Chapter 6 - The Broken Seamstress
Pilsen was a vibrant, working-class neighborhood of brick two-flats and colorful murals, but the industrial sector near the rail yards was bleak, gray, and unforgiving.
The building Callahan pulled up to was a massive, windowless cinderblock laundry plant that serviced hospital linens. Steam billowed from rooftop vents, smelling of harsh industrial bleach and scorched detergent.
“She works the second shift on the pressing line,” Callahan said. “Floor manager says she takes every double shift available.”
I stepped out of the car, my heart hammering against my ribs like a battering ram. I walked through the side employee door into a wall of sweltering heat and deafening mechanical noise. Rows of industrial steam presses hissed rhythmically as dozens of women in hairnets and rubber aprons fed heavy white sheets into rolling ironers.
I walked down the central aisle, scanning the faces through the fog of steam.
And then I saw her.
Elena.
She had lost weight, her once-radiant face lined with exhaustion and premature sorrow. Her long dark hair was tied back in a simple bun, stray damp curls clinging to her neck. Her hands, which used to play Chopin so beautifully on the grand piano in our home, were red, calloused, and covered in steam burns.
She was folding heavy hospital blankets, her movements mechanical, her eyes completely dead to the world around her. She looked like a ghost trapped in a purgatory of endless, grinding labor.
“Elena,” I called out.
The machinery was loud, but my voice cut through the hum.
She froze.
Slowly, almost terrified that her mind was playing cruel tricks on her, she turned around. When her dark brown eyes met mine, the color completely drained from her face. She dropped the blanket she was holding onto the concrete floor.
“Richard?” she whispered, trembling violently. She took two steps backward, her hands flying to her mouth. “No... no, please. Beatrice said if you saw me, they would take Chloe away forever. Please, Richard, I haven’t gone near the house! I swear I haven’t! Don’t put me in jail! Just let me know if my baby is okay!”
The sheer terror in her voice broke whatever remained of my composure.
I crossed the distance between us in three strides and pulled her into my arms.
She resisted at first, pushing against my chest with all her strength, crying out in panic, thinking I had come to finish what Beatrice had started. But I didn't let go. I held her against my chest, burying my face in her neck, feeling her ribcage heave with panicked breaths.
“It was all a lie, Elena,” I sobbed into her hair. “It was all Mom. Every word of it. The jewelry, the forged letters, the money... all of it. I know the truth. God help me, I know everything.”
Elena’s body went completely limp against mine. Her hands, which had been pushing me away, slowly clutched the fabric of my coat.
“You... you know?” she gasped, her voice cracking.
“I have Chloe,” I said, pulling back just enough to look into her tear-streaked eyes. “She’s at Lurie Children’s Hospital right now. She’s safe. The doctors are taking care of her. And the police are hunting Beatrice down as we speak.”
“Chloe?” Elena’s eyes widened with a desperate, wild hunger that only a mother could possess. “My baby? Is she alive? Is she breathing? Beatrice told me... Beatrice told me Chloe died of pneumonia last winter!”
A wave of pure nausea washed over me. Beatrice had told Elena her child was dead to keep her from ever returning to the estate.
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“She’s alive, Elena,” I cried, pulling her toward the exit. “She’s alive, and she has been waiting three years for her mommy to come home.”
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