Page 49 of The Other Mother
26
THE NURSE'S SECRET
The morning after getting the photo from Mara, I can't stop staring at it. My mother's blanket wrapped around a baby that might not be mine. The rosebud pattern she embroidered when she was still healthy, still believing she'd live to see her grandchildren.
I'm sitting in the kitchen, Eva nursing quietly in my arms, when Adam walks in from his run. His face is flushed, sweat darkening his gray tank top. He used to run in Orange County before work too, but here in the desert he also goes out to beat the heat. The ritual grounds him, makes him feel like he's conquering something.
"You're up early," he says, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
"Couldn't sleep."
He glances at the photo on the counter, partiallyhidden under a dish towel. I move it further away, but his eyes linger.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Just some old pictures I found."
Adam has always been good at reading my tells. The way I avoid eye contact when I'm hiding something. How my voice gets too casual when I'm lying. He steps closer, and I feel the familiar weight of his attention, like standing under a heat lamp.
"Claire." His voice is gentle but insistent. "What's going on?"
For a moment, I almost tell him. Almost show him the photo, explain about Mara, about the blanket my mother made. But then I remember the video footage Lex found. The signature that wasn't mine. The way Adam's face looked when I asked about the pacifier.
"I was thinking about my mom," I say instead. It's not entirely a lie. "How she used to embroider things for the baby. Before she got too sick."
Adam's expression softens. He knows this is still tender territory. My mother died two months before Adam and I got engaged. I know it’s not her fault, but I’ve never quite forgiven her for missing our wedding, our pregnancy, Eva's birth. All the moments she should have been there for.
"She would have loved her," Adam says, nodding toward Eva.
"Would she?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "What if Eva wasn't ... what if things were different?"
Adam sits down across from me, his runner's high fading into concern. "Different how?"
I study his face. The way his jaw tightens when he's preparing to manage me. The slight furrow between his brows that appears whenever I'm being what he calls "emotional."
"Nothing. Just tired thoughts."
He reaches across and touches my hand. His palm is still warm from his run.
"Maybe you should call your OB. Just to check in. It's been a while since your last appointment."
My OB is a kind woman with soft hands and a voice like warm honey. But she's also the one who discharged me from the hospital, who signed off on all the paperwork I can't remember filling out.
"Maybe," I say.
Adam squeezes my hand once, then stands. "I'm going to shower. Then I thought we could drive into town, maybe have lunch at that place with the patio. Get you out of the house."
After he leaves, I slip the photo back into my purse. I need answers, and I know where to get them.
Finding June Harpertakes three phone calls and a lie about being a former patient seeking closure. The woman who finally gives me her address sounds tired, like she's used to fielding calls about the past.
“And she doesn't like visitors,” she warns me. But I'm past caring about what people like.
The address leads me to a trailer park on the outskirts of town, where the desert feels more raw and unforgiving. Mobile homes sit scattered like dice across the hardpan, connected by gravel roads that kick up dust clouds when cars pass. The air smells like creosote and propane, with an underlying sweetness that is either dying grass or a heat-baked trashcan.
June Harper's trailer is at the end of a dead-end road, surrounded by a collection of wind chimes that tinkle and clatter in the constant breeze. There must be dozens of them, hanging from every available surface. Some are metal that ping like bells and others are ceramic with faded flowers.
The trailer itself is the color of old bones, with a corrugated metal awning that provides a strip of shade along the front. Boxes are stacked everywhere, some cardboard, some plastic storage bins, all bleached by the sun and warped by heat. Through the thin walls, I can hear a television playing too loudly.
