Page 38 of The Other Mother
"I'm sorry, but I can't provide information about other patients," the first woman had said, her voice tight with the kind of forced politeness customer service representatives use when they're trying to end a conversation. "HIPAA regulations, you understand."
But she'd hesitated when I mentioned legal review copies, like the words meant something specific. Something she wasn't supposed to discuss.
Now I stand in front of Adam, holding my collection of evidence like an offering. The living room feels too small suddenly, the desert darkness pressing against our windows like it's trying to get inside.
"Tell me this is all a coincidence," I say.
Adam glances up from his phone, his eyes taking in the papers spread across the coffee table. His expression barely changes. There’s no surprise or concern, just a tired resignation that makes my chest tighten.
"What is this, Claire?"
"Proof. Something happened at the hospital. And you knew about it."
He sets his phone aside and stands slowly, moving with the careful deliberation of someone who's been expecting this conversation. In the lamplight, his face looks older, more worn than it should for a man his age. There are lines around his eyes that weren't there whenwe first moved to the desert, stress marks that seem to have appeared overnight.
"Do you hear yourself?" His voice is too calm, like he's speaking to a child having a tantrum.
"That pacifier isn't ours. The bracelet numbers don't match. There's a woman at my support group who?—"
"Stop."
The word cracks through the air like a whip, sharp enough to make Eva stir in her sleep. I take an involuntary step backward.
"You are spiraling again. I've been covering for you for weeks. Do you even hear yourself?"
"Covering what?" The question comes out smaller than I intended.
Adam runs both hands through his hair, messing up the perfect styling he maintains even at home. "The calls to your OB at three in the morning. The nurse line you've been harassing with conspiracy theories. The appointments you've missed because you're too paranoid to leave the house. The monitor logs from the baby's room that show you standing over her crib for hours."
Each accusation hits like a physical blow. "I didn't?—"
"The neighbor you screamed at for looking at Eva too long. Sharon Henderson from down the street? She called me at work, Claire. She's concerned about you."
Of course, I know Sharon. She has the twins, the dog, and a husband who works a lot of nights. But I don't remember screaming at her. I remember feelinguncomfortable when she lingered by our mailbox, asking too many questions about Eva, but screaming?
"You're not well," Adam continues, and now his voice carries something that might be genuine concern mixed with exhaustion. "You're scaring me. You're scaring her." He gestures toward Eva's bassinet.
The words land like acid in my stomach. "I'm trying to protect her."
"From what? From imaginary conspiracies? From yourself?"
Before I moved to the desert, back when I still had my editing job and felt like I knew who I was, I used to pride myself on being logical and rational. I could spot issues and forced coincidences in manuscripts that exist for no other reason except to drive the story forward. Now I wonder if I've become the unreliable narrator in my own life.
But then I look at the evidence spread across our coffee table, and I know I'm not imagining everything.
"I think it's time you saw someone," Adam says, his voice taking on that careful, therapeutic tone he's been using more and more lately. "Maybe it's just postpartum depression. Maybe it's something more. But either way ... "
He takes a deep breath, and I know what's coming before he says it.
"I'm taking Eva to my mom's for a few days."
The world tilts sideways. "No."
"You need rest. You need to feel safe. And she needs?—"
“I won’t let you take her from me."
"I'm not taking her. I'm protecting her. From this. "He gestures at the papers, at me, at the entire situation I've created or discovered. I’m no longer sure which.
