Chương 8
"I don't know."
I stood up.
"Then we need to find out."
Michael looked at me.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Claire."
"What?"
"Emma is here."
I stopped.
Because he was right.
The room immediately felt different.
Our daughter was not a mystery to solve.
She was a person.
A person sleeping ten feet away while we chased answers about the day she was born.
I lowered my voice.
"We don't do anything that affects her."
Michael nodded.
"I agree."
"But we stop pretending nothing is happening."
"I agree."
It was strange.
After everything.
After the secrets.
After the anger.
That was the first thing we agreed on all day.
The next morning, Emma's condition had improved enough that she was moved from emergency observation to a regular pediatric room.
The change should have felt like progress.
Instead, it felt temporary.
Like we were being given a small piece of normal before someone took it away.
A nurse brought in breakfast.
Emma looked at the tray.
"Is this supposed to be food?"
I laughed quietly.
The nurse smiled.
"Hospital food has a reputation."
"It tastes like my school cafeteria."
"That bad?"
Emma nodded seriously.
The nurse laughed and left.
For a few minutes, we were just a family in a hospital room.
No records.
No missing documents.
No strangers making decisions.
Just Emma complaining about scrambled eggs.
I wanted to hold onto that moment.
But my phone vibrated.
Karen Ellis.
I answered immediately.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Johnson?"
"Yes."
"I reviewed the archive request."
My stomach tightened.
"What did you find?"
"I found the original attachment."
Michael moved closer.
"And?"
Karen hesitated.
"The document was not a birth certificate amendment."
I exhaled slightly.
"Then what was it?"
"A hospital internal correction form."
I looked at Michael.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the original birth record was not changed."
The relief came quickly.
Then disappeared.
"Then why did you say it changed responsibility?"
"Because the correction form modified information connected to the birth record."
"What information?"
Karen was quiet.
"The attending physician section."
I frowned.
"Why does that matter?"
"Because the physician listed on the original delivery record and the physician listed on the correction form are different people."
Michael leaned forward.
"Who signed the correction?"
Karen paused.
Then she said a name.
I watched Michael's face.
The color disappeared.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"I know that name."
My stomach dropped.
"Who is it?"
Michael did not answer.
Karen spoke again.
"The physician was Dr. Alan Mercer."
The name meant nothing to me.
But Michael reacted like it meant everything.
"Michael."
He stood up.
"I need to call you back."
He ended the call before Karen could respond.
I stared at him.
"Who is Alan Mercer?"
He rubbed his face.
"I have heard the name before."
"From your mother?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Michael walked to the window.
"My mother had a letter."
"What letter?"
"I never read all of it."
"Why not?"
He looked embarrassed.
Not guilty.
Embarrassed.
Because sometimes people hide things not because they are protecting themselves from consequences.
Sometimes they hide them because they are ashamed they don't understand them.
"It was after Emma was born."
"What did it say?"
"I don't remember everything."
"Try."
He looked at me.
"There was something about a disagreement."
"Between who?"
"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"I know."
This time I almost interrupted.
Then stopped.
Because his voice was different.
He wasn't avoiding.
He was trying.
"Tell me what you remember."
Michael sat down.
"My mother was upset."
"About what?"
"About how things were handled after Emma was born."
"What things?"
"I don't know."
I waited.
He continued.
"She mentioned Dr. Mercer."
"Who was he?"
"Someone involved with the hospital."
"Your mother knew him?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why was she writing about him?"
"I don't know."
I looked away.
The pattern was exhausting.
Not because the answers were missing.
Because every answer created another question.
A doctor.
A correction form.
A hidden consultation.
A family member who knew something before we did.
Emma moved in the bed.
We both stopped talking.
She opened her eyes.
"Are you fighting again?"
"No," I said.
Michael answered at the same time.
"Yes."
We looked at each other.
Emma blinked.
Then she smiled faintly.
"That was not helpful."
I covered my face for a second.
Michael actually laughed.
Quietly.
It was the first time I heard him laugh since the school called.
Emma looked between us.
"You're both weird."
"Probably," I said.
She closed her eyes again.
"Can I go home soon?"
The question changed everything.
Because it reminded me that there was a life waiting outside this room.
A house.
A school.
A backpack by the front door.
A world that had continued while ours stopped.
"We're working on it," I said.
She nodded.
"Okay."
A few minutes later, Dr. Harris entered.
He had a tablet in his hand.
"I have an update."
The tone made me sit straighter.
"Emma's latest results are encouraging."
I let myself breathe.
"But we need to discuss something else."
Of course.
I almost hated myself for expecting it.
"What?"
"We received additional records from the archive review."
Michael and I exchanged a look.
"About what?" I asked.
"About the prenatal consultation."
My fingers curled around the blanket.
"Did you find out who requested it?"
Dr. Harris looked at the tablet.
"No."
The answer surprised me.
"Then what did you find?"
He hesitated.
"The consultation was not entered under your name."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"It was entered under Emma's file."
"That's normal, isn't it?"
"Not exactly."
"Why?"
"Because the consultation occurred before Emma had a medical record."
The room went silent.
Michael looked confused.
"Then whose record was it attached to?"
Dr. Harris turned the tablet around.
There was an old patient identifier.
A number.
A name.
Not mine.
Not Michael's.
Not Emma's.
A name I had never seen before.
But Michael had.
Because the moment he read it, he stood completely still.
May you like
"That's impossible."
I looked at him.
