Chapter 4: The Signature Nobody Could Explain
The hospital supervisor closed the file before Maya could ask another question.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’ve already shared more than I’m authorized to disclose.””
My father leaned forward.
“You just told us that an investigation into our children’s identities was never resolved. How can you expect us to walk away?””
The supervisor’s expression softened, but she kept one hand firmly on the folder.
“I understand your frustration, Mr. Mitchell. But the records are seventeen years old, and some of the people involved may no longer work here.””
“Dr. Elliot Harris still works here,” Maya said.
The woman glanced at her.
“Not at this hospital.””
“Then where?””
“I can’t provide personal employment information.””
Dad let out a bitter laugh.
“Of course you can’t.””
I touched his arm before he could say anything else.
For the first time since discovering Maya was my twin, I realized that anger alone wouldn't get us anywhere.
We needed documents.
Names.
Dates.
Something that couldn't disappear because someone decided we had asked too many questions.
“Could we submit a formal request for the original review?”” I asked.
The supervisor looked at me more carefully.
“Yes. You would need to provide proof of identity and establish your legal relationship to the records. Some information may require authorization from the individuals named in the file.””
Maya frowned.
“But the records concern both of us.””
“I understand.””
“Then why should we need permission to find out what happened when we were born?””
The supervisor didn't answer.
Instead, she handed Dad a form and explained the procedure.
It could take several weeks.
Possibly longer.
Dad accepted the paperwork, thanked her without looking at her, and led us out of the office.
The hallway seemed impossibly bright.
Maya walked beside me without speaking.
I could tell she was trying not to cry.
Outside, the afternoon sun had begun to sink behind the hospital buildings.
Dad stopped beside his car.
“I'm going to call our attorney.””
“Why?”” I asked.
“Because someone needs to determine whether the adoption was handled legally.””
Maya stared at him.
“You mean whether Jordan was legally adopted?””
“Yes.””
“And whether my brother was taken from my mother?””
Dad looked away.
“I don't know what happened, Maya. I'm trying to find out.””
She nodded, but her expression remained guarded.
I couldn't blame her.
Dad might have been telling the truth.
He might also have been protecting himself from something he didn't want us to discover.
I was no longer certain I knew the difference.
On the drive home, Maya asked to see the hospital form again.
Dad handed it to her at a red light.
She studied the signatures.
“Look at this,” she said.
She pointed to the bottom of the page.
The first signature, Dr. Elliot Harris's, was written in dark, deliberate strokes.
The second was partly obscured by a crease.
But now that we knew to look for it, I could make out the name beneath the faded ink.
Patricia Cole.
Below it was a handwritten notation.
*Witness to identity verification.*
“Why would an adoption coordinator witness the identification of a newborn?”” I asked.
Dad's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“I don't know.””
“Was Patricia Cole at the hospital the night I was born?””
“I don't remember seeing her there.””
Maya looked up.
“But she was involved in the adoption.””
“Yes.””
“Then we need to find her.””
Dad nodded.
When we arrived home, Mom was waiting in the kitchen.
She had arranged three cups of tea on the table, although nobody had asked for any.
Her eyes went immediately to Maya.
“Did they tell you something?””
Maya placed the hospital form on the table.
“They found a reference to an identity discrepancy review.””
Mom sat down.
Dad explained what the supervisor had said.
He told her about the unresolved review, the two signatures, and Patricia Cole's name.
With every detail, Mom's face grew paler.
When he finished, she stared at the form for a long time.
Then she whispered, “Patricia told us everything was handled.””
I turned toward her.
“What exactly did she tell you?””
Mom pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“She said your birth mother had made arrangements for you to be adopted before you were born.””
“Did you ever meet my birth mother?”” I asked.
“No.””
“Did you ask to?””
Mom's eyes filled with tears.
“Of course we asked. Patricia said your biological family had requested privacy.””
Maya pulled out a chair.
“My mother never requested that.””
Mom flinched.
“I know that now.””
“No,” Maya replied.
“You know she wanted her son back. You know she spent years looking for him. But you don't know what she requested before he disappeared.””
The words hung between them.
Mom didn't defend herself.
Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out an old photograph.
It showed Dad and Mom standing in front of a hospital entrance.
Dad held a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
Mom was crying with happiness.
I had seen that picture hundreds of times.
It had always represented the beginning of my life.
Now I looked at it differently.
“Where was this taken?”” I asked.
“Outside Piedmont Hospital,” Mom replied.
“And what date?””
She checked the back.
“The day we brought you home.””
Maya leaned closer.
“Who took the picture?””
“A nurse offered to take it.””
“Do you remember her name?””
Mom shook her head.
I studied the photograph.
The nurse wasn't visible, of course.
But behind my parents, near the hospital entrance, stood a woman holding a folder.
Her face was partly hidden by the edge of the frame.
She appeared to be watching them.
I pointed.
“Who's that?””
Dad took the photograph.
He stared at the woman.
Then his expression changed.
“I think that's Patricia.””
Mom covered her mouth.
We gathered around the picture.
The woman wore a dark coat and carried a folder tucked beneath one arm.
Her hair was pulled back.
Although the photograph was grainy, the resemblance to the signature on the hospital form was impossible to ignore.
“Why would she be there when you brought me home?”” Maya asked.
Dad shook his head.
“She was the adoption coordinator. She might have wanted to make sure everything went smoothly.””
“Or she was checking that the baby had gone where she wanted him to go,” Maya replied.
“That's enough,” Dad said.
Maya stood abruptly.
“Why do you keep defending everyone?””
“I'm not defending anyone.””
“You defend Patricia. You defend the hospital. You defend your own decisions.””
“Because I won't accuse someone of a crime without evidence!””
“And my mother had evidence!””
“She had a letter and a suspicion!””
The moment the words left his mouth, Dad seemed to regret them.
Maya's face went completely still.
“My mother spent seventeen years being told she was imagining things,” she said.
“She died without knowing what happened to her son. And now you're telling me she had nothing?””
“I didn't say that.””
“You didn't have to.””
She picked up her bag and headed for the front door.
I followed her.
“Maya, wait.””
She stopped on the porch.
For several seconds, we listened to the traffic moving along the street.
Then she wiped her eyes.
“I know your father might be innocent,” she said.
“I know he and your mother might have been deceived. But every time someone questions what happened, they get angry. They act like asking questions is an accusation.””
I leaned against the railing.
“I think he's scared.””
“Of what?””
I looked back at the house.
“Maybe of finding out that everything he believed about our birth was wrong.””
Maya looked at me.
“And what are you scared of?””
I swallowed.
“Finding out that he knew.””
She didn't tell me I was wrong.
That frightened me more than anything.
Before we could return inside, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number had sent a text message.
There were only two sentences.
*Stop looking into the hospital records.*
*You don't know what your parents agreed to.*
I read it twice.
Then I showed Maya.
Her face went pale.
“Who sent that?””
“I don't know.””
She took out her phone and photographed the message.
“Don't delete it.””
“I wasn't going to.””
A second message arrived.
This time, it contained no words.
Just a photograph.
It showed the hospital form lying on our kitchen table.
The same form we had brought home.
The same two signatures.
Someone had photographed it after we left the hospital.
Someone knew we were investigating.
And whoever they were, they had been close enough to our family to see the document before we even realized it was missing.
I looked through the front window.
Dad stood in the kitchen, holding the old photograph of my adoption day.
Mom was beside him.
Neither appeared to notice us outside.
Maya took my hand.
“Jordan,” she whispered, “what if this isn't just about what happened seventeen years ago?””
I looked at the message again.
Then I understood why my father had been so frightened when he recognized Dr. Harris's name.
The secret wasn't buried.
May you like
Someone was still protecting it.
And they had just warned us to stop digging.
