Page 51 of The Other Mother
June stands abruptlyand walks to one of the plastic storage bins stacked against the wall. She rummages through papers, muttering under her breath, before pulling out a manila folder.
"I shouldn't have kept these," she says, returning to the table. "But sometimes things don't feel right, you know? Sometimes you need proof that things happened the way they happened."
She opens the folder and slides a photocopied document across the table. At the top, in bold letters:EMERGENCY CUSTODIAL REASSIGNMENT.
My name is typed neatly in the patient field. Below that, a signature that's supposed to be mine.
I stare at it, my vision blurring slightly. The handwriting is similar to mine, but not quite right. The loops are too perfect, the slant too consistent. It's like someone traced my signature from another document.
"That's not my handwriting," I whisper.
June nods slowly. "I always thought so too. But what could I do? It came from upstairs. Legal department. They told us to follow orders and not ask questions."
"What does Emergency custodial reassignment mean?"
"Means the baby you held ... might've already been assigned to someone else. Legally speaking."
The room feels like it's tilting. I grip the edge of the table with my free hand, trying to steady myself.
"There's something else," June says quietly. She reaches into the folder again and pulls out a hospital photograph. The kind they take for medical records.
It shows a baby swaddled in a blue and white striped blanket. Not the plain pink, brown-trim one. Not the rosebud-embroidered one my mother made. This baby looks different. Smaller, maybe. It's hard to tell.
"Who is this?" I ask.
"I don't know. I’m supposed to have this photo."
I study the image, trying to make sense of it. The baby's face is partially obscured by the blanket, but something about the features seems wrong. It’s not Eva, but she looks familiar.
"How many babies were born that night?"
June shifts uncomfortably. "Three, maybe four. It was busy. There was some kind of emergency with one of the mothers. A lot of screaming, security called. Administration was involved."
"What kind of emergency?"
"I don't know all the details. But someone was very upset about their baby being taken. There was confusion about which baby belonged to which mother."
The trailer suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. I stand up quickly, Eva fussing as I jostle her.
"I need to go."
June watches me gather my purse. “Can I take this?” I ask about the photo and the photocopied form?”
She nods.
"Mrs. Matthews," she calls as I reach the door. "I don't know what happened that night. But whatever it was, it wasn't your fault. You were drugged. You couldn't consent to anything."
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "Then whose fault was it?"
"I think you already know the answer to that."
Outside, the wind chimes ring louder in the wind. I plug Eva’s car seat back into the backseat, my hands shaking as I fumble with the buckles. She's crying now, a thin, desperate sound that cuts through the desert air.
As I start the car, I glance back at the trailer. June is standing in the doorway, watching me leave. She raises one hand in what might be a wave or a warning.
I drive away with the photo on the passenger seat beside me, the face of a baby I don't recognize staring up at the roof of my car. Three or four babies born that night. Three or four mothers. But only one emergency custodial reassignment form.
I glance at the copy of my file in the passenger seat again — the wordsEMERGENCY CUSTODIAL REASSIGNMENTpractically pulsing through the paper. And then I remember what June said, almost like a throwaway:
