two reappeared, their presence a blade twisting anew in her chest. She drew a deep, steadying breath, smothering the ache blooming within, and turned her focus to the VIP room ahead.
Behind her, near the elevator, Logan’s head tilted, his gaze flicking back to the now-empty corridor, a fleeting pause. “Logan, what’s wrong?” Riley’s voice curled with curiosity, soft and probing.
“Nothing,” he said, his tone clipped as he averted his eyes.
“Would you carry me?” Riley pressed, her words a delicate plea. “My back’s aching from sitting so long.”
“We’re almost there,” Logan replied, his voice even. “The masseuse will ease it when you’re home.”
“But I want you to carry me,” she insisted, a pout threading her tone.
His brows creased faintly, a flicker of impatience. “We’re in public, Riley. Grandma wouldn’t approve if she heard.” His words were a gentle rebuke, firm yet restrained.
Riley fell silent, her lips tightening, the request left dangling unanswered.
Eleanor stepped into the VIP room, expecting a querulous elder, only to find it hollow, the air still and untouched. She set the documents down, ready to sift through them, when a sudden sting flared at her waist. Startled, she spun to face a small boy, no older than five, clad in a hospital gown and a cartoon mask. His left arm hung in a cast, while his right wielded a toy sword, its plastic tip aimed playfully at her. Realization dawned—this was her charge, not some cantankerous old soul, but a spirited child.
“Hey, little guy,” she said, crouching to his level, her smile warm and unguarded. “I’m Eleanor, your new caregiver.” Wary of another jab, she hesitated, poised to retreat. But before she could, he tossed the sword aside and flung himself into her arms, a small whirlwind of need.
“Mommy!” His cry echoed through the vast room, bright and piercing, catching her off guard.
She patted his back gently, her touch tentative. “Sweetie, you’ve got it wrong—I’m not your mommy.”
“You are my mommy!” He pulled back, tugging off the mask to reveal delicate features—bright, expressive eyes that sparkled with conviction. “Mommy, Jordan missed you so much…” His voice trembled with longing.
Her heart softened, a maternal tide swelling within, perhaps stirred by the life growing inside her. She brushed his cheek, tender yet firm. “Honey, I’m not your mommy. I’m Eleanor.”
Jordan Fletcher ignored her correction, his pout resolute. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
She sighed, surrendering to his insistence for now. “Hold on.” Fetching his file, she scanned it—Jordan Fletcher, five years old, a litany of routines and preferences meticulously detailed. Pollen allergies flagged in bold, but his diet was mercifully free of limits. In the room’s private kitchen, she whipped up spaghetti, the aroma of garlic and tomato curling through the air as she carried it to him.
“This smells amazing!” Jordan beamed, clapping his hands. “Mommy, you make the best food!”
She faltered, words failing her momentarily. “Careful, it’s hot,” she warned as he dove in.
“Thank you, Mommy!” he chirped, sauce smearing his grin.
Watching him, her gaze softened, a quiet wonder blooming—would her child carry this same spark, this unguarded joy? The door burst open, and Jordan’s face lit up. “Daddy, Mommy’s back!”
Eleanor turned to see a man stride in, his suit crisp, his features a mirror of Jordan’s—Farley Jordan, unmistakably the father. “Hello, Mr. Jordan,” she said, rising. “I’m Eleanor Preston, Jordan’s new caregiver.”
“Farley Jordan,” he replied, his smile warm as a hearth. “Pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at Jordan, still beaming. “I haven’t seen him this happy in ages. Thank you.”
“There’s no misunderstanding, I hope,” she said quickly. “I didn’t tell him to call me that.”
“I know,” Farley said, crouching to Jordan’s level. “Buddy, she’s your caregiver, not Mommy. We don’t call her that, okay?”
“No, she’s Mommy!” Jordan’s lip jutted out, defiant. “Daddy, go away—Mommy’s staying!”
Farley rubbed his temples, a wry chuckle escaping. “Sorry about this. He’ll adjust, but it might take time. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s a hospital,” Eleanor said, practical. “Him calling me ‘Mommy’ could stir confusion—especially if his real mother hears.”
“Can we step aside?” Farley asked, nodding to a quiet lounge. There, he lowered his voice. “Jordan’s mother passed away. That’s why he latched onto you. He’s got bipolar disorder—didn’t put it in the file. I don’t want him seen just as a case.” His eyes shadowed with worry. “When he’s manic, he’s a handful. Sometimes needs sedatives.”
Eleanor’s breath caught, then steadied. “I didn’t know. I’ll look after him—body and soul.”
“Thank you,” Farley said, relief softening his gaze.
All day, Jordan clung to her, protesting when her shift neared its end. Farley, seeing no way out, upped her pay to three thousand daily if she’d stay until Jordan slept. She agreed—money was her lifeline, and Jordan’s needs felt within her grasp. At ten, with him finally dreaming, she slipped out.
A week blurred by, Logan’s silence a distant hum she refused to tune into. She poured herself into Jordan’s care, then collapsed into bed each night, dodging thoughts of him like shadows in a storm. The nurses marveled—she’d tamed the untamable boy, earned his “Mommy” in a way they couldn’t fathom. Was she his real mother? they whispered.
That afternoon, after lulling Jordan to nap, she slipped out for the cake he’d begged for, entrusting a nurse to watch him. “Go,” the nurse said. “I’ve got this.” Jordan’s brighter days since Eleanor’s arrival had won their gratitude.
Two hours later, she returned, cake box in hand, the elevator’s ding a quiet chime. Then, a voice—shrill, venomous—spilled from Jordan’s room. “What’s wrong with you, you brat? This bracelet’s new—think you can afford it?” Riley.
Her heart sank, a stone plummeting through still water. She hurried forward, rounding the corner to see Riley strike Jordan’s face, his small frame recoiling outside his room. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he bit her hand in retaliation.
“Ah!” Riley shrieked, fury flashing. “You dare bite me? You’ll regret that!” She reared back to hit him again.
“Stop!” Eleanor surged forward, voice sharp as a blade.
Jordan, overwhelmed, screamed, flailing at Riley in a manic spiral. Eleanor knew it instantly—an episode, his first since she’d come. Panic and protectiveness surged as she wrapped him in her arms. “Jordan, it’s okay! I’m here—no one’s hurting you. Calm down, sweetheart…” Her voice wove a lifeline, her warmth a shield, and slowly, his thrashing eased.
“Eleanor?” Riley’s brow furrowed, confusion lacing her tone. “What are you doing here?”
“Mommy, you’re back!” Jordan cried, clinging tighter, his voice breaking Riley’s focus.
She blinked, stunned. Mommy?
Jordan turned, aggrieved, pointing at Riley. “Mommy, she hit me!”
“It’s over,” Eleanor soothed, stroking his hair. “She won’t touch you again.”
She opened her mouth to demand answers, but a voice—stern, cold—cut through. “Eleanor, what did he just call you?”
