Page 33 of The Other Mother
He shrugs. “Use the number you have. Or do not.”
He walks away without looking back. The taillights of his Civic lift him out of the lot and onto the road. They turn into the same river of red that carries everyone else home.
I stand there with the paper in my fist until the edges leave marks. I put it in my wallet behind the insurance cards. I tell myself I will burn it in the grill when I get home and that I will forget the way his thumb moved over the cash.
On the drive back I check the rearview more than I need to. The desert wind pushes at the car in lazy fits. A shopping bag tumbles down the sidewalk. The house will be dark when I pull in, and calm.
“Last time,” I say to the empty car.
It sounds better when the engine is loud.
18
M
It's past midnight, and I'm sitting in the kitchen with my laptop open. Eva is finally asleep after another evening of inconsolable crying. Adam went to bed hours ago, muttering something about an early morning conference call with investors. He's been doing that more lately, disappearing into work, into golf.
The Mara confrontation from this afternoon won’t leave me alone. Her words keep playing on repeat:You took everything from me. You don’t even know what you did.Every time I close my eyes, I see her hollow face, the way she looked at me with such certainty, like she knew something about my life that I didn’t.
I try to look up Janet. Just to ease my mind. But I can’t find anything. No last name. No credentials on the wellness center’s site. No therapist license. Not even a LinkedIn. The deeper I dig, the more it feels like she doesn’t exist.
Earlier this week, Adam brought home the support group’s anonymous binder. It’sone of those spiral notebooks where moms write messages to the next mom. The first line on the page he pointed to read:The baby cried and then it stopped. They told me to rest. I can’t rest.
Adam watched my face while I read, like he was waiting for the words to fix me. “See?” he said softly. “You’re not alone.”
I told him it helped. I closed the binder and pretended I felt steadier. But the handwriting clung to me after he went upstairs. Familiar loops. The same hard-leaning slant, like the writer was bracing for something. Janet leaves the binder on the check-in table. Anyone can write in it. Anyone can read it.
And there’s something else nagging at me, a fragment that keeps slipping. In those last months when I couldn’t sleep, I lived online: message boards, support groups, late-night DMs with other expectant moms.
I pull up Gmail and type birth plan. Too many newsletters. I try template, then guardianship. Nothing. I open the Trash and search again.
A thread pops up I don’t remember archiving.
Subject: “Birth Plan Options.”
Sender: M. Benton (Community Moderator)
My stomach tightens as I click.
Hi Claire,
I’ve attached a standard temporary caregiver/guardianship authorization a lot of moms keep intheir hospital bag (just in case). This is for a grandparent/sister to sign school or ER papers if mom is sedated or dad is traveling. If you want to talk to someone before you deliver, I can point you to a low-cost legal clinic.
Looking forward,
Mae Benton
Community Moderator
The tone isn’t personal, it’s more matter-of-fact and helpful. It’s the same calm voice from the pregnancy board. She’s a peer mentor, not a friend.
I scroll.
Claire,
Just checking in. The hospital’s emergency consent protocol is pretty standard, and that postnatal recovery/bonding window note should answer your timing questions. Let me know if anything feels unclear.
And:
