Page 107 of The Missing Pages
But now, as Ada lay alone in the recovery room, the pain between her legs excruciating, her abdomen no longer filled with the movements of life, her mind returned to that unique printing.
Perhaps, she considered, there are moments in a story that are too painful to be written down or recorded. She wished this part of her life’s narrative could be wiped clear from her memory because the pain of it was just too much to bear.
When the nurse came to give her ice for the swelling down below, Ada lifted her head from the pillow.
“Was it a girl or a boy?” Her voice broke.
“It is better to let only God know,” the sister said. “It’s easier that way.”
“Please,” she asked again. “I need to know.”
“A girl,” the woman revealed, her words hushed.
“Is she healthy?”
“Very,” the sister said.
“Can I hold her?”
“It is not recommended.”
“Please,” she begged. “Just once.”
The baby was swaddled in clean white cloth. Her face was a rosy pink. Ada held her in her arms as her newborn daughter searched her breast for milk. As the child’s tiny mouth latched on, Ada clung to each minute that they were bonded skin to skin.
“I will be back soon,” the nurse said and closed the door.
Her daughter had auburn fuzz, light eyes, and a tight little grip as her finger reached out to grasp her own.
“Little one,” Ada said, now finding her baby’s foot. It was so small, like the little bird she loved to sign her name with. “Let mama tell you a story.”
And so in the colorless room, in a home far from where her own childhood had begun, Ada told her daughter the story she had always loved the most.
“The Happiest Fairy,” she began, “was born with wings as bright as the moon, her skin shone like the light of fireflies, and she possessed a smile as radiant as the sun.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
ADA TRIED TO SOAK IN EVERY DETAIL OF HER DAUGHTER,every little sound she made, her every feature. The downy cap of copper hair, the eyelids like two little shells that shut out the world so peacefully, only to open and reveal such utterly perfect wonder.
“May I at least name her?” Ada asked after they peeled the infant from her arms.
“When you fill out the birth certificate,” Sister Mary informed her, “you can give her a name then. But those adopting her will rename her with an amended birth certificate after the adoption is processed.”
“Will she ever learn I’m her mother?” Ada’s voice broke.
Sister Mary shook her head. “It will be sealed away here, and she will never have access to our records.”
A small groan escaped from Ada’s lips.
“When you leave here you must try and forget this all happened. It is better that way, my child.”
Ada felt a swirl of rage sweep through her insides. It festered in the hollow where her daughter had once been. How could she ever forget any of this had ever happened? And how could she ever forget this baby she loved so much? It would be as impossible as asking her to live without a beating heart.
She was given a sepia-colored piece of paper with lines to add in her name and the father’s. One of the nuns had already filled in the date, time, and place of her daughter’s birth.
Ada filled out the easiest information first. She wrote in her own name.
When she came to the line asking her to name the father, she paused. Could she name Harry here? The nurse said the certificate would be sealed.
