Chapter 4: What His Sister Knew
"Planning what, exactly?" I asked.
Daniel set his cup down on the tray table.
He didn't look at me right away.
That alone told me the answer was going to be bad.
"Renata said Mom approached her about six weeks ago.
Said she wanted to talk about the babies — about the fact that we were having twins." He paused.
"She told Renata that two babies were more than any one woman needed.
That it wasn't fair.
That your body had been given something Renata's body couldn't produce."
"She said that."
"Word for word, according to Renata."
"And Renata didn't tell you."
He was quiet.
"Daniel.
Your sister didn't tell you that your mother was talking about taking one of our children."
"She said she didn't think Mom was serious.
She thought it was just — grieving.
Renata has been through a lot with the fertility treatments.
She thought Mom was venting."
"And tonight?
When your mother actually tried to switch the identification bands?"
"That's why she called." He finally looked at me.
"She's devastated.
She wants you to know she had nothing to do with it."
I thought about Renata.
We had never been close — she was eight years older than Daniel, quieter, more guarded — but I had never believed she was cruel.
I had always thought her distance from me was simply her nature.
"Do you believe her?" I asked.
"I think she told me the truth tonight, yes."
"That's not what I asked."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I think she made a very bad judgment call six weeks ago.
And I think she has to live with that."
I looked at the bassinet.
Both girls still sleeping.
Perfectly still, perfectly safe, in a room that two hours ago had felt like the most dangerous place in the world.
"Your mother knew something about me," I said.
"Something she whispered before they took her out."
Daniel went very still.
"What did she say?"
"She said a name." I kept my eyes on the babies.
"A name from before I knew you.
Before I knew anyone in your family.
A name that I have never told another person."
"What name?"
"It doesn't matter what name.
What matters is how she knew it."
"Tell me."
I turned to look at him.
His face was open, careful, afraid of the wrong thing.
"If I tell you the name," I said, "it opens a door I'm not ready to open tonight.
Not in this room.
Not the day our daughters were born."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
Then he nodded, once.
"Okay."
"But I need you to understand something." I kept my voice level.
"Your mother didn't just try to take our baby tonight.
She came into this room carrying a secret about my life that she should not have.
Which means someone gave it to her.
And I need to find out who."
"How would anyone even—"
"I don't know yet."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "What do you need from me?"
"Right now?
Nothing.
Just — don't call your mother tonight.
Don't let her explain herself to you before I understand what she actually knows."
"All right."
"Promise me."
"I promise." He reached over and took my hand.
"I'm sorry.
For all of it.
What she did tonight—"
"I know you're sorry."
"It's not enough."
"No," I said.
"It isn't.
But it's a start."
We sat in the quiet for a while.
Eli had fallen asleep in the chair by the window, his jacket pulled up around his shoulders.
The monitors beeped softly.
One of the babies made a small sound and then settled.
Normal.
Everything looked completely normal.
But I kept thinking about the way his mother had looked at me before she left.
Not angry.
Not ashamed.
Patient.
Like someone who had just played the first card in a very long game.
My phone lit up on the table.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*We need to talk.
I know what my mother did.
And I know what she knows about you.
Meet me tomorrow.
Please.*
I stared at the screen.
May you like
The message was signed with a single initial.
*R.*
