Page 41 of The Other Mother
"It's not just research," I admit, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup for warmth. The air conditioning in here is aggressive.
Lex raises an eyebrow. "How not just?"
I'd practiced this conversation during the drive over, but now that I'm sitting here, the words feel inadequate.How do you explain to someone that you think your own medical records have been tampered with? That your husband might be hiding something about your baby's birth? That you're starting to question whether the child you're raising is actually yours?
"I think something happened at the hospital when Eva was born. Something that's been covered up."
Lex leans back in their chair, studying my face with the careful attention they used to bring to critiquing manuscripts in our group.
"What kind of something?"
I pull out the printed hospital records, the ones with all the black redaction bars, and spread them across the small table. "These are my own medical records. Look at how much is blacked out."
Lex flips through the pages, their expression growing more serious with each turn. "This is ... extensive. Usually birth records are pretty straightforward unless there were complications."
"There's more." I show them the pacifier with Gracie etched into it, the email thread from Mae, the photo of Eva with the birthmark that no longer exists. Laid out like this, in the bright fluorescent lighting of the coffee shop, it all looks even more damning than it did in my kitchen.
"I need to see what they're hiding," I say finally. "And I think it's in the hospital's digital files."
Lex is quiet for a long moment, their fingers drumming against the table in a pattern I rememberfrom our writing group days. It meant they were thinking, weighing options, probably calculating risks.
"You realize what you're asking me to do could get both of us in serious trouble?"
"I know. But I don't have anywhere else to turn."
The coffee shop around us buzzes with normal morning activity, business meetings, students with textbooks, retirees reading newspapers. Normal people living normal lives, none of them sitting in corners plotting to hack into medical databases. I wonder when my life became so far outside the boundaries of normal that this feels like my only option.
"Okay," Lex says finally. "Let's see what we can find."
They log into the hospital's patient portal using my discharge papers, entering the ID number and password I'd set up weeks ago when I first requested my records. The basic information appears easily enough—appointment dates, billing codes, discharge summaries. All the routine documentation of a typical birth.
But then we hit a folder marked "Administrative Legal: Restricted."
Lex whistles softly. "This is weird. Usually birth records don't go through legal review unless there's malpractice or a custody dispute."
My chest tightens. "Can you get in?"
They hesitate, their hands hovering over the keyboard. "I mean, yeah. Probably. But Claire, this could get me flagged. Like, fired from freelance contracts. Orworse, sued. Hospitals don't mess around with security breaches."
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I stare at the screen, at that folder labeled "Restricted" that holds answers I desperately need. Around us, the coffee shop continues its normal rhythm, but I feel like I'm sitting at the center of something much larger and more dangerous than I understood.
"Please," I say finally.
Lex looks at me for another long moment, then starts typing. Their fingers move across the keyboard with practiced speed, executing commands and running scripts that are completely beyond my understanding. Lines of code scroll across the screen, and I hold my breath.
Finally, a file opens.
The title at the top makes my blood run cold:Transfer Authorization: Emergency Custodial Reassignment.
Lex leans back in their chair, their face pale. "Claire ... what the hell is this?"
I scroll down through the document, trying to make sense of the legal language. There are sections about emergency protocols, about situations requiring immediate intervention, about authorizations signed under medical duress. At the bottom, in bold letters:Authorized by: Claire Matthews (Digital Signature).
"I never signed this," I whisper, my voice barelyaudible over the coffee shop noise. "Not like this. Not consciously."
Lex clicks on the document's metadata, revealing information about when and how it was created. The details appear on screen, and my world tilts sideways.
Created by: A. Matthews
