Page 14 of The Other Mother
THE HALLWAY
S leep comes in fragments these days, broken by Eva's feeding schedule and my own restless thoughts. The note from the Rite Aid parking lot sits folded in my nightstand drawer, its words burned into my memory.
You're not crazy. You're right.
I've read it so many times the paper is starting to wear thin along the creases.
It's just past nine PM when Adam finds me in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with the dinner plates we barely touched. Eva finally went down after an hour of fussing, and the house feels unusually quiet without her intermittent cries echoing from the baby monitor.
"Hey," he says softly, sliding up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I can smell his aftershave mixed with the faint scent of the desert air that clings to his clothes. "Leave those. They can wait.”
I lean back against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him for the first time in days. Since he got back from Phoenix, we've been like ships passing in the night, taking turns with Eva's care but barely connecting as a couple.
"How are you holding up?" he asks, his voice gentle against my ear. "Really. I know I've been distracted with work stuff, but I can see you're struggling.”
The concern in his voice almost breaks me. This is the Adam I fell in love with, the one who notices when I'm having a hard day before I even realize it myself. Not the distracted businessman who's been fielding client calls during Eva's bedtime routine.
"I'm okay," I start to say, but he turns me around in his arms, his hands resting on my hips.
"Claire." His dark eyes search my face. "You barely ate dinner. You've been jumpy all week. Talk to me.”
I want to tell him everything. About the hospital bracelets, the blankets and the gray car seat. About Mara appearing and disappearing like a ghost. About the note from a stranger telling me I'm not crazy.
But looking into his worried face, I realize how insane it would all sound. How could I explain that I think something happened to our baby without sounding like I'm having some kind of postpartum breakdown ?
"I've just been tired," I say instead. "You know how it is with a newborn.”
He studies my expression for a moment, then nods slowly. "I know I haven't been as helpful as I should be. These client meetings, the travel. I hate leaving you alone with everything.”
"You're building your business. I understand.”
"But you're my priority. You and Eva." His thumb traces along my jawline. "I love you, Claire. I love our little family. I want to make sure you're okay.”
The tenderness in his voice undoes something tight in my chest. When was the last time we just talked like this? When was the last time he looked at me like I was more than just Eva's caregiver or another person making demands on his schedule?
"I love you too," I whisper.
He leans down and kisses me, soft and gentle at first, then deeper when I respond.
His hands slide up to cup my face, and for a moment I forget about everything else.
The paranoia, the doubts, the growing list of things that don't make sense.
There's just Adam and the familiar comfort of being wanted, being cherished.
We kiss like we used to before Eva was born, when our biggest worry was whether to order Thai food or pizza for dinner. His hands tangle in my hair, and I press closer to him, desperate for this connection, this reminder that we're still us underneath all the chaos of new parenthood .
"God, I've missed this," he murmurs against my lips. "I've missed you.”
"Me too," I breathe.
He kisses me again, and I can taste the wine he had with dinner, can feel the slight roughness of his stubble against my skin. His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer, and I remember what it felt like to be desired instead of just needed.
"Eva's asleep," he says, his voice low and hopeful.
I nod suddenly wanting nothing more than to lose myself in him, to forget about everything except the way he makes me feel when he looks at me like this. Like I'm beautiful instead of exhausted. Like I'm his wife instead of just the woman who takes care of his daughter.
We move toward the bedroom together, his arm around my shoulders, and for the first time in weeks I feel like maybe everything might be okay. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed and sleep-deprived. Maybe Adam is right and I need to stop overthinking everything.
Maybe we can get back to being the couple we were before doubt crept in and made me question everything I thought I knew.
The baby monitor hums beside our bed, its green light pulsing steadily in the darkness.
Adam sleeps deeply next to me afterward, one arm thrown across his pillow, his face peaceful in the way that only comes with true contentment.
The digital clock reads 2:17 AM when I finally drift off, my body heavy with the exhaustion that's become my constant companion and the lingering warmth of being close to my husband again.
Then I hear it. A baby's scream, sharp and shrill, cutting through the quiet house like a knife.
But it's not coming from the monitor.
I find myself standing in a dimly lit hospital hallway, the familiar antiseptic smell filling my nostrils.
The floors are polished linoleum that reflects the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, creating an endless tunnel of white and gray.
I'm wearing a hospital gown, the thin cotton rough against my skin, and my feet are bare on the cold tile.
My stomach feels strange. Heavy and tender, like the postpartum swelling I remember from after Eva was born, but also empty. Phantom aches pulse through my abdomen with each step.
The hallway stretches ahead of me, identical doors on either side marked with numbers I can't quite focus on. The lighting flickers occasionally, casting moving shadows that make everything feel unstable, dreamlike.
A woman's voice echoes from somewhere ahead, raw with desperation:
"You can't take her! That's my baby!"
I move toward the sound, my bare feet slipping slightly on the waxed floor.
The walls seem to press closer with each step, painted that institutional green that's supposed to be calming but only makes me feel nauseous.
Framed motivational posters hang at regular intervals: "Every Journey Begins With A Single Step" over a photo of footprints in sand.
Another scream pierces the air. This time it's definitely a baby, high-pitched and terrified in a way that makes my chest tighten with instinctive panic.
I turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a woman in scrubs wheeling a bassinet rapidly away from me. Her shoes squeak against the linoleum as she moves, the sound echoing off the walls. The bassinet rocks slightly with her quick pace, and I can see a tiny hand reaching up from inside it.
I try to run after them, but my limbs feel sluggish, like I'm moving underwater. Each step takes tremendous effort, as if the air around me has thickened to syrup. The harder I try to move, the slower I become.
The woman in scrubs disappears around another corner, taking the bassinet with her. The baby's cries fade to an echo, then to nothing.
Suddenly, a clipboard appears in my hands. Heavy and official, with forms attached by a metal clip. I look down at the papers, trying to focus on the words, but they swim and blur on the page. At the bottom, I can make out my own name written in block letters: CLAIRE MATTHEWS.
Below it, my signature, but I don't remember writing it. The pen strokes look rushed, shaky, as if written by someone in distress or under pressure .
"It's all taken care of now," someone whispers behind me.
The voice is soft, almost gentle, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin crawl. Something satisfied. Pleased.
I spin around, the clipboard clutched against my chest.
The hallway is empty. Just more polished tile and flickering fluorescent lights stretching into infinity.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. My nightgown is soaked with sweat, clinging to my skin like a second layer. The dream felt more real than most of my waking hours lately. Every detail is crystal clear in a way that memories usually aren't.
Eva is crying in the next room, her voice carrying through the baby monitor. But something about the sound makes me freeze.
The cry is different. Not her usual fussy whimper or hungry wail. This is higher-pitched, sharper, almost desperate. Like the baby's scream from my dream.
I grab the flashlight I keep on my nightstand and rush to the nursery, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The room is dark except for the soft glow of the nightlight, casting everything in shadows and pale yellow light.
Eva is awake in her crib, her tiny fists waving in the air as she cries. I pick her up carefully, supporting her head the way the nurses taught me, and shine the flashlight gently across her face.
I study her features in the white LED light. The shape of her cheeks, still round with baby fat. Her eyes, squeezed shut with crying but fringed with dark lashes. The tiny dimple in her chin that Adam says she got from his side of the family.
I stare longer than I mean to, searching for something I can't name.
"Why does she look different in the dark?" I whisper to the empty room.
It's a ridiculous question. Babies look different in different lighting, from different angles. They change constantly in those first weeks, their features settling into more defined shapes. But something about her face in the flashlight beam makes me feel like I'm looking at a stranger.
I settle into the rocking chair with Eva, cradling her against my chest. The familiar weight of her should be comforting, should anchor me to reality, but instead it feels foreign. Like I'm holding someone else's child.
My voice cracks when I speak. "You're mine, right?"
Eva keeps crying softly, her tiny body trembling with each sob. The sound echoes off the nursery walls, mixing with the white noise machine and the distant hum of the air conditioning.
I rock her gently, the way I've done dozens of times before, and repeat it quieter. "You're mine."
Suddenly, Eva stops crying .
Her lips curl into a smile. Wide and open and beautiful, the kind of expression that should fill me with joy. Her eyes are still closed, but her whole face transforms with that single expression.
I freeze in the rocking chair, my breath caught in my throat.
"Have you ever smiled like that before?" I whisper.
The question hangs in the air between us. I should know the answer. I should remember every smile, every expression, every tiny milestone. I'm her mother. I should have a catalog of these moments burned into my memory.
But I don't know. I can't remember if she's smiled like this before, or if this is the first time, or if maybe she's been smiling like this all along and I just haven't been paying attention.
The uncertainty terrifies me more than anything else that's happened. A mother should know her own baby's expressions. A mother should recognize her child's cries, should be able to distinguish between hunger and tiredness and discomfort with absolute certainty.
I hold Eva close, pressing my face against the soft fuzz of her hair, trying to memorize her weight, her warmth, her scent. I need these physical sensations to anchor me to the truth, to prove to myself that she's real and mine and exactly where she belongs.
But I can't stop thinking about that voice in the hallway. The clipboard with my signature that I didn't remember writing. The woman in scrubs wheeling away a bassinet while someone screamed that it was their baby.
"It's all taken care of now."
The words echo in my mind as I rock Eva back to sleep, her breathing gradually slowing and deepening against my chest. What was taken care of? What needed to be arranged or fixed or managed?
And why can't I remember signing anything?
Eva's smile fades as she drifts off, her face returning to the peaceful blankness of infant sleep. I sit in the dark nursery for a long time after she settles, holding her and trying to separate dream from memory, fiction from reality.
But the boundaries keep blurring, and I'm no longer sure there's a difference between them.