Page 17 of The Other Mother

A NAME ON A HEADSTONE

T he afternoon heat shimmers off the asphalt as I drive slowly through the quiet residential neighborhood three miles from our house.

I wasn't planning to be here, wasn't planning to follow anyone, but when I saw Mara walking down Mesquite Avenue with a small bundle of flowers clutched in her hand, something compelled me to pull over and trail behind her.

My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have gone white.

Eva is at home with Adam, who came back early from his meetings to give me a break.

He thinks I'm running errands at Target, picking up diapers and Aquaphor.

Instead, I'm thirty yards behind a woman who may hold the key to everything that's been unraveling in my life.

Mara walks with purpose, her dark hair catching the desert sun as she moves past a strip mall with a nail salon and a sandwich shop.

She's wearing the same style clothes as always, jeans and a plain t-shirt that could belong to anyone.

But there's something different about her posture today, something determined and sad that makes my chest tighten with anticipation.

She passes a small white church with a bell tower and turns onto a dirt path between two wrought iron gates.

The gates are open, their black paint chipped and faded by years of desert weather.

Beyond them, I can see weathered headstones and the distinctive twisted branches of creosote bushes scattered across the brown earth.

A cemetery.

I park my car on the street and get out, my legs shaky from adrenaline.

The sun beats down mercilessly, and I can already feel sweat beginning to form along my hairline.

I stay low behind a line of oleander hedges that separate the cemetery from the sidewalk, their pink flowers wilted from the heat.

Through the gaps in the hedge, I watch Mara walk deeper into the cemetery.

Her footsteps crunch on the gravel path that winds between the graves.

There's no one else around, just the low hum of traffic from the main road and the distant sound of a landscaping crew working somewhere beyond the fence.

The cemetery is small and obviously old, with headstones dating back to the early 1900s when this valley was nothing but desert and date palm groves.

Some of the markers are elaborate granite monuments, while others are simple concrete slabs weathered smooth by decades of sandstorms and flash floods.

Desert plants grow wild between the graves, barrel cacti, palo verde trees, and the ever-present creosote that can survive anywhere.

Mara stops at a small grave marker beneath a particularly large creosote bush.

The bush provides some shade, its tiny yellow flowers creating a natural canopy over the modest headstone below.

She kneels in the dirt, seemingly unbothered by the rocks and thorns, and places the flowers she's been carrying against the base of the marker.

From my hiding spot behind the hedge, I can't make out what she's saying, but her lips are moving. She stays in that position for what feels like forever, her head bowed as if in prayer. The sun beats down on both of us, but she doesn't seem to notice the heat.

I crouch behind a cracked stone angel that marks someone's grave from 1923.

Finally, Mara stands. She brushes the dirt from her knees and takes one last look at the grave before walking slowly back toward the entrance. As she passes my hiding place, she glances over her shoulder, and for a heart-stopping second, I swear our eyes meet through the hedge.

But she doesn't stop. She doesn't call out or confront me. She just continues walking, her footsteps fading on the gravel path until I hear the cemetery gate clang shut behind her .

I wait another thirty seconds, counting my heartbeats, before I rush forward.

My sandals slip on the loose gravel, and I nearly fall twice as I make my way to the grave where Mara was kneeling.

The flowers she left are simple white daisies, the kind you can buy at any grocery store, already beginning to wilt in the brutal desert heat.

The grave is small. A child's grave.

I drop to my knees and brush dirt and dust from the inscription with my shaking hands. The headstone is made of pink granite, the kind that's popular in desert cemeteries because it doesn't fade as quickly in the relentless sun. The engraving is clear and deep, obviously recent work.

The words make my blood run cold:

Evelyn Grace

Born & Died September 3rd, 2024

The date matches Eva's birthday exactly. Down to the day, the month, the year.

But it's the middle name that makes me feel like I'm falling into a void. Grace is my mother’s name, the one I’ve saved for years, and the second half of the name we chose first—Evelyn Grace—before we settled on Eva.

I stumble backward, my hand flying to my chest as if I can physically hold my heart inside my ribcage. "This is a mistake," I whisper to the empty cemetery. "This can't be real."

But the engraving is fresh, the edges of the letters sharp and clean. This headstone was carved recently, maybe within the last few weeks. I run my trembling fingers along the lettering, feeling the smooth granite and the precise cuts that spell out this impossible name.

My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground beside the grave. The gravel bites into my skin through my thin pants, but I barely notice the discomfort. All I can focus on is the name carved into the stone in front of me.

Evelyn Grace.

Who is this Evelyn Grace? Why does she share my mother's name, my daughter's birthday?

And why is she buried here, in this small desert cemetery?

The questions spiral through my mind. I think about the hospital photos and the blankets and the missing birthmark.

And now this. A grave with a name that should belong to my daughter, carved into stone that proves someone believed Evelyn Grace existed and died.

I hear Mara's words from that first day in the hospital parking lot, words that have haunted me for weeks: "That baby isn't yours. You know that, don't you?"

The desert wind picks up, sending dust devils dancing between the headstones and making the creosote bush above me rustle like whispers. The white daisies Mara left are already browning at the edges, another fragile thing dying in the unforgiving heat.

I pull out my phone with shaking hands and take photos of the headstone from every angle. The camera clicks repeatedly as I document this evidence, this proof of something I can't yet understand but know is vitally important.

As I stand to leave, my legs unsteady beneath me, one final question rises above all the others. A question that makes me feel like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into an abyss I might never climb out of.