Chapter 4: The Closed Doors
The automatic sliding glass doors of Maplewood Care Center parted with a soft hiss, welcoming Clara and Sarah into the sterile, softly lit lobby. The faint scent of antiseptic and floor wax hung in the air. Clara walked straight to the reception desk, where a young receptionist named Marcus was typing busily into his computer terminal.
“Good evening, Clara,” Marcus said politely, offering a sympathetic smile. “Here to see Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, Marcus. Right away, please,” Clara replied, her voice taut with urgency. “Has my mother, Evelyn, been here today?”
Marcus stopped typing, his brow furrowing as he checked the visitor log. “Actually, yes. She arrived about an hour ago with a stack of paperwork. She spoke with Dr. Vance in the administration office.”
“Did she take my father out of his room?” Clara demanded, leaning over the counter.
“Well, protocol states—” Marcus began, but Clara cut him off.
“Marcus, look at me. My mother forged my signature on a legal document today. She does not have sole medical proxy authority. If she is moving my father anywhere, it is illegal.”
Color drained from Marcus’s face. He quickly tapped his keyboard, pulling up Arthur’s room status. “Room 214. His vital signs were checked thirty minutes ago, but... wait.” He frowned at the screen. “An emergency transfer request was filed twenty minutes ago by Dr. Vance, citing family consent under a newly updated power of attorney.”
“That document is fraudulent!” Clara shouted, drawing the attention of an elderly nurse walking past. “I am going up to Room 214 right now.”
Clara didn’t wait for Marcus’s permission. She strode toward the elevator, punching the call button with aggressive impatience. Sarah followed closely behind, her expression grim. When the doors slid open, Clara stepped inside and pressed the second-floor button, her fingers drumming anxiously against her handbag.
The second-floor hallway was quiet, lined with framed landscape prints and carpeted to muffle footsteps. Clara hurried toward Room 214, pushing the door open without knocking.
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The room was empty. Arthur’s bed was neatly made, his favorite wool blanket folded at the foot. The bedside table, usually cluttered with family photographs and crossword puzzles, was completely bare. A single plastic cup sat abandoned on the tray table.
Clara froze in the center of the room, a cold panic gripping her throat. She walked over to the closet; Arthur’s clothes were gone. Evelyn hadn’t just threatened to move him; she had already executed the transfer while Clara was cleaning up blue cake frosting from her daughter’s face.
