Lucas refused to come with me.
He stood near the front door while I put on my coat, his face pale and his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
“You shouldn't go there,” he said.
I turned.
“Why?”
“Because you're still recovering.”
“I can sit in a car.”
“You don't know what you'll find.”
“That is exactly why I'm going.”
He lowered his voice.
“What if there's nothing?”
I looked at him.
“What if there is?”
He had no answer.
I left without him.
Brenda came with me.
Neither of us spoke during the drive.
Saint Vincent Memorial looked exactly as I remembered it and completely different at the same time. The automatic doors opened with a soft hiss. The lobby smelled of disinfectant, coffee, and the faint sweetness of flowers someone had left near the reception desk.
I had walked through those doors expecting to leave with my newborn daughter.
I had left without her.
The receptionist asked how she could help.
“I need the records from a delivery two weeks ago.”
She asked for my name.
I gave it.
Then Melanie's.
The receptionist typed.
Her expression changed.
“Are you the mother?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the screen again.
“Do you have identification?”
I handed it over.
She made a copy.
Then she called someone.
A few minutes later, a woman in navy scrubs approached us.
Her badge read MARA ELLIS — RN.
I knew her face.
Not clearly.
But something inside me recognized her.
“You were there,” I said.
She stopped.
“Yes.”
“On the night my daughter was born.”
Mara glanced at Brenda.
Then back at me.
“I was on duty.”
“I need to ask you something.”
Her mouth tightened.
“About Melanie?”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
“I can answer questions about the records.”
“I don't want the records.”
I leaned closer.
“I want to know what happened to my daughter.”
Mara's expression became guarded.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
Her eyes flickered.
“I've spoken with your husband.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“After the delivery.”
“What did he ask?”
She hesitated.
“About the nursery.”
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
“Why?”
“He wanted to know where the baby had been taken.”
“Which baby?”
“Melanie.”
My breath caught.
“You knew her name?”
“It was on the chart.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Alive?”
Mara's face changed.
“Yes.”
The word was quiet.
But it struck me like a physical blow.
“When?”
“After the emergency delivery.”
“Did she breathe?”
Mara looked at me.
“Yes.”
Brenda made a small sound beside me.
I could barely speak.
“You're saying my daughter was alive?”
“For a period of time.”
“How long?”
“I can't discuss details without the medical records.”
“You just told me she was alive.”
“I told you what I personally observed.”
“Did she die?”
Mara looked toward the hallway.
“I wasn't present for every stage of her care.”
That wasn't an answer.
“Who was?”
“Another nurse.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
“Lena Morris.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“When was she last on duty?”
Mara looked at the floor.
“I can't say.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know.”
I knew then that she was hiding something.
Not necessarily something terrible.
But something.
I took out the folded paper.
“Do you recognize this?”
Her eyes landed on the handwriting.
She didn't touch it.
Her face went pale.
“Where did you get that?”
“Does it mean anything?”
She looked at me.
“It was written in the hallway.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Lucas?”
She didn't answer.
That was enough.
I folded the paper again.
“What's 4-17?”
Mara's eyes widened.
Then she stepped back.
“I can't talk about this here.”
“Then where?”
She looked toward the security desk.
“Outside.”
We walked through a side exit into the parking lot.
The afternoon air was cooler than I expected.
Mara stood with her arms folded.
“I shouldn't be telling you this.”
“Then don't tell me anything you aren't allowed to.”
She looked at me.
“But tell me what you can.”
She took a breath.
“The night your daughter was born, there was confusion in the nursery.”
“What kind?”
“Two infants were being moved between rooms.”
I felt my heart hammering.
“Why?”
“One was your daughter.”
“And the other?”
“I believe it was Nora's daughter.”
Clara.
Mara nodded.
“Nora had arrived earlier.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she give Lucas money?”
Mara looked startled.
“No.”
“Did Lucas give her money?”
“I saw an envelope.”
My fingers curled.
“What happened?”
“I don't know what was inside.”
“Toby says it was cash.”
Mara looked away.
“He may have seen more than he should have.”
I felt sick.
“What did Lucas do?”
“He asked about the baby's identification.”
“Which baby?”
“Yours.”
“Why?”
“He was worried.”
“About what?”
Mara hesitated.
“The bracelet.”
My chest tightened.
“What about it?”
“There had been a concern about the labels.”
“What concern?”
“I can't say.”
“Please.”
She closed her eyes.
“The numbers didn't match what your husband expected.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone noticed a discrepancy.”
“Was Melanie's bracelet wrong?”
Mara opened her eyes.
“I don't know.”
“Was another baby's bracelet wrong?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
She swallowed.
“I know Lucas was given a number.”
“Which number?”
“Eight.”
My breath stopped.
The paper.
Nursery — 8.
“What does eight mean?”
“A nursery station.”
“Where was it?”
“Second floor.”
“Is that where Melanie was?”
“For a while.”
“And then?”
“I don't know.”
She stepped backward.
“I have to go.”
I caught her arm lightly.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“You said another nurse was there.”
“Yes.”
“Lena Morris.”
“Yes.”
“Why can't I find her?”
Mara's expression hardened.
“Because she stopped working here.”
“When?”
“The day after the delivery.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
She pulled her arm away.
“I am telling you what I can.”
Then she walked back inside.
Brenda and I stood in silence.
“She was scared,” Brenda said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at the hospital.
“Because she knows something.”
We went to medical records.
The clerk printed the documents I was legally entitled to receive.
I flipped through them in the waiting area.
Delivery notes.
Medication records.
Surgery notes.
Discharge summary.
Then I stopped.
There was a gap.
The neonatal care section jumped from 2:14 a.m. to 3:02 a.m.
Forty-eight minutes were missing.
I turned the pages.
Nothing.
“Brenda.”
She leaned closer.
“What?”
“There should be something here.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
But I knew who might.
I called Lucas.
He answered on the second ring.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
Silence.
Then:
“Come home.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want you finding out this way.”
I stood.
“What way?”
He breathed shakily.
“The records won't tell you everything.”
My hand tightened around the papers.
“Then you will.”
Another silence.
“Lucas?”
“I need to tell you what happened before you hear it from someone else.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened?”
His voice broke.
“I didn't know whether Melanie was alive when I left that hospital.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Lucas Finally Admitted What He Had Hidden From Me, but His Confession Raised a Worse Question About Who Had Held Our Daughter
Two Weeks After Burying My Newborn Daughter, I Found My Eight-Year-Old Hiding Money Away for a Reason That Made No Sense
Part 6 of 11
