Page 22 of The Other Mother
My stomach feels strange. Heavy and tender, like the postpartum swelling I remember from after Eva was born, but also empty. Phantom aches pulse through my abdomen with each step.
The hallway stretches ahead of me, identical doors on either side marked with numbers I can't quite focus on. The lighting flickers occasionally, casting moving shadows that make everything feel unstable, dreamlike.
A woman's voice echoes from somewhere ahead, raw with desperation:
"You can't take her! That's my baby!"
I move toward the sound, my bare feet slipping slightly on the waxed floor. The walls seem to press closer with each step, painted that institutional green that's supposed to be calming but only makes me feelnauseous. Framed motivational posters hang at regular intervals: "Every Journey Begins With A Single Step" over a photo of footprints in sand.
Another scream pierces the air. This time it's definitely a baby, high-pitched and terrified in a way that makes my chest tighten with instinctive panic.
I turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a woman in scrubs wheeling a bassinet rapidly away from me. Her shoes squeak against the linoleum as she moves, the sound echoing off the walls. The bassinet rocks slightly with her quick pace, and I can see a tiny hand reaching up from inside it.
I try to run after them, but my limbs feel sluggish, like I'm moving underwater. Each step takes tremendous effort, as if the air around me has thickened to syrup. The harder I try to move, the slower I become.
The woman in scrubs disappears around another corner, taking the bassinet with her. The baby's cries fade to an echo, then to nothing.
Suddenly, a clipboard appears in my hands. Heavy and official, with forms attached by a metal clip. I look down at the papers, trying to focus on the words, but they swim and blur on the page. At the bottom, I can make out my own name written in block letters:CLAIRE MATTHEWS.
Below it, my signature, but I don't remember writing it. The pen strokes look rushed, shaky, as if written by someone in distress or under pressure.
"It's all taken care of now," someone whispers behind me.
The voice is soft, almost gentle, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin crawl. Something satisfied. Pleased.
I spin around, the clipboard clutched against my chest.
The hallway is empty. Just more polished tile and flickering fluorescent lights stretching into infinity.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. My nightgown is soaked with sweat, clinging to my skin like a second layer. The dream felt more real than most of my waking hours lately. Every detail is crystal clear in a way that memories usually aren't.
Eva is crying in the next room, her voice carrying through the baby monitor. But something about the sound makes me freeze.
The cry is different. Not her usual fussy whimper or hungry wail. This is higher-pitched, sharper, almost desperate. Like the baby's scream from my dream.
I grab the flashlight I keep on my nightstand and rush to the nursery, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The room is dark except for the soft glow of the nightlight, casting everything in shadows and pale yellow light.
Eva is awake in her crib, her tiny fists waving in the air as she cries. I pick her up carefully, supporting herhead the way the nurses taught me, and shine the flashlight gently across her face.
I study her features in the white LED light. The shape of her cheeks, still round with baby fat. Her eyes, squeezed shut with crying but fringed with dark lashes. The tiny dimple in her chin that Adam says she got from his side of the family.
I stare longer than I mean to, searching for something I can't name.
"Why does she look different in the dark?" I whisper to the empty room.
It's a ridiculous question. Babies look different in different lighting, from different angles. They change constantly in those first weeks, their features settling into more defined shapes. But something about her face in the flashlight beam makes me feel like I'm looking at a stranger.
I settle into the rocking chair with Eva, cradling her against my chest. The familiar weight of her should be comforting, should anchor me to reality, but instead it feels foreign. Like I'm holding someone else's child.
My voice cracks when I speak. "You're mine, right?"
Eva keeps crying softly, her tiny body trembling with each sob. The sound echoes off the nursery walls, mixing with the white noise machine and the distant hum of the air conditioning.
I rock her gently, the way I've done dozens of times before, and repeat it quieter. "You're mine."
Suddenly, Eva stops crying.
Her lips curl into a smile. Wide and open and beautiful, the kind of expression that should fill me with joy. Her eyes are still closed, but her whole face transforms with that single expression.
