Page 66 of The Other Mother
“We keep things simple,” Linda says. “First night is intake, sleep, then decisions.” She gestures to a corkboard by the hallway. HOUSE RULES is written in thick marker. No real names on the board. Phones in the breadbox after dark. No photos, ever. There is a white baby scale on the buffet beside a stack of folded muslin swaddles.
Tasha, a woman with braids and a gentle way of moving, brings a clipboard. “Vitals, weight, feeding,” she says. “It helps us figure out what you and the baby need.”
Maria hovers close, too close. “Let me,” she says, holding out her hands like a nurse asking for a chart. “I’ve done three intakes.”
My arms cinch tighter around Eva before I can stop myself. “She just fell asleep.”
“That is good,” Linda says. Her voice is even, practiced. “We can do this in ten minutes and then you can both rest. We document distinguishing marks in case we need to prove identity fast.”
The word distinguishing makes something coldmove through me. I think of the photo on my phone, the thigh with a heart that appeared and then did not. My palms get sweaty.
Tasha keepsher eyes on the clipboard. “Any allergies yet? Any reactions to formula? Any hospital notes you remember?”
“I’m breastfeeding. No allergies that I know of.” I shake my head.
Maria watches my face like she is studying a witness. “Weigh her,” she says quietly, and it is not a suggestion
Linda touches my sleeve. “It helps us help you.”
I ease Eva onto the scale. She squirms, little legs windmilling, mouth working in her sleep. Tasha notes the number and nods. “She’s fine,” she says. “Hungry, probably, but fine.”
Maria reaches for the soft muslin swaddle on the table. “I can wrap her,” she says. “I know how she likes it.”
Something in me flares. “How would you know that?”
Maria does not answer. She opens her tote and sets a small knit cap on the table. Pale pink. Hospital issue. There is a faded sticker inside the brim where someone tried to write a name and then scratched it out. She lays the cap beside the scale like a piece of evidence.
“I kept this,” she says. “I kept everything.”
The room shifts. Linda drags a chair closer and sits. “Claire,” she says, and my name sounds careful in her mouth. “What we do here is reunite. Where possible. Where safe. We do not force. We do not take. But we do name what is true.”
Maria lifts her chin. Her eyes never leave Eva. “Start by naming it,” she says.
“Naming what?” I ask.
Maria answers for Linda. “Who she is.” She means the baby. She means mine, and not mine. But I don’t understand.
Tasha clears her throat. “We can work out a plan. Overnights. Visits. A transition if that is what is best. No one is the enemy here.”
The word transitionhits me and knocks a bit of air out of me. I gather Eva back against my chest. She settles, heavy and warm, in my arms. The soft sounds from the kitchen continue. A timer goes off somewhere and no one moves to silence it.
Linda folds her hands. “We need to talk about custody and about safety. If you stay here, we ask for your keys tonight. Phones go in the box. It is how we keep everyone protected.”
I slide my car key deeper into my pocket. “From whom?”
“From the people outside who make choices for mothers,” Linda says. “From men who show up with doctors who are not doctors.”
Maria’s mouth tightens. “From people who take children that are not theirs.”
I look at her then, really look. Her face is young and hard and tired. There is nothing of a savior in it. Only hunger. Only loss.
“What do you want?” I ask.
She does not blink. “Her.”
I stare at her, and for a second there, Maria doesn’t meet my eyes.
"You lied to me," I say quietly. "You want Eva."
