Page 65 of The Other Mother
"Claire!" Adam's voice echoes off marble and granite. "You're scaring the baby! Come back!"
Even now, even while chasing me through a graveyard with fake medical personnel, he's trying to make this about my mental state. Making me the problem that needs fixing.
We duck behind a massive headstone shaped like a tree trunk, both of us breathing hard. Eva has stopped crying, maybe shocked into silence by the chaos. I can hear our pursuers getting closer, their flashlight beams sweeping across the ground like prison searchlights.
"This way," Maria whispers, and we're moving again.
I stumble over something in the dark and nearly fall, catching myself on a headstone that reads "Beloved Mother." The irony isn't lost on me. We're running through a garden of the dead while I hold a child who legally doesn't exist, pursued by a man who stole her for me in the first place.
Behind us, I hear a crash and a string of curses. One of Adam's companions has tripped over something, giving us precious seconds. Maria leads us to a section of chain-link fence at the back of the cemetery, and I can see the hole she mentioned. Someone has cut atriangular opening just big enough for a person to squeeze through.
"You first," she says, holding the fence open.
I duck through with Eva, feeling the sharp edges of cut metal catch on my jacket. On the other side is a narrow alley that runs behind the cemetery, and parked under a broken streetlight is an old Honda Civic with primer spots covering rust holes.
"Get in," Maria says, producing keys from her pocket.
I strap Eva into a car seat that's already installed in the back. The fact that Maria was prepared for this, that she knew we might need to run with a baby, should probably worry me more than it does. But right now, I'm just grateful she thought ahead.
The engine turns over with a reluctant whine, and we pull away from the cemetery just as Adam's flashlight beam sweeps across the alley behind us.
"Where are we going?" I ask as Maria navigates through empty streets.
"Somewhere safe. Mara has been planning this for months, Claire. There are safe houses, other mothers who escaped the network. We have our own underground railroad."
Underground railroad. The phrase makes me think of my college history classes, of people risking everything to help others escape slavery. Is that what we're doing?
"How many others?" I ask.
"Six mothers who've been working together. Somegot their biological children back, others are raising kids like Eva." Maria glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Jessica Towler, your journalist friend? She's been investigating this network for months. Jessica’s been digging into this for months. When you called her tonight, it confirmed you were ready to fight."
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?"
"We needed to know if you were really ready to fight, or if you were just another privileged woman who got what she wanted and didn't care about the cost." Maria's voice is matter-of-fact, but I hear the judgment underneath. "You passed."
I look at Eva, who has finally settled down and is sucking on her tiny fist. "What if I had failed?"
"Then you never would have heard from me again and we’d do everything in my power to take you down with them.”
The drive takes hours,out of the valley and into the Nevada desert. We pass through tiny towns with names like Pahrump and Shoshone, places that exist mainly to serve travelers on their way to somewhere else. The landscape outside is all scrub brush and Joshua trees, their twisted arms reaching toward stars that seem impossibly bright out here away from city lights.
Eva sleeps peacefully in her car seat, unaware that we're driving toward either salvationor another kind of prison. I can't shake the feeling that Maria has been manipulating me from the moment she called, orchestrating events to bring me exactly where she wants me.
But where else can I go? Back to Adam and his fake concerned husband act? To some other motel room where I wait for Child Protective Services to find me? At least with Maria's network, I might find answers.
We turn off the main highway onto a dirt road that seems to lead nowhere. After ten minutes of bouncing over ruts and potholes, I see lights ahead. A converted ranch house sits in a clearing surrounded by sage brush and desert silence. Solar panels gleam on the roof, and I can see a vegetable garden protected by chicken wire.
"This is it," Maria says, parking next to two other cars. "Home."
The front door opens before we even get out of the car, and a woman emerges onto the porch. She's maybe thirty-five, with hair pulled back in a practical bun and the kind of worn hands that come from hard work. Behind her, I glimpse other figures in the doorway.
"Linda Dearborn," Maria says quietly. "Her baby was sold to international traffickers in 2021. She started this place."
Linda approaches our car with a smile that reaches her eyes. "Claire, we've been waiting for you. Welcome."
I expected something sinister, some kind of compound run by bitter women plotting revenge. Instead, I find myself in what looks like a halfway housefor mothers. The living room has comfortable couches and children's toys scattered on braided rugs. There's a play kitchen in one corner and a bookshelf filled with picture books. The air smells like coffee and something baking in the oven.
Linda ushers us to a long farmhouse table. A crockpot hums on warm. Someone sets out chipped mugs and a jar of honey. The light in here is soft, the kind that makes everything look kinder than it is.
