Page 35 of The Other Mother
"But you remember?"
"I remember enough."
There's something in the way he says it that makes me pull my hand away. Something careful and practiced, like he's rehearsed this conversation before.
"I found emails," I tell him. "From before Eva was born. From that woman, Mae. We were talking about legal documents, about donor agreements."
Adam goes very still. "What emails?"
"I don't know. They don't make sense. But it sounds like we were planning something together. Like I agreed to something I can't remember."
"You were pregnant. You were probably looking into all kinds of things—birth plans, custody arrangements if something happened to us. It doesn't mean anything."
His response is too quick, too reasonable. Like he's been expecting this conversation.
I stand up abruptly, brushing dirt off my pajama pants. "I'm going back inside."
"Claire, wait."
But I'm already walking away, leaving him sitting alone in my failed garden.
Back in the kitchen,I open my laptop again. I look for anything that might jog my memory. Near the bottom, I find a note titled "Names we're not using." It's a long list of traditional names, trendy names, family names that carried too much baggage.
Near the bottom, circled and then crossed out in red:Evelyn Gracie.
I don’t remember changing my mind. I remember loving it. Or thinking I did.
Back in the kitchen, I open my laptop again. I search “birth plan,” then “guardianship,” and “template.”
I go back to the email thread, reading every word again. The timestamps say the emails were created six months ago, in my second trimester. They were deleted two weeks after Eva was born, right around the time my memory gets fuzzy.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn. Then, almostwithout thinking, I restore the thread to my inbox and create a new folder.
I name it "M – PRIVATE.”
I tell myself it’s just for safekeeping and don’t believe that myself.
19
BLACKED OUT
The mail comes at ten-thirty every morning, delivered by a postal worker who drives too fast down our street. I've started timing my days around it, feeding Eva at ten, then waiting by the front window and watching for the familiar white truck like I’m at a stakeout.
Today, there's something different in the mailbox. Along with the usual stack of credit card offers and grocery store circulars, there's a thick manila envelope, creased and worn like it's been handled by multiple people. The return address makes my stomach lurch:Coachella Valley Medical Center, Records Division.
I requested these weeks ago, back when I still thought documentation would give me clarity instead of more questions. My hands shake as I tear open the envelope, the paper making a sound like breaking bones.
Inside is a stack of hospital documents, at leasttwenty pages thick. The top sheet has my name printed in bold letters:Patient: Claire Matthews, DOB: 03/22/1991. For a moment, I feel a surge of relief. Proof. Evidence. Something concrete to anchor me to reality.
Then I turn the page, and my heart sinks.
Entire sections are covered in thick black bars, like someone took a marker and systematically erased half my life. Vitals blacked out. Staff notes obliterated. Room logs invisible under heavy redaction marks. Even timestamps, the most basic information about when things happened, are hidden behind impenetrable black bars.
REDACTED – LEGAL PRIVILEGE
REDACTED – SEALED BY COUNSEL
The phrases repeat like a mantra across page after page. Ten pages, thirteen, seventeen. At the top of the first page, a yellow sticky note in handwriting I don't recognize:Per your request. Additional items pending legal review.
