Chapter 3 Jordan
JORDAN
The hospital patio buzzes with conversation as I unwrap my sandwich. It’s one of those perfect Boston afternoons where the sun cuts through the usual chill, and half the staff have escaped outside for a quick lunch break.
“I’m telling you, Jordan probably has a cot hidden in his office,” Dr. Abrams says, taking a bite of her salad. “That’s the only way someone can be here as much as he is.”
“Nah,” Dr. Ferrera chimes in. “He’s got a sleeping bag under his desk. More efficient.”
Everyone laughs, including me. They’re not wrong. I do spend more time here than at home, but that’s exactly how I like it. The hospital makes sense. It has rules and protocols and problems that can be solved with the right treatment plan.
“Hey, at least when Williams retires, we know Jordan will never miss a meeting,” Dr. Abrams adds. “He’ll already be here.”
“Probably already planning his acceptance speech for department head,” Ferrera says with a grin.
I lean back in my chair, enjoying the good-natured ribbing. This is what I’ve worked for. Respect from my colleagues. Recognition for my dedication. The knowledge that they see me as someone they can count on.
“You know what they say,” I tell them. “If you love what you do, you never work a day in your life.”
“That’s either inspirational or deeply concerning,” Abrams replies. “I haven’t decided which.”
I’m about to respond when I spot Dr. Williams walking across the patio toward our table. The laughter dies in my throat when I see his expression. Serious. Grim. The kind of look that means bad news.
He stops beside our table, and suddenly everyone else seems to sense the shift in mood.
“Jordan, I need to see you privately.”
My stomach drops. Williams doesn’t do private conversations on the patio. He doesn’t interrupt lunch breaks unless something is very wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“Inside. Conference room three.”
I stand up, leaving my half-eaten sandwich on the table. Abrams and Ferrera exchange glances, but no one asks questions. In a hospital, urgent private conversations happen all the time. Usually, they’re about patients.
This feels different.
The walk to the conference room feels endless. Williams doesn’t speak, which only makes my anxiety worse. My mind races through possibilities. A problem with one of my patients? An issue with my research? But Williams’s expression tells me this is something else entirely.
He closes the door behind us, and suddenly I can’t breathe properly.
“Jordan, I’m sorry to have to tell you this.” Williams sits down heavily. “Your sister was in an accident this afternoon.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “What kind of accident?”
“Car accident. She’s here, in the ICU.”
My legs feel unsteady. Amy. My sister. Who was just laughing with me this morning over pancakes. My sister, who talks about her forever home and worries about feeling like a charity case.
“How bad?”
Williams’s pause tells me everything. “She’s in a coma, Jordan. They’re doing everything they can.”
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. “Where is she?”
“Fourth floor. ICU wing.”
I’m already moving toward the door before he finishes speaking. The elevator ride to the fourth floor takes forever. My hands shake as I press the button repeatedly, as if that will make it move faster.
The ICU is quieter than the oncology wing, filled with a different kind of urgency. I find Amy’s room and stop in the doorway, my chest tightening at the sight of her.
She looks so small in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and tubes. Her blond hair is matted with dried blood, and there’s a bandage across her forehead. She’s always been the strong one between us, the one who kept us both together during the worst parts of our childhood.
Now she looks fragile. Breakable.
“Dr. Hadley?”
I turn to find Dr. Rockaway, one of the ICU attendings, standing behind me.
“How is she?”
“We’re monitoring her closely. The head trauma was significant, but her vitals are stable. We won’t know the full extent until she wakes up.”
“When will that be?”
Dr. Rockaway’s expression is carefully neutral. “It’s hard to say. Could be hours; could be days. Sometimes longer.”
Sometimes longer. The words echo in my head as I move closer to Amy’s bedside. I reach for her hand, which feels cold despite the warm blanket covering her.
“What happened?”
“From what we understand, she was rushing to pick up her baby from daycare when someone ran the red light and drove into her car. The other driver is fine, but your sister took the brunt of the impact.”
Henry. My mind snaps to attention. “The baby. Where’s Henry?”
“He’s safe. He wasn’t in the car. The daycare center called when she didn’t show up to pick him up.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a new wave of panic. “Where is he now?”
“Still at the daycare. They’ve been trying to reach emergency contacts.”
Emergency contacts. That would be me. And our parents in Florida.
“I need to go get him.”
Dr. Rockaway nods. “Of course. Do you have experience with—”
“I’ll figure it out.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “Sorry.”
“I understand. Take all the time you need.”
I squeeze Amy’s hand one more time. “I’ll be back, sis. You just focus on getting better.”
The drive to Henry’s daycare passes in a blur. My phone keeps buzzing with calls from the hospital, probably wondering why I disappeared in the middle of my shift, but I ignore them. Nothing matters right now except getting to Henry.
Sunshine Daycare is a cheerful building with colorful murals painted on the walls. Under normal circumstances, I might appreciate the effort to make it welcoming. Today, it just looks like another place where children wait for adults who might not come back.
The director, Mrs. Black, meets me at the front desk. Her relief is obvious when I introduce myself.
“Thank goodness. We’ve been so worried. How is Amy?”
“She’s stable.” It’s not really an answer, but it’s all I can manage right now.
“You’re listed as Henry’s emergency contact, so there shouldn’t be any problem with you taking him home.”
Home. My pristine, so-not-childproofed house that’s never seen a diaper or a bottle.
Mrs. Black leads me to the infant room, where Henry sits in a high chair, banging a plastic spoon against a tray. When he sees me, he gives me a toothless grin that makes my chest ache.
“He’s been such a good boy,” Mrs. Black says, gathering his things. “Here’s his diaper bag, and there are bottles in here for tonight. His schedule is taped to the inside of the bag.”
I take the bag, which weighs more than I expected. How much stuff does one baby need?
“Do you have a car seat?” she asks.
Car seat. Of course. “No.”
“That’s okay. We have a spare one you can borrow. Just bring it back when you get a chance to buy your own.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m driving home with Henry strapped into the car seat, babbling to himself like nothing has changed. But everything has changed. My sister is lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and I’m responsible for a six-month-old baby who depends on me for everything.
The thought terrifies me.
Back at my house, I park in the driveway and take a deep breath. “Okay, buddy. What do we do now?”
My phone rings, and I see our parents’ number on the car screen. I’ve been dreading this call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jordan, honey, there you are. I have a missed call from a Boston number, but when I called back, no one answered. Do you know if—”
“Mom. I, uh, I have some bad news about Amy.”
The silence on the other end stretches so long, I wonder if the call dropped.
“What happened?” Dad’s voice now, gruff with worry.
I tell them everything I know, watching Henry play with the buckles on his car seat while I explain about the accident, the coma, the uncertain timeline for recovery.
“We’re coming up,” Mom says immediately. “I can have us on a plane tonight.”
“No.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intended. “Dad just had surgery. You can’t travel right now.”
“Jordan, this is Amy we’re talking about.”
“And I’m telling you that flying across the country three weeks after a hip replacement is not going to help anyone.” I soften my tone. “I’ve got this handled. I’m at the same hospital. I can check on her constantly, and Henry is safe with me.”
“You don’t know anything about babies,” Dad points out.
“I’ll learn.” I look at Henry, who’s now trying to eat the car-seat strap. “I have to.”
Another long pause. “Are you sure, son?”
“I’m sure. Amy wouldn’t want you to risk your health. She’d want you to take care of yourselves so you can be here when she wakes up.”
When she wakes up. Not if. I have to believe it’s when.
“Call us every day,” Mom says, her voice thick with tears. “Multiple times a day. And if you need anything or any advice, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I will. I promise.”
After I hang up, the car feels impossibly quiet except for Henry’s soft baby sounds. I turn around and reach out to him, his tiny hand curling around my finger. For the first time since my boss delivered the news, I feel something other than panic.
This is Amy’s son. My nephew. Family.
I spent years in foster care wondering if anyone would ever choose me, if I’d ever really belong somewhere. Amy was the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the world.
Now it’s my turn to make sure Henry never feels that way.
“We’re going to be okay,” I tell him, and maybe myself too. “Your mom is the strongest person I know. She’s going to wake up, and until then, you’re stuck with me.”
Henry makes a sound that might be agreement or might be gas, but I choose to take it as encouragement.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to be responsible for another human being. Tonight, I just need to keep us both alive until morning.
How hard can it be?