Page 27 of The Other Mother
But she doesn't stop. She doesn't call out or confront me. She just continues walking, her footsteps fading on the gravel path until I hear the cemetery gate clang shut behind her.
I wait another thirty seconds, counting my heartbeats, before I rush forward. My sandals slip on the loose gravel, and I nearly fall twice as I make my way to the grave where Mara was kneeling. The flowers she left are simple white daisies, the kind you can buy at any grocery store, already beginning to wilt in the brutal desert heat.
The grave is small. A child's grave.
I drop to my knees and brush dirt and dust from the inscription with my shaking hands. The headstone is made of pink granite, the kind that's popular in desert cemeteries because it doesn't fade as quickly in the relentless sun. The engraving is clear and deep, obviously recent work.
The words make my blood run cold:
Evelyn Grace
Born & Died September 3rd, 2024
The date matches Eva's birthday exactly. Down to the day, the month, the year.
But it's the middle name that makes me feel like I'm falling into a void. Grace is my mother’s name, the one I’ve saved for years, and the second half of the name we chose first—Evelyn Grace—before we settled on Eva.
I stumble backward, my hand flying to my chest as if I can physically hold my heart inside my ribcage. "This is a mistake," I whisper to the empty cemetery. "This can't be real."
But the engraving is fresh, the edges of the letters sharp and clean. This headstone was carved recently,maybe within the last few weeks. I run my trembling fingers along the lettering, feeling the smooth granite and the precise cuts that spell out this impossible name.
My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground beside the grave. The gravel bites into my skin through my thin pants, but I barely notice the discomfort. All I can focus on is the name carved into the stone in front of me.
Evelyn Grace.
Who is this Evelyn Grace? Why does she share my mother's name, my daughter's birthday?
And why is she buried here, in this small desert cemetery?
The questions spiral through my mind. I think about the hospital photos and the blankets and the missing birthmark.
And now this. A grave with a name that should belong to my daughter, carved into stone that proves someone believed Evelyn Grace existed and died.
I hear Mara's words from that first day in the hospital parking lot, words that have haunted me for weeks: "That baby isn't yours. You know that, don't you?"
The desert wind picks up, sending dust devils dancing between the headstones and making the creosote bush above me rustle like whispers. The white daisies Mara left are already browning at the edges, another fragile thing dying in the unforgiving heat.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and take photos of the headstone from every angle. The camera clicks repeatedly as I document this evidence, this proofof something I can't yet understand but know is vitally important.
As I stand to leave, my legs unsteady beneath me, one final question rises above all the others. A question that makes me feel like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into an abyss I might never climb out of.
15
THE PACIFIER
The October heat in the desert never lets up, even at dusk. Our house feels like a sealed box, the air conditioning humming constantly. I'm folding Eva's laundry in the nursery, the pale yellow walls Adam insisted would be "gender neutral and calming" now feeling more like the inside of a manila envelope.
Everything smells like fabric softener and that particular baby scent—part breastmilk, part something indefinable that makes my chest tighten every time I breathe it in. Six weeks of this. Six weeks of trying to feel like a mother and failing.
I'm sorting through the tiny clothes mechanically. I have onesies with snaps that I still can't work properly and burp cloths stained with spit-up that never quite comes out no matter how much stain remover I use. Eva's sleeping in her crib, finally quiet after anotherafternoon of inconsolable crying that made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The desert light slants through the blinds, casting everything in that harsh golden glow that makes me miss the soft gray light of Orange County. Back when I had my editing job, back when I knew who I was. Now I'm just this woman in a house that still feels like it belongs to someone else, taking care of a baby who…
I stop the thought before it can finish. The same thought that's been circling my brain for weeks now, the one that makes me feel like I'm going insane.
I reach into the drawer that Adam labeled “Pacifiers” in his neat handwriting, because everything in this house has to be organized and perfect. Most of them are new, still in their Target packages from when I panic-bought half the baby aisle during my third trimester nesting phase. Pink ones, blue ones, the expensive orthodontic kind the books all recommend.
But at the bottom, underneath everything else, my fingers find something different.
