Chương 7
“Investigate me.”
Elena slept for eleven hours.
Adrian slept for two.
He woke to find her sitting at the small kitchenette table in one of his T-shirts, staring at a paper cup of oatmeal as though it had personally disappointed her.
“You need to eat.”
“It turned solid.”
“Add water.”
“I resent that this is now my life.”
He took the cup, added water, stirred it, and put it back.
She watched his hands.
“Are they still together?”
“Yes.”
“The babies.”
“I know.”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“I called at five.”
“You called at four.”
“I also called at five.”
“Adrian.”
“Yes. They’re together.”
She ate one spoonful.
“They won’t let us see the girl.”
“They’re not letting Claire see her either.”
“That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He made coffee.
The room had one window overlooking a parking structure.
Elena stared through it for a while.
“Do you remember that coffee shop in Annapolis where you proposed?”
Adrian looked at her.
“That was not a coffee shop.”
“It sold coffee.”
“It was a restaurant.”
“It had laminated menus.”
“That doesn’t make it a coffee shop.”
“You proposed next to a ketchup bottle.”
“You said yes.”
“I was twenty-five.”
“Ancient history.”
She stirred the oatmeal again.
“I thought you were going to ask me to move to California.”
“I did ask that.”
“After.”
He leaned against the counter.
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
She looked down.
“I keep thinking about the first time you deployed after we got married.”
Adrian said nothing.
“You left me an emergency binder.”
He remembered.
Insurance information. Base contacts. Bank accounts. Power of attorney. A page labeled IF I AM MISSING.
Elena had mocked the tabs for weeks.
“I hated that thing,” she said.
“I know.”
“I also slept with it under the bed.”
That he had not known.
She looked at him.
“You made me feel like there was a procedure for everything.”
“There isn’t.”
“I know that now.”
The laboratory called at 1:17 that afternoon.
The girl was biologically consistent with Adrian and Elena Cole.
Probability of parentage exceeded the threshold the attorneys had demanded.
Their daughter was alive.
Adrian sat down on the floor.
He did not choose to.
His knees simply stopped participating.
Elena stood near the table with one hand pressed over her stitched shoulder.
The lawyer on speakerphone continued talking about confirmation, paperwork, emergency custody modification, medical authorization.
Elena said, “Stop.”
The lawyer stopped.
“She’s ours?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cole.”
Elena covered her mouth.
No sound came out.
Adrian stared at the ugly brown carpet between his shoes.
He had spent two days preparing for uncertainty.
He had not prepared for certainty.
Because certainty created a different horror.
Their daughter had not been confused with another baby by accident.
Someone had known.
Someone had renamed her.
Someone had looked at living parents and announced a death.
Elena lowered herself carefully beside him.
They sat on the floor without touching.
After a while Adrian said, “You were right.”
Elena wiped her face with the heel of her hand.
“I wish I wasn’t.”
He looked at her.
She leaned into him first.
He held her carefully around the uninjured side.
The twins returned to their custody that evening, but not to the lodging room.
Both still required neonatal monitoring.
They were transferred to an independent hospital chosen jointly by the court-appointed advocate and the Coles’ attorney.
Adrian and Elena spent the next week learning how to be parents in a room full of machines.
The boy desaturated when he became irritated.
The girl hated having her temperature taken.
Neither behaved like a symbol.
They slept, breathed, startled, digested milk badly, improved, regressed, and required more patience than either parent had expected.
Elena named the boy Noah.
They had chosen it months earlier.
The girl remained unnamed for four days.
Every name sounded too sentimental or too important.
Finally Elena said, “Sophie.”
Adrian looked up from a bottle.
“Why?”
“I like it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all a name needs.”
So she became Sophie Cole.
The hospital band marked BABY MERCER was removed only after police photographed it from every angle.
Elena asked to keep it.
The evidence technician refused.
She surprised herself by crying after he left.
“I hate that thing,” she said.
“I know.”
“I want it.”
“I know.”
Nothing about the investigation moved at the speed Adrian wanted.
Vivian Mercer hired counsel.
St. Catherine placed three employees on administrative leave, including Leah Ortiz.
The hospital issued a statement about “an ongoing review of neonatal identification procedures.”
Adrian read the sentence twice and threw his phone onto the couch.
Elena looked over.
“Careful. We’re down one already.”
He picked it back up.
Claire Mercer requested a meeting.
Elena refused.
Then accepted.
Then cancelled.
Then called the lawyer herself and rescheduled.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she told Adrian.
“You don’t have to meet her.”
“I know.”
“That’s not advice.”
“I know.”
“You’re bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Not giving orders.”
He almost said something defensive.
Instead he nodded.
“Yes.”
Claire arrived at the hospital in a wheelchair.
She was thirty, not much younger than Elena. The oversized sweater from Adrian’s memory had hidden a pregnancy, which now seemed obvious only because he knew.
She looked sick.
Not theatrically grief-stricken.
Physically diminished.
Her husband, Michael, pushed the chair but remained outside the family conference room.
Claire asked if Adrian would leave too.
Elena looked at him.
He left.
He sat with Michael Mercer in the corridor for forty-two minutes.
Neither man spoke for the first fifteen.
Then Michael said, “I’m sorry.”
Adrian looked at him.
Michael’s eyes stayed on the floor.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
Adrian waited.
Michael rubbed both hands over his face.
“Our daughter died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That feels strange coming from you.”
“It feels strange saying it.”
Michael nodded.
“My wife woke up and Vivian told her the baby was alive.”
Adrian’s stomach tightened.
May you like
“For how long?”
“Nine hours.”
