Page 37 of The Other Mother
A pause. A soft laugh that doesn’t sound amused.
“I’m handling it. No, she doesn’t remember the form.”
Another pause. My heart hammers in my ears.
“We’ll keep her stable. That’s the goal.”
He ends the call. The patio door slides shut behind him. I run back to before he can see me.
When he walks in,I'm waiting for him at the kitchen table. The redacted forms are spread out in front of me like evidence at a crime scene, black bars creating a landscape of secrets.
"We need to talk," I say before he can even set down his keys.
He sees the papers and his shoulders sag. "Claire ... "
"They redacted my file. My own medical records. And Mara's name is in there." I point to the circled line. "Explain that."
Adam sits down across from me, suddenly looking older than his thirty-six years. "It's probably just because you requested them. That's why they mark everything legal review. You're not being singled out."
"And what about this?" I slide the last page toward him, pointing to the penciled note. "Why would someone write 'signed under sedation' on my file if this is all normal procedure?"
He stares at the handwriting for a long moment, and I watch something shift in his expression. Recognition? Fear? I can't tell.
"Claire, you need to stop this."
"Stop what? Asking questions about my own medical care?"
"Stop trying to create mysteries where none exist. You had a difficult birth. You were in pain, you were scared, you signed standard medical forms. That's all this is."
But there's something in his voice, a careful quality that makes me lean forward. “I lost a baby before Eva.”
Adam goes very still.
"What?"
"Before Eva. I lost a baby."
He's quiet for too long. When he finally speaks, his voice is carefully measured. “You and I know that already. You had a miscarriage at six weeks, but that was years ago. With Marcus, before we were even together. That's not the same as this. You weren't even sure you were pregnant then."
The way he says it, like he's reciting lines from a script, makes my skin crawl.
"Stop trying to create ghosts, Claire. You're scaring yourself with shadows."
I stare at him across the table, at this man I've loved for five years, and realize I don't know him at all. Or maybe I don't know myself.
After he goes to bed, I sit alone in the kitchen with the redacted records spread around me like tarot cardsrevealing a future I can't quite see. The house is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and Eva's soft breathing through the baby monitor.
I stare at the blacked-out sections on the paperwork. Maybe, I’m not making up ghosts. Maybe, they’re the only ones telling me the truth.
20
SHE'S UNWELL
The dinner dishes sit unwashed in the sink. Adam is on the couch in the living room, his phone glowing blue against his face as he scrolls through work emails or sports scores or whatever else helps him avoid looking at me directly. Eva sleeps in her bassinet beside him, finally quiet after another evening of inexplicable crying that left us both frayed and exhausted.
I've been planning this moment all day, gathering evidence like I'm building a legal case. Maybe I am. The photo of the missing birthmark is printed and circled in red pen. The pacifier with "Gracie" etched into it sitting in my drawer. The email chain.
Earlier today, while Adam was at work and Eva napped, I'd called the hospital again. This time I'd asked specifically about other deliveries on September 3rd, about patient privacy policies, about why certain records would require legal review. The woman on the phonehad grown increasingly uncomfortable with my questions before finally transferring me to a supervisor who never picked up.
