Page 22 of The Other Mother
BLACKED OUT
T he mail comes at ten-thirty every morning, delivered by a postal worker who drives too fast down our street. I've started timing my days around it, feeding Eva at ten, then waiting by the front window and watching for the familiar white truck like I’m at a stakeout.
Today, there's something different in the mailbox.
Along with the usual stack of credit card offers and grocery store circulars, there's a thick manila envelope, creased and worn like it's been handled by multiple people.
The return address makes my stomach lurch: Coachella Valley Medical Center, Records Division.
I requested these weeks ago, back when I still thought documentation would give me clarity instead of more questions. My hands shake as I tear open the envelope, the paper making a sound like breaking bones.
Inside is a stack of hospital documents, at least twenty pages thick. The top sheet has my name printed in bold letters: Patient: Claire Matthews, DOB: 03/22/1991 . For a moment, I feel a surge of relief. Proof. Evidence. Something concrete to anchor me to reality.
Then I turn the page, and my heart sinks.
Entire sections are covered in thick black bars, like someone took a marker and systematically erased half my life.
Vitals blacked out. Staff notes obliterated.
Room logs invisible under heavy redaction marks.
Even timestamps, the most basic information about when things happened, are hidden behind impenetrable black bars.
REDACTED – LEGAL PRIVILEGE
REDACTED – SEALED BY COUNSEL
The phrases repeat like a mantra across page after page. Ten pages, thirteen, seventeen. At the top of the first page, a yellow sticky note in handwriting I don't recognize: Per your request. Additional items pending legal review.
"Legal?" I whisper to the empty hallway. "Why would my own medical records need legal review?"
I carry the stack to the kitchen table and spread the pages out like I'm trying to solve a puzzle.
Eva is napping in her bassinet nearby, making those soft little sounds that should comfort me but somehow don't. The desert sun streams through our windows, harsh and unforgiving, turning everything in the room into sharp contrasts of light and shadow.
Before I dive deeper into the medical records, I need something normal. Something that will remind me I'm still a real person with a real life, not just a collection of redacted documents and suspicious circumstances.
I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, everything else makes me too jittery, and sit at the breakfast bar where Adam and I used to eat together when we first moved here.
Back then, we'd talk about his projects, about the novel I was going to finish, about how different our lives would be once the baby came.
These were hopeful conversations that feel like they happened between different people from who we are now.
Adam's been working longer hours lately, coming home after Eva's already asleep.
Last night, he'd tried to make dinner for us.
It was something he used to do when we were dating, back when cooking for me felt romantic instead of obligatory.
He'd made his signature pasta dish, the one that impressed me on our third date, but neither of us could finish it.
The silence between us was too heavy, filled with all the things we weren't saying.
"I miss talking to you," I'd finally said, pushing food around my plate.
"We're talking now," he'd replied, but his eyes were on his phone, scrolling through work emails even during dinner.
"I mean really talking. Like we used to."
He'd looked up then, and for a moment I saw something raw in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Claire. You ask me questions I can't answer about things I don't understand. You see conspiracies in everything. I'm doing my best here."
"Are you?" The words had come out sharper than I intended. "Because it feels like you're avoiding me. Like you're waiting for me to get better so you can stop pretending to care."
The hurt that flashed across his face was real, and I'd immediately regretted saying it. But I couldn't take it back, and we'd finished dinner in silence.
Now, sitting alone with these redacted records, I wonder if he's right. Maybe I am seeing conspiracies where none exist. Maybe I'm the problem.
But then I return to page six, and everything changes.
Under a section labeled "Other Deliveries — Night Shift," most of the text is blacked out like everything else. But one line, somehow missed by whoever wielded the redaction marker, remains visible:
Mother: Mara V ? —————
The rest of her last name is covered, but it's enough. My heart stops, then starts beating so hard I can hear it in my ears. Mara was there. She delivered a baby the same night I did.
With shaking hands, I circle the line, the ink from my pen smearing slightly on the cheap paper. This isn't paranoia. This isn't sleep deprivation or postpartum anxiety. This is proof that Mara and I were connected in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
I flip through the remaining pages frantically. On page eight, I notice something faint in the upper right corner. It’s not printed text, but a watermark visible only when I tilt the paper toward the light.
Property of Coachella Valley Medical – Legal Review Copy
Legal review. They didn't redact my file to protect my privacy. They redacted it to protect themselves.
The last page is mostly blank, just a few scattered lines of text that somehow escaped the black marker. I'm about to set it aside when I notice something written in faint pencil along the bottom margin, turned sideways like someone was trying to hide it:
"Signed under sedation – verified by admin nurse – see intake form 2A."
I search through the entire stack twice, then a third time. There is no Form 2A in the envelope. Whatever I signed while sedated, whatever an admin nurse verified, it's been removed entirely.
I circle the penciled note three times, pressing so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper.
"What else did they hide?" I whisper to the empty kitchen.
I hear the door open and close quietly. But not the usual way Adam slams it when he’s annoyed.
A moment later, his voice, low, coming from the backyard.
I slip closer to the sliding door, careful not to make a sound .
“She’s starting to put things together,” I hear him say.
A pause. A soft laugh that doesn’t sound amused.
“I’m handling it. No, she doesn’t remember the form.”
Another pause. My heart hammers in my ears.
“We’ll keep her stable. That’s the goal.”
He ends the call. The patio door slides shut behind him. I run back to before he can see me.
When he walks in, I'm waiting for him at the kitchen table. The redacted forms are spread out in front of me like evidence at a crime scene, black bars creating a landscape of secrets.
"We need to talk," I say before he can even set down his keys.
He sees the papers and his shoulders sag. "Claire ... "
"They redacted my file. My own medical records. And Mara's name is in there." I point to the circled line. "Explain that."
Adam sits down across from me, suddenly looking older than his thirty-six years. "It's probably just because you requested them. That's why they mark everything legal review. You're not being singled out."
"And what about this?" I slide the last page toward him, pointing to the penciled note. "Why would someone write 'signed under sedation' on my file if this is all normal procedure? "
He stares at the handwriting for a long moment, and I watch something shift in his expression. Recognition? Fear? I can't tell.
"Claire, you need to stop this."
"Stop what? Asking questions about my own medical care?"
"Stop trying to create mysteries where none exist. You had a difficult birth. You were in pain, you were scared, you signed standard medical forms. That's all this is."
But there's something in his voice, a careful quality that makes me lean forward. “I lost a baby before Eva.”
Adam goes very still.
"What?"
"Before Eva. I lost a baby."
He's quiet for too long. When he finally speaks, his voice is carefully measured. “You and I know that already. You had a miscarriage at six weeks, but that was years ago. With Marcus, before we were even together. That's not the same as this. You weren't even sure you were pregnant then."
The way he says it, like he's reciting lines from a script, makes my skin crawl.
"Stop trying to create ghosts, Claire. You're scaring yourself with shadows."
I stare at him across the table, at this man I've loved for five years, and realize I don't know him at all. Or maybe I don't know myself.
After he goes to bed, I sit alone in the kitchen with the redacted records spread around me like tarot cards revealing a future I can't quite see. The house is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and Eva's soft breathing through the baby monitor.
I stare at the blacked-out sections on the paperwork. Maybe, I’m not making up ghosts. Maybe, they’re the only ones telling me the truth.