Some records that old are archived off-site.
***
Twenty minutes later, a gray-haired woman walked into the consultation room.
She looked at me for several seconds. “Rachel?”
My heart stopped. “You remember me?”
“Not many eighteen-year-olds came through here with a terrified nineteen-year-old husband.”
I almost smiled. “That sounds like Mark.”
Can I speak to her?
“How is he?”
“He died three years ago.”
Her expression changed. “I’m sorry.”
“Susan, I need to ask you about the night my son was born.”
“Luke?”
That sounds like Mark.
I stared at her. “You remember his name?”
She went still.
Then she slowly closed the door. “What happened?”
I placed the copied adoption record in front of her.
Susan read it.
I need to ask you about the night my son was born.
Her face lost all color. “Where did you get this?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Rachel…”
“Please. Was there another baby born that night connected to me?”
She sat down.
Susan read it.
Her silence was answer enough.
I whispered, “Tell me.”
Susan looked genuinely frightened. “I need to be careful. I can tell you what I personally remember, but you need the official records for anything beyond that.”
“Fine.”
“You were extremely weak after delivery.”
Was there another baby born that night connected to me?
“I remember.”
“You’d lost a lot of blood. You kept asking for your glasses.”
My throat tightened. “They broke.”
Susan nodded. “During labor.”
“One of the lenses came out.”
“Mark, put them in your bag.”
I can tell you what I personally remember.
I stared at her. “You remember that?”
“You kept asking for them.”
“I couldn’t see anyone without them.”
“I know.”
Susan folded her hands. “You were frightened. Mark was worse.”
You kept asking for your glasses.
“Why?”
She stared at me. “Because both babies were alive.”
I couldn’t breathe. “What did you say?”
“Both babies were born alive.”
I stared at her. “Then why did Mark tell me one died?”
You were frightened. Mark was worse.
Susan said nothing.
“He knew both were alive?”
“Yes.”
“And he let me believe my son was dead?”
“Rachel…”
Both babies were alive.
“For eighteen years?”
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
“Rachel…”
“No. One died.”
Susan’s eyes filled. “That isn’t what I remember.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“My husband told me.”
“I know.”
And suddenly, I remembered a conversation with Mark a few weeks before the birth.
***
“We’re going to need two of everything,” I’d said.
