Uncensored (New York Unraveled #5)

5. Ginger

Painful diagnoses weren't uncommon in my line of work, but I'd never seen one that affected me so deeply. I loved each and every kid in that orphanage to death. A few months ago, when two teenagers died in a double suicide, the shock waves were felt throughout Maywoods. For days, we merely floated in a haze of disbelief and utter grief, mourning the loss of two young lives that ended before they had properly begun.

Yet, this time, it was different. Nothing had cut me so deeply ever before. Even though I knew that the success rate of recovering from amnesia was very high, my heart refused to start beating again. I had known all along that something was wrong but putting a name to it had only made it worse. I could barely keep my eyes open, hardly keep myself from sinking to my knees and praying to whatever Gods that might be listening to save my sweet little boy.

And therein lied the problem. He wasn't just work anymore. He wasn't just a kid that I had to help. He wasn't my obligation but my responsibility. He had become my Aldrich. Every time the word 'amnesia' or 'epilepsy' barreled inside my head, I froze like someone had pointed a gun at me. An irrational part of my brain kept repeating that this couldn't be happening and yet it was. 

It was.

Aldrich was playing with a remote controlled car, manipulating the sleek modern-looking sedan to make an '8' pattern on the floor. His hair had grown long over the days, falling on his face in little curls as he leaned forward, sitting in the lap of innocence under golden pendant lights hanging from the ceiling like a halo made just for his angelic soul. I leaned against the door, content in watching him for a few seconds, pretending that everything was fine. It was easy to act as if he was my child and everything was okay with him. We were a happy little family whose biggest problem was that the milk finished before it was time for grocery shopping. I could imagine his father coming home in a few minutes, picking him up and spinning him around before giving me a kiss. We would put him to bed together, tickle him until he is tired and falls asleep with his head on my chest.

But he wasn't my baby, no matter how much I wanted him to be. The truth was that he woke up in the middle of the night frequently, screaming and shaking with uncontrollable tears. He didn't know half of his identity or history. He still didn't talk much and completely receded in his shell at the mere mention of his parents. He wasn't nearly okay, no matter how much I liked to pretend he was.

"Sweetie, its time for bed," I said, alerting him to my presence. He didn't move an inch as I straightened up the mess, picking up his toys from the bed and putting them in a basket. 

"Aldrich. Bed please," I said again.

He glanced up at me with wide eyes like he noticed me for the first time, crashing his car into the open closet as he did so. "Bed?"

"Yes. Aldrich. Sleepy time," I said gently, running my fingers through his hair.

"Can I stay up for ten more minutes, Ginger? Please?" he said and of course I let him. I was infamous at work for letting the kids stay up way past bed time and get ice cream whenever I had the overnight duty.I sat down on the floor and let him make his toy car run circles around me. It amused him infinitely to see me as an obstacle in a race course. When I finally got him to keep it away and brush his teeth, the bell rang. His eyes lit up, expecting it to be Trystan. He had been visiting every day, even if for just ten minutes. But today there had been no sign of him, not after I told him about the whole amnesia thing. If the bastard had quit when things got tough for him to handle, I would personally hunt him down and stab him to death.

"Lie down, Al. I'm going to check who it is. You get in bed," I said.

I was running through a mental list of people it could be. Trystan had been so immeasurably heartbroken that I was sure he would take one day off from being the perfect uncle and get his emotions under control. And yet, there he was, standing on the other side of the door, looking as weary as I felt.