Lucas did not answer my question.
He stood beside the kitchen table with his phone still in his hand, staring at me as if I had suddenly become someone he no longer recognized. The silence stretched long enough for the refrigerator motor to click off behind us.
“The woman in the blue shirt,” I repeated. “Who was she?”
Lucas lowered his phone.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“Toby saw her.”
His jaw tightened.
“Toby is eight.”
“So was I when I learned that adults sometimes lie by saying something isn't happening.”
He flinched.
I hadn't intended to say it that way. But once the words were out, I couldn't take them back.
Lucas pulled out a chair and sat down.
“She was a hospital employee.”
“What was her name?”
“I don't remember.”
“You remember enough to know she was an employee.”
“I remember people everywhere that night.”
“Did she give you a piece of paper?”
His eyes dropped.
That was answer enough.
I sat opposite him.
“What was on it?”
“Numbers.”
“What numbers?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said you don't remember.”
“I don't.”
“Then why did your face change when I asked?”
He rubbed his palms over his jeans.
“I was exhausted.”
“So was I.”
“I was terrified.”
“So was I.”
His eyes met mine.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said quietly, “The number was for the nursery.”
I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten.
“What nursery?”
“The hospital nursery.”
“Why would someone give you a number for the nursery?”
“Because I asked where they had taken the baby.”
I stared at him.
“Our baby?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“You were unconscious.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“I didn't know what to tell you.”
“You could have told me the truth.”
He looked away.
I pushed my chair back.
“What truth?”
Lucas didn't respond.
I stood.
“Lucas.”
He closed his eyes.
“I was told Melanie didn't make it.”
“By whom?”
“A doctor.”
“Which doctor?”
“I don't remember.”
“Was it Dr. Patel?”
He looked at me.
“How do you know that name?”
“It's on my discharge papers.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Patel told you?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
His voice dropped.
“She said there had been a loss.”
I waited.
“That's all?”
“She said Melanie was gone.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Did she show you our daughter?”
“No.”
“Did you hold her?”
“No.”
“Did you see her face?”
“No.”
The words landed one after another.
I had been told our daughter was dead.
Lucas had been told our daughter was dead.
Neither of us had seen her.
I sat again.
“Why didn't you ask to see her?”
His eyes filled.
“I couldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because I believed them.”
I wanted to accept that.
Part of me still did.
But something didn't fit.
If Melanie had died, where had she been taken?
If she had been taken to the nursery, why had Lucas been given a number?
And why had Nora been there?
I remembered the brown envelope.
“You gave Nora money.”
“Yes.”
“You told me it was for rent.”
“It was.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
“Five thousand.”
My heart sank.
“Five thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“For rent?”
“She owed money.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
“Lucas.”
“Several months.”
“And you happened to have five thousand dollars in cash at the hospital?”
“I had withdrawn it earlier.”
“Why?”
“For the hospital.”
“What hospital expense requires five thousand dollars in cash?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
That answer was impossible.
I stood again.
“You're lying.”
“I am not.”
“You've given me three different explanations in one morning.”
“I've been trying to remember.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You've been trying to decide what I can handle.”
He stared at me.
That silence hurt more than anger would have.
Then my phone rang.
It was Brenda.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Is Lucas there?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Don't argue with him.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“Just listen to me.”
“Brenda, what happened?”
“I need to come over.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“I found something.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What?”
“I don't want to say it over the phone.”
She hung up.
I looked at Lucas.
He had heard enough to understand.
“What did she find?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
He stood.
“I'll call her.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“You won't.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear it from her.”
Twenty minutes later, Brenda arrived carrying a small cardboard box.
She looked older than she had the day before.
Her eyes went immediately to Lucas.
Then to me.
“Where's Toby?”
“In his room.”
“Good.”
She placed the box on the table.
“What is that?”
“I found it in my car.”
Lucas stepped closer.
“Why was it in your car?”
“I didn't know it was there.”
She opened the lid.
Inside were papers, an old hospital visitor badge, and a folded sheet of paper.
I recognized the handwriting before I touched it.
Lucas's.
I picked it up.
There was one line written across the middle.
Nursery — 8.
Underneath it was a second number.
4-17.
I looked at Lucas.
“What is this?”
He said nothing.
Brenda sat down.
“I found it under the passenger seat.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Why were you looking?”
“I was cleaning.”
She looked at Lucas.
“And because I couldn't remember why I had kept that badge.”
She handed it to me.
It was a temporary visitor pass from Saint Vincent Memorial.
The date was the night Melanie was born.
My fingers went cold.
“Brenda,” I said, “why do you have this?”
She looked down.
“Because I was given it when I came back from getting coffee.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“I was upset.”
“Then why did you keep it?”
“I don't remember.”
Lucas stepped toward her.
“Mom.”
She looked up.
“I should have told her.”
He stopped.
“Told me what?”
Brenda's eyes filled.
“That night, after they took you into surgery, Lucas asked me to take Toby downstairs.”
I frowned.
“He said he needed privacy.”
“That doesn't sound strange.”
“It wasn't.”
“Then what?”
“He told me not to let Toby come back upstairs.”
I looked at Lucas.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Brenda's voice shook.
“But when I returned from coffee, Toby was gone.”
“What?”
“He wasn't in the chair.”
My heart lurched.
“Where was he?”
“I found him behind a plant near the elevators.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“I knew he'd been there.”
“And you never told me?”
“I thought he had wandered.”
“Did you see Nora?”
Brenda nodded.
“Yes.”
“With Clara?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“There was a baby.”
I looked at Lucas.
Brenda continued.
“I remember Nora carrying a baby wrapped in blue.”
My skin prickled.
“Was it Clara?”
“I assumed so.”
“Did you see her face?”
“No.”
I looked down at the paper again.
Nursery — 8.
4-17.
The second number looked familiar.
Not because I knew what it meant.
Because I had seen it somewhere.
I searched my memory.
Then I remembered.
The hospital bracelet.
Melanie's supposed admission number had ended in 417.
My breath caught.
“Lucas.”
He looked at me.
“What does 4-17 mean?”
He didn't answer.
Brenda covered her mouth.
“Lucas.”
He sat down.
His shoulders sagged.
“I don't know.”
But this time, I knew he was not telling the truth.
I folded the paper.
“You're coming with me.”
“Where?”
“Saint Vincent.”
His face changed.
I saw fear there again.
Not grief.
Fear.
And that was when I realized the question was no longer whether Toby had misunderstood what he saw.
The question was why my husband was terrified of me asking the hospital to tell me where my daughter had gone.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Hospital Record Had One Missing Page, and the Nurse Who Remembered That Night Would Not Look Me in the Eye
Two Weeks After Burying My Newborn Daughter, I Found My Eight-Year-Old Hiding Money Away for a Reason That Made No Sense
Part 5 of 12
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