Page 7 of The Other Mother

Eva cries for three hours straight. I try everything I can think of.

I sing lullabies my mother used to sing to me when I was small and afraid of the dark.

I tell her stories about the ocean we used to live near, about the sound of waves and seagulls and foghorns that meant safety.

I even try reading to her from the novel I've been attempting to write for the past two years. It’s about a woman who keeps noticing small issues in her life, like tags that don’t match, a stroller that’s the wrong color, until she starts to wonder if she’s misremembering her own life.

But nothing works. She cries until she's exhausted, until her face is red and her tiny fists are clenched like she's fighting something I can't see.

Finally, at 3:17 AM according to the clock on the cable box, she stops mid-sob and falls asleep so suddenly it's like someone flipped a switch. I sit frozen in the chair, afraid to move and wake her, afraid to breathe too loudly and start the whole cycle again.

I lower her carefully into the bassinet and collapse onto the couch. The baby monitor sits on the coffee table, its green light glowing softly in the dark. Static hums through the speaker, the familiar white noise that's supposed to be comforting but always sounds vaguely ominous to me.

I close my eyes and try to let the exhaustion pull me under. But just as I'm drifting toward sleep, the static crackles louder.

I open my eyes and stare at the monitor. The sound is different now. Sharper. Like someone adjusting the frequency on an old radio, trying to tune in a clearer signal.

And then I hear it.

A woman's voice.

It's garbled and distorted, like it's coming from underwater or through layers of interference. But it's definitely a voice. Human. Female. Speaking words I can't quite make out.

I sit up so fast my vision blurs. The monitor continues its soft static, the green light steady and innocent. But I know what I heard. I lean forward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Hello?" I whisper.

Nothing. Just the gentle hiss of white noise.

I grab my phone and open the voice recorder app. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it twice. I hold it close to the monitor and press record, sitting in absolute stillness.

The static continues, steady and unremarkable. I wait for the voice to come back, for whatever signal I picked up to repeat itself. But there's nothing. Just the electronic whisper of empty air.

After five minutes, I stop recording and play it back. My own breathing fills the room, amplified and harsh. The static sounds exactly like static. White noise. Nothing more.

I fast-forward through the recording, cranking the volume as high as it will go. Still nothing but the sound of my own desperate breathing and the electronic hum of the monitor.

But I know what I heard.

I rewind and play it again. And again. I hold the phone to my ear and close my eyes, straining to catch any hint of the voice that was so clear just minutes ago.

Nothing.

"Say it again," I whisper to the monitor.

The static hisses softly, unchanged. Eva stirs in her bassinet but doesn't wake. Her breathing is even and peaceful, completely at odds with the hours of crying that preceded this sudden calm.

I stare at the monitor, willing it to repeat whatever I heard. Willing the voice to come back so I can prove to myself that I'm not losing my mind completely. But it remains stubbornly silent, offering nothing but the electronic white noise that fills every room in every house where babies sleep.

Maybe Adam is right. Maybe I'm spiraling, reading meaning into random sounds because I'm so desperate to find answers to questions that don't have answers. Maybe sleep deprivation has finally pushed me over the edge into full-blown hallucinations.

But the voice felt real. More real than anything else in this desert house that still doesn't feel like home.

I save the recording to my phone, even though it captured nothing. Evidence of my deteriorating mental state, maybe. Or proof that something is happening that I don't understand yet.

The clock on the cable box shows 3:42 AM.

In a few hours, Adam will wake up and go to his meeting and I'll be alone again with Eva and the questions that multiply faster than I can answer them.

He'll ask if I slept, and I'll lie and say I did, because the truth is too complicated and he's already decided I need professional help.

I stand up and walk to Eva's bassinet. She looks so peaceful in sleep, so perfect and innocent. Her dark hair is starting to curl at the ends, and her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. She's beautiful. Any mother would be lucky to have her.

I lean closer and whisper, "What did she say about you?"

No answer. Just the soft sound of her breathing, steady and rhythmic. Normal.

I reach for the monitor to turn it off, but as my finger touches the power button, the static continues for two more seconds before going silent.

Two seconds of sound from a device that should have been instantly quiet.

Two seconds that prove I'm not imagining everything.