Chapter 4: Eleanor
Dr.
Reyes was calm, precise, and thorough.
He had the manner of someone who delivered difficult information every day and had learned that the most useful thing he could offer was clarity.
"The arrhythmia is what we call a long QT pattern," he said, setting Willa's chart on the desk between us.
"It means the electrical signal in her heart takes longer than normal to reset between beats.
In most cases, with proper monitoring and medication, children with this condition live completely normal lives."
"In most cases," I said.
"In most cases," he repeated, without flinching.
"The risk is sudden cardiac events during periods of stress — a high fever, a shock, intense crying.
The episode at three days old was the first signal.
We've been monitoring since then."
Sloan had her hands folded in her lap.
She hadn't looked at me since we sat down.
"What's the treatment plan?" I asked.
"We start her on a low-dose beta blocker at six weeks.
We fit her with a home monitor so her overnight readings come directly to our team.
And we schedule a follow-up every four weeks for the first year." He looked at both of us.
"The most important thing right now is that she is never left without someone who knows what to watch for."
I looked at Sloan.
She was already looking at me.
Neither of us said anything in the office.
We gathered Willa's carrier, thanked Dr.
Reyes, and walked out into the corridor.
Sloan stopped at the elevator and pressed the button.
Her back was straight.
Her face was composed.
She had been composed since we arrived, the way people are composed when they have been holding themselves together for so long that composure has become structural.
The elevator doors opened.
We stepped in.
"She's going to be okay," I said.
Sloan's chin dropped slightly.
"You don't know that."
"Reyes said—"
"I know what he said." Her voice was steady.
"I've read every paper published on long QT syndrome in the last six weeks, Vincent.
I know the statistics.
I know the outcomes.
I know the worst ones too." She looked straight ahead at the elevator doors.
"So please don't tell me she's going to be okay.
Tell me you're going to help.
That's what I actually need."
"I'm going to help."
The doors opened.
We walked out into the lobby.
My mother was standing at the entrance.
Eleanor Hale was seventy-one years old and had never once in her life looked like anything other than exactly what she was: a woman who had spent five decades deciding which people and situations were worth her attention.
She was wearing a charcoal coat, her silver hair was pulled back, and she was looking at Sloan with an expression I recognized.
It was the expression she wore when she had already made a decision and was waiting for the room to catch up.
"Eleanor." My voice came out flat.
"Vincent." She looked at the carrier in Sloan's hand.
"I see."
"This isn't the place," I said.
"No," she agreed pleasantly.
"It isn't.
Which is why I've made a reservation at Majorelle.
Twelve-thirty." She looked at Sloan.
"Both of you."
Sloan's grip on the carrier tightened.
"I have to get Willa home—"
"The baby can come." Eleanor said it the way she said most things — as a resolution, not an invitation.
Then she looked at me.
"I think we have quite a lot to discuss.
Don't you?"
She walked out through the lobby doors without waiting for an answer.
Sloan turned to me.
Her voice was very quiet.
"How much does she know?"
"I don't know."
"Vincent." She said my name the way she used to when I was avoiding the actual question.
"How much does your mother know?"
I watched Eleanor's car pull up to the curb outside.
"Probably everything," I said.
"She usually does."
Sloan looked down at Willa in the carrier.
Willa was asleep, unbothered, her small chest rising and falling.
May you like
"All right," Sloan said.
"Then let's go find out what she's planning to do with it."
