Page 43 of The Other Mother
23
THE WRONG ROOM
Lex's apartment is exactly what I expected, a converted warehouse space in an artsy part of Palm Springs, all exposed brick and industrial fixtures softened by vintage furniture and stacks of books. The kind of place I used to dream about when I was a teenager and fantasizing about a more bohemian life. Now, sitting on their worn leather couch with the USB drive clutched in my palm, those old dreams feel like they belonged to someone else entirely.
"I found some archived camera feeds tied to that transfer file," Lex says, settling beside me with their laptop balanced on their knees. The curtains are drawn against the afternoon desert sun, casting the room in amber shadows. "They were stored in a weird format. It’s almost like someone tried to erase them but didn't quite finish the job."
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Show me."
Before I became a mother, before I moved here and lost pieces of myself I didn't even know existed, I used to be good at handling stress. During my mother's illness, I was the one who stayed calm during crisis moments and who asked the right questions when doctors delivered bad news. I thought that strength would translate to motherhood, that I'd be one of those naturally competent women who took everything in stride.
Instead, I've become someone who barricades herself in nurseries and meets strangers in coffee shops to hack into medical databases. Someone whose own husband thinks she's losing her mind.
Maybe I am.
But as Lex opens the video files, I know I'm about to see something that will either confirm my worst fears or prove that I’m completely detached from reality. Either way, there's no going back.
The footage loads slowly, black and white surveillance stills with timestamps in the corner. The quality is grainy, the kind of security camera video that looks like it was recorded underwater, but the details are clear enough to make my stomach lurch.
00:03 – A woman is being wheeled down a hospital corridor on a gurney. She's barely conscious, her head lolling to one side, dark hair matted with sweat. The timestamp shows September 3rd, just after midnight.
It's me.
But the room number visible on the door as they wheel me inside reads 3B, not 2C like my discharge papers indicate.
"Wait," Lex says, pausing the video. "You were in Room 2C, right? That's what your paperwork says."
I nod, though my voice comes out as barely a whisper. "That's what I thought."
They click forward.
00:10 – A nurse enters the room. She's wearing scrubs but no visible badge, no identification of any kind. She’s holding a baby, wrapped in a familiar striped hospital blanket, in her arms.
00:15 – The baby is placed in my arms. On screen, I see myself barely react, my head still lolling from whatever medication they'd given me. My lips move slightly, like I'm trying to say something, but my body is limp and disconnected.
00:20 – The camera angle switches to a view down the hallway. Another woman is being wheeled past in a wheelchair, but she's not unconscious like I was. She's screaming, her mouth open wide in a silent howl of anguish. Her arms are empty, pressed against her chest like she's holding something that isn't there.
Even through the grainy security footage, even with the poor lighting and distorted angles, I recognize her immediately.
It's Mara.
Lex freezes the frame, and we both stare at the screen in silence. The timestamp shows the same night, the same shift. While I was being handed a baby in Room 3B, Mara was being wheeled away with empty arms.
"That's the same night," Lex says unnecessarily. "Same shift."
"That's Mara," I whisper.
The pieces click together with sickening clarity. Two women giving birth on the same night. One woman sedated beyond consciousness, accepting whatever baby was placed in her arms. Another woman screaming, fighting, being restrained and removed.
A digital custody transfer document was created by my husband while I was unconscious.
"They switched us," I say, and hearing the words out loud makes them feel both impossible and inevitable.
Lex is silent, staring at the frozen image of Mara's anguished face.
I back away from the laptop, needing distance from what I'm seeing. "They gave me the wrong baby."
The room spins around me. All those weeks of feeling disconnected from Eva, of questioning my maternal instincts, of wondering why I couldn't bond with her the way I was supposed to. It wasn't postpartum depression or anxiety or any of the explanations everyone kept offering. It was my body, my heart, my deepest instincts trying to tell me the truth that everyone else was working so hard to hide.
