Page 8 of The Other Mother
"No, the solar array has to go on the south face," he's saying as he walks into the living room. "I don't care what it looks like from the street. Function over form."
I wave him over, holding up the blanket. He holds up one finger, mouthing "one minute" while he finishes hiscall. Always one more minute. Always one more client who needs his attention more than I do.
Finally he hangs up and looks at me with that patient expression he's perfected over the past six weeks. The one that says he loves me but wishes I was a little less fragile, a little easier to handle.
"What's up?"
"Have you ever seen this before?" I hold up the blanket, my voice higher than I intended.
Adam shrugs and loosens his tie. He's dressed for success even in the desert heat, navy slacks and a crisp white button-down that somehow never wrinkles. "It's one of the ones from the hospital, right?"
"No." I grab my phone and show him the pictures. "This isn't the blanket she came home in. Look."
He glances at the screen, but I can tell he's not really looking. Not the way I am. Not with the desperate attention of someone who's trying to solve a puzzle that might destroy everything.
"This one has someone else's name in it." I show him the tag, pointing to the faded letters.
Adam takes the blanket and squints at the writing. His reading glasses are upstairs, but he's too vain to wear them unless he absolutely has to. Another vanity from our Orange County days, when image mattered more than comfort.
"G. Matthews. That's probably a laundry tag. Like for hospital use." He hands it back to me, already losing interest. "G for Girl? Or maybe someone else had itbefore us. It's a public hospital, Claire. They probably reuse stuff all the time."
His tone is gentle but dismissive. The same tone he uses when I mention that Eva's eyes seem darker, or that she feels heavier in my arms, or that sometimes I wake up convinced someone has been in her room while we were sleeping.
I want to scream. Want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees what I see, feels what I feel. But I've learned that my intensity scares him. Makes him retreat into work calls and golf games and late nights at the office.
"You're probably right," I say instead, folding the blanket and setting it aside.
But I'm not convinced. Not even close.
Adam kisses the top of my head, a distracted gesture that feels more like checking a box than showing affection. "I'm going to change clothes. Did you think about dinner?"
Food. Another thing I'm supposed to care about but can't seem to manage. "We could order something."
"Sounds good. Chinese?”
I nod. Honestly, I could eat again. Breastfeeding has turned me into a bottomless pit. I keep opening the fridge and never feel full. It’s another side effect no one mentions. Along with how your body stops feeling like yours, how sleep becomes rations, and how you can love someone fiercely while they still feel like a stranger.
Adam disappears upstairs,and I'm alone again with Eva, the mysterious blanket, and the questions that multiply in my head.
I walk to Eva's bassinet and look down at her sleeping face. She's beautiful. Perfect. Exactly what a six-week-old baby should look like. But there's something in her expression, even in sleep, that makes me uneasy. Like she's dreaming about things babies shouldn't know about yet.
The pale pink blanket sits on the chair where Adam left it, looking innocent and ordinary. Just another piece of baby gear in a house full of baby gear. But I can't stop staring at those faded letters. G. Matthews.
What if it's not a coincidence? What if G. Matthews is another baby who was born at the same hospital, around the same time? What if, somehow, in the chaos of a busy maternity ward, things got mixed up?
The thought is insane. Hospitals have protocols. Bracelets and footprints and procedures designed to prevent exactly this kind of mistake. But mistakes happen. Even in hospitals. Even with the most careful protocols.
I think about Mara's hollow eyes, the certainty in her voice. "You feel it, don't you? That something's wrong."
I do feel it. I've felt it since the moment they placed Eva on my chest and I waited for the flood of recognition that never came. The maternal instinct that wassupposed to kick in automatically but feels more like a learned behavior I'm still trying to master.
Later, after we stuffed ourselves and Adam retreated into his home office to work on blueprints, I put Eva down for another nap. She goes down easily, too easily. Not like before. Today, Eva slides into unconsciousness like she's grateful for the escape.
I watch her for a long time, studying her features in the fading afternoon light. The dark hair that's getting thicker instead of falling out. The eyebrows that seem too defined for a newborn. The way she sleeps so still, barely moving except for the rise and fall of her chest.
Then I look back at the blanket, still folded on the chair where Adam left it.
I pick it up again and run my finger over the laundry tag. The ink is faded but legible. G. Matthews. Someone took the time to write that name, to mark this blanket as belonging to a specific baby. A baby whose name started with G.
