Chapter 3 - The Two-Week Silence
For the next fourteen days, a heavy, suffocating silence settled over my relationship with Nell.
Every morning, the routine was identical. I would wake up at six-thirty, make scrambled eggs or toast, and Nell would eat quickly, staring down at her plate. When I asked about school, she gave me one-word answers.
"Fine."
"Good."
"Nothing."
When I dropped her off at April’s on my shift days, she climbed out of the car like a soldier reporting for duty, dragging her backpack behind her without looking back. April, by contrast, seemed exceptionally cheerful whenever I pulled up to the driveway.
"Don't worry about a thing, Jas," April told me on a Friday afternoon, leaning against my car door. "We’ve got a routine down. The kids love having Nell here. She’s such a little helper."
"Is she getting her homework done?" I asked, tapping my fingers nervously on the steering wheel. "Her mid-term progress report is coming out next week."
"She’s doing great," April assured me with a warm smile. "A few missing worksheets, but that's just middle school adjustments. By the way, grocery prices are through the roof this week. Milk is almost five dollars a gallon."
I didn't even hesitate. I pulled up my banking app right there and transferred an extra fifty dollars. "Take it. For the kids' snacks."
"You're the best sister in the world," April beamed, blowing me a kiss as she backed away.
Yet, despite April’s reassurances, little details began scratching at the corners of my mind—details that didn't quite make sense.
One Sunday night, while folding Nell’s laundry, I pulled out her favorite yellow sweater. The cuffs smelled sharply of industrial bleach and citrus degreaser, not the lavender detergent I bought for our duplex. When I checked the tag, it was damp, as if it had been hand-washed and hung over a radiator in a hurry.
On Tuesday, Nell came out of the bathroom wearing short sleeves. Across her left forearm was a long, jagged red scratch, and her knuckles were red, dry, and cracked to the point of bleeding.
"Nell, what happened to your arm?" I asked, reaching for her wrist.
She instinctively flinched, pulling her arm back before catching herself. "The neighbor's cat. At Aunt April’s."
"A cat? Since when does April’s neighbor have an outdoor cat?"
"Just... recently," Nell murmured, staring at the floorboards. "Can I have some lotion?"
I gave her the lotion, but a cold prickle of unease settled in my chest. Patricia’s parting words rang in my ears like a ghostly siren: *Look at her hands. She isn’t thriving, Jasmine. She’s drowning.*
I pushed the thought away. Patricia was just bitter because I had called her out. April was my sister. April had wiped my tears when my husband walked out. Family didn't betray family.
Then came Thursday evening—the second Thursday since the confrontation.
I was at the hospital, assigned to the fourth-floor telemetry wing. It was an exceptionally chaotic shift. Three post-op cardiac patients were admitted within two hours, monitor alarms were chiming constantly, and a code blue was called on the floor above us. My feet throbbed inside my clogs, and by nine o’clock, I hadn’t even taken my thirty-minute meal break.
Around ten-fifteen, the unit finally quieted down. The night lights were dimmed, vitals were logged, and I sat down behind the nurse’s station with a lukewarm cup of black coffee.
I pulled my phone out of my scrub pocket to check the time.
There were no text messages from April. Usually, around eight or nine, she’d send a quick text: *Kids in bed!* or *All good here.* Tonight, nothing.
I assumed she was just busy. With three young kids, bedtime could be a war zone. I knew how hard it was; that was why I appreciated her so much. I leaned back in my swivel chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose, counting down the minutes until my shift ended at eleven-thirty.
Then, at precisely 10:40 p.m., the phone in my lap buzzed violently.
The caller ID displayed Nell’s name.
My heart skipped a beat. Nell almost never called me while I was on shift. If she needed something, she texted, knowing I was often in patient rooms where phones weren't allowed.
I swiped the green button and pressed the phone to my ear. "Nell? Honey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
Silence greeted me. For three long seconds, all I could hear was the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock and the sound of someone breathing shallowly, as if trying not to make a sound.
"Nell?" My voice rose, catching the attention of the charge nurse sitting across from me. "Nell, answer me. Where are you?"
When Nell finally spoke, her voice was so small, so razor-thin with terror, that my stomach dropped into a bottomless void. She wasn't just speaking softly; she was hiding.
"Mom..." she whispered, her voice trembling so violently that the words barely held together. "Mom, please don't get mad at me."
"I’m not mad, baby. What happened? Put Aunt April on the phone."
A muffled whimper came through the speaker, followed by the distant, muffled sound of a toddler crying in another room.
"Mom..." Nell choked out, every word trembling with sheer panic. "Am I allowed to leave if the little kids are still asleep?"
The breath was knocked completely out of my lungs.
"What do you mean, Nell?" I stood up, my chair rolling backward and slamming into the filing cabinet. "Where is your aunt?"
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"She... she left," Nell whispered, beginning to sob quietly into the receiver. "She left at six o’clock, Mom. She hasn't come back. Henry has a fever, and Max threw up in his crib, and I don't know what to do. Can I walk home? Please let me come home."
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