The first thing that made me suspect something was wrong with Toby was not his silence. It was the glass jar.
He kept it on the corner of his bedroom desk, behind a stack of schoolbooks and an old plastic dinosaur with one missing leg. I had seen it there for months, usually holding loose change. After Melanie died, I stopped paying attention to almost everything that wasn't absolutely necessary. The jar became part of the room's furniture.
Then one afternoon, I heard coins rattling.
I stood in the doorway and watched my eight-year-old slide a folded dollar bill through the narrow opening in the lid. He looked over his shoulder before doing it, as though he were hiding something important.
“Toby.”
His hand froze.
He turned slowly. “Mom?”
“What are you putting in there?”
“Nothing.”
His fingers closed around the bill.
I walked toward him. He immediately pushed the jar farther away, but not before I picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. Coins shifted against the glass with a dull metallic scrape.
“Toby, why do you have so much money?”
He stared at the floor.
I knew that expression. It wasn't the guilty look he wore after breaking a lamp or sneaking cookies before dinner. There was no embarrassment in his face.
There was fear.
I sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
“Did somebody tell you to save money?”
He shook his head.
“Did you take it from somewhere?”
“No.”
“Then where did all this come from?”
He swallowed. “My birthday money. Lunch money. Some coins from Dad's car.”
I frowned. “You took money from your dad's car?”
“Just the coins.”
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
I looked down at the jar again. There were quarters, nickels, crumpled bills, and the fifty-dollar note his grandmother Brenda had given him for his birthday. That was the one thing that bothered me most. Toby had refused to spend that money on anything. He had carried it around in an envelope for weeks, saving it for a remote-control airplane he'd wanted since spring.
Now it was inside the jar.
“What are you saving for?” I asked.
His eyes lifted to mine.
“For Melanie.”
Everything inside me seemed to stop.
Our daughter had been dead for fourteen days.
Two weeks earlier, I had gone into Saint Vincent Memorial Hospital expecting to deliver a baby. Instead, I had woken from emergency surgery to a room without a crib beside the bed and a husband whose face looked as though someone had taken years from him overnight.
Melanie had been my third child and the baby I had spent months preparing for.
She never came home.
I had not held her. I had not heard her cry. I had not even seen her face clearly.
The doctors told me her heart rate had fallen dangerously before the surgery. They told me there had been complications. They told me she died before I regained consciousness.
Lucas repeated the same explanation whenever I asked.
“She was gone before they could save her.”
I had tried to believe him because the alternative was unbearable.
Now my son was telling me he was collecting money for her.
“Toby,” I said carefully, “you know Melanie died.”
His jaw tightened.
“She didn't.”
I couldn't speak for a moment.
He looked toward the bedroom door.
“Who told you that?”
“Dad.”
“Then why are you saying she didn't die?”
His eyes filled, but he didn't cry.
“Because I saw her.”
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
I leaned closer.
“When?”
“That night.”
“Toby, you were with Grandma Brenda.”
“I was.”
“You weren't in the delivery room.”
“I know.”
“Then what did you see?”
He rubbed his palms against his shorts. The movement was so nervous that I almost stopped questioning him.
Almost.
Instead, I asked, “Did you see Melanie?”
He nodded.
My heart began pounding.
“Tell me what you remember.”
He looked at the jar.
“I need money.”
“For what?”
“To get her back.”
The words were so simple that they hurt more than anything else could have.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Toby, money can't bring somebody back after they die.”
His expression changed.
Not confusion.
Not sadness.
Anger.
“Then why did Dad use money at the hospital?”
I opened my eyes.
“What money?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Dad gave some to a lady.”
“What lady?”
“The one near the elevators.”
I couldn't make sense of it.
Lucas had been with me that night. At least, that was what I believed. He had held my hand when the contractions became unbearable. He had spoken to the nurses. He had been there when they rushed me into surgery.
After that, my memories became scattered pieces.
Bright lights.
A mask over my face.
Someone telling me the baby's heart rate had dropped.
Lucas's fingers wrapped around mine.
Brenda taking Toby away because the doctors wouldn't let him stay near the operating area.
Then darkness.
I looked back at my son.
“What did Dad give her?”
“An envelope.”
“What was inside?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“How do you know?”
“She opened it.”
My mouth went dry.
“And then what happened?”
Toby hesitated.
“She took the baby.”
I stared at him.
“What baby?”
“The crying one.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Toby, what exactly did you see?”
He lowered his voice.
“The baby was wrapped in a blanket.”
I gripped the edge of the mattress.
“Did you see the baby's face?”
“No.”
“Did anyone say it was Melanie?”
“No.”
“Did Dad say it was Melanie?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it was her?”
“I don't.”
The answer should have relieved me.
Instead, it frightened me more.
Toby looked at the bedroom door again.
“That's why I need money.”
I reached for his hand.
He let me take it, but his fingers were stiff.
“What do you think you're going to do with the money?”
“Find her.”
“Where?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know yet.”
I pulled him against me.
For several seconds he resisted, then suddenly folded into my chest. His body shook once.
I held him tighter.
He whispered against my shoulder, “Mom, I think Dad gave her away.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Who?”
“The lady.”
“Who was she?”
Toby lifted his head.
“Aunt Nora.”
I stared at him.
Lucas's younger sister.
Nora.
She had been at the hospital that night, hadn't she?
I remembered seeing her earlier in the evening. I remembered someone mentioning that she had stopped by. But grief had blurred the hours together until they felt like one long, sleepless night.
“Nora has a baby,” I said.
Toby nodded.
“Clara.”
His voice was almost inaudible.
“Nora's baby was born a few weeks before Melanie.”
I looked toward the hallway.
Downstairs, I could hear water running.
Lucas was washing dishes.
He had been cleaning constantly since we came home from the hospital. Countertops. Floors. Laundry. Plates that were already clean.
Motion everywhere.
Grief nowhere.
I suddenly remembered how many times he had told me to rest while he handled everything.
How quickly he changed the subject whenever I asked about the hospital.
How he always seemed to know exactly what I remembered and what I didn't.
Toby squeezed my hand.
“Don't tell Dad I told you.”
I looked down at him.
“Why not?”
His answer came after a long pause.
“Because he looked sad when he did it.”
I didn't understand what that meant.
Not yet.
But for the first time since Melanie's death, I stopped asking myself how I was going to survive the next morning.
I started wondering what had actually happened before I woke up.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: My Son Finally Described the Night at the Hospital, and One Small Detail About His Father Made My Grief Turn Into Suspicion
Two Weeks After Burying My Newborn Daughter, I Found My Eight-Year-Old Hiding Money Away for a Reason That Made No Sense
Part 1 of 12
