Page 36 of The Other Mother
"Legal?" I whisper to the empty hallway. "Why would my own medical records need legal review?"
I carry the stack to the kitchen table and spread the pages out like I'm trying to solve a puzzle. Eva is napping in her bassinet nearby, making those soft little sounds that should comfort me but somehow don't. The desert sun streams through our windows, harsh and unforgiving, turning everything in the room into sharp contrasts of light and shadow.
Before I dive deeper into the medical records, I needsomething normal. Something that will remind me I'm still a real person with a real life, not just a collection of redacted documents and suspicious circumstances.
I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, everything else makes me too jittery, and sit at the breakfast bar where Adam and I used to eat together when we first moved here. Back then, we'd talk about his projects, about the novel I was going to finish, about how different our lives would be once the baby came. These were hopeful conversations that feel like they happened between different people from who we are now.
Adam's been working longer hours lately, coming home after Eva's already asleep. Last night, he'd tried to make dinner for us. It was something he used to do when we were dating, back when cooking for me felt romantic instead of obligatory. He'd made his signature pasta dish, the one that impressed me on our third date, but neither of us could finish it. The silence between us was too heavy, filled with all the things we weren't saying.
"I miss talking to you," I'd finally said, pushing food around my plate.
"We're talking now," he'd replied, but his eyes were on his phone, scrolling through work emails even during dinner.
"I mean really talking. Like we used to."
He'd looked up then, and for a moment I saw something raw in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Claire. Youask me questions I can't answer about things I don't understand. You see conspiracies in everything. I'm doing my best here."
"Are you?" The words had come out sharper than I intended. "Because it feels like you're avoiding me. Like you're waiting for me to get better so you can stop pretending to care."
The hurt that flashed across his face was real, and I'd immediately regretted saying it. But I couldn't take it back, and we'd finished dinner in silence.
Now, sitting alone with these redacted records, I wonder if he's right. Maybe I am seeing conspiracies where none exist. Maybe I'm the problem.
But then I return to page six, and everything changes.
Under a section labeled "Other Deliveries — Night Shift," most of the text is blacked out like everything else. But one line, somehow missed by whoever wielded the redaction marker, remains visible:
Mother: Mara V?—————
The rest of her last name is covered, but it's enough. My heart stops, then starts beating so hard I can hear it in my ears. Mara was there. She delivered a baby the same night I did.
With shaking hands, I circle the line, the ink from my pen smearing slightly on the cheap paper. This isn't paranoia. This isn't sleep deprivation or postpartum anxiety. This is proof that Mara and I were connected in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
I flip through the remaining pages frantically. Onpage eight, I notice something faint in the upper right corner. It’s not printed text, but a watermark visible only when I tilt the paper toward the light.
Property of Coachella Valley Medical – Legal Review Copy
Legal review. They didn't redact my file to protect my privacy. They redacted it to protect themselves.
The last page is mostly blank, just a few scattered lines of text that somehow escaped the black marker. I'm about to set it aside when I notice something written in faint pencil along the bottom margin, turned sideways like someone was trying to hide it:
"Signed under sedation – verified by admin nurse – see intake form 2A."
I search through the entire stack twice, then a third time. There is no Form 2A in the envelope. Whatever I signed while sedated, whatever an admin nurse verified, it's been removed entirely.
I circle the penciled note three times, pressing so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.
"What else did they hide?" I whisper to the empty kitchen.
I hear the door open and close quietly. But not the usual way Adam slams it when he’s annoyed.
A moment later, his voice, low, coming from the backyard.
I slip closer to the sliding door, careful not to make a sound.
“She’s starting to put things together,” I hear him say.
