Chapter 5: The Records From 2019
Daniel called the hospital at nine the next morning.
I had barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the crescent on our daughter's shoulder.
I saw Daniel's face when the midwife placed her in his arms.
I heard him whispering, “You came back.””
And I remembered the message asking him to contact the records department about our admission in 2019.
The hospital had discharged me that afternoon, but I remained exhausted and sore. Daniel wanted me to stay home and rest while he made the call.
I refused.
“We're not doing this separately,” I told him.
He didn't argue.
We settled on the sofa with our daughter in a bassinet beside us, and he dialed the number from the message.
A woman answered.
“Good morning, maternity records. How can I help you?””
Daniel explained who he was and gave the reference number.
There was a pause as she checked her computer.
“Yes, Mr. Mercer. I can see the note here.””
My husband glanced at me.
“What note?””
“I'm afraid I can't discuss the details until I've completed our verification process.””
He provided the information she requested.
Then she asked him to confirm the date of our admission in 2019.
He did.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I can see why this has been referred to our team. I'll need to check the original record before I can tell you anything more.””
Daniel tightened his grip on the phone.
“Can you tell me what the issue is?””
“Not at this stage, I'm afraid.””
“Is there a problem with the record?””
“I'm not able to confirm that yet.””
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Then why did you contact me?””
“We received a request to review the archived admission details. During that review, a point came up that needs clarification with the family.””
My heart began to pound.
“What point?”” I whispered.
Daniel repeated the question.
The woman paused.
“I understand this may be worrying, Mr. Mercer. I don't want to speculate before I've reviewed the relevant documents. If you're available, I can arrange a call with the appropriate member of the maternity team.””
“When?””
“I can ask someone to contact you later today.””
Daniel thanked her and ended the call.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “What did she mean by a point that needs clarification?””
“I don't know.””
“Could it be an administrative mistake?””
“Possibly.””
“Could it have something to do with the mark?””
“Possibly.””
I looked at him.
“You're doing it again.””
“Doing what?””
“Trying to prepare me for every possible answer.””
He lowered his head.
“I don't know how else to help.””
I reached for his hand.
“Then just be here with me.””
He squeezed my fingers.
We sat together until our daughter began to stir.
Daniel lifted her carefully from the bassinet and settled into the armchair.
Watching him with her should have been enough to make the rest of the world disappear.
He was gentle with her.
He spoke to her in a low voice, telling her that her mother was stubborn and that she had inherited that trait before she had even learned to open her eyes properly.
I laughed despite myself.
For a few minutes, we were simply parents.
Then the phone rang.
Daniel answered immediately.
The woman introduced herself as a senior member of the maternity team. She explained that she had reviewed the available records and wanted to speak with us together.
Daniel put the call on speaker.
“Can you tell us what you've found?”” he asked.
“I can explain what our records show, but I want to be careful not to suggest anything beyond the information we have.””
I felt my fingers tighten around the edge of the sofa.
“Please,” I said.
“Just tell us.””
The woman paused.
“Our archived notes confirm that you were admitted in 2019 following the loss of your pregnancy at twenty-two weeks.””
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.””
“They also record that Mr. Mercer requested time with the baby after delivery.””
Daniel glanced at me.
“Yes,” he said.
“And the notes indicate that you chose not to see the baby at that time.””
My throat tightened.
“Yes.””
The woman continued gently.
“I'm sorry that we're asking you to revisit such a painful experience. The reason we're contacting you is that the archived record contains a reference that was not fully reconciled with the later documentation.””
Daniel sat forward.
“What reference?””
“I'm still checking the original documents. I don't want to give you an incomplete answer.””
“Can you at least tell us whether it concerns the baby's examination?””
There was a pause.
“Yes, it relates to the documentation surrounding the baby's examination and subsequent care.””
My heart thudded painfully.
Daniel's face had gone pale.
“What does that mean?”” I asked.
“It means we need to verify the original notes before we can explain further. Some of the information is held in archived records, and we have to make sure we're interpreting it correctly.””
I wanted to scream.
We had spent six years trying to survive what happened in that hospital.
Now someone was telling us that a part of the record needed clarification, but no one could explain why.
“Was there something wrong with our baby?”” I asked.
The woman answered carefully.
“I don't have information that would allow me to tell you that. I'm not suggesting that anything was wrong. I'm saying the documentation needs further review.””
Daniel put his free hand over his mouth.
I knew he was remembering the curtain.
The tiny baby in his arms.
The name Hope.
The mark.
I could almost see him trying to arrange those memories into a story that made sense.
“Can we come in?”” he asked.
“Yes. I can arrange an appointment so that we can go through the relevant records with you.””
“When?””
“I'll check the team's availability and call you back.””
Daniel thanked her.
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
“That wasn't a normal conversation.””
“No.””
“They're reviewing something about our daughter.””
“Yes.””
“And they don't want to tell us what it is until they've checked the original notes.””
“Yes.””
I looked at him.
“Daniel, what if there really was something wrong?””
He shook his head.
“We can't assume that.””
“What if there was something they should have told us?””
His eyes filled.
“Then we deserve to know.””
I looked at our daughter sleeping against his chest.
The little crescent on her shoulder was hidden beneath her clothes now.
I wanted to believe it was nothing.
I wanted to believe the hospital would review the records, explain that a form had been filed incorrectly, and tell us there was no reason to worry.
But the woman had mentioned the baby's examination and subsequent care.
She had been careful with her words.
Too careful.
I remembered the questions Daniel had never asked me to answer.
Whether I wanted to know what our baby looked like.
Whether I wanted to know what happened behind the curtain.
Whether I wanted to hear her name.
For six years, I had assumed I knew everything that mattered about our loss.
Now I was beginning to understand how little I actually knew.
That afternoon, the hospital called back.
They offered us an appointment for the following morning.
Daniel accepted immediately.
When he ended the call, he found me standing beside the bassinet, staring at our daughter.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded.
“Tomorrow.””
He came up behind me and placed his hands gently on my shoulders.
“We'll get through it.””
I wanted to believe him.
But I turned around and asked the question that had been haunting me since the night before.
“Daniel, when you held Hope, did you notice anything else about her?””
He went still.
I watched his expression carefully.
He didn't look confused.
He looked as though he had been expecting the question and had been hoping I would never ask it.
“There's something you haven't told me,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.””
My stomach dropped.
“What?””
He sat down slowly, as though his legs could no longer support him.
“When I was behind the curtain, I asked the nurse whether the mark was something she had been born with.””
I stared at him.
“And?””
“She said she didn't know. She told me it would be documented in the examination notes.””
“Did you ask anyone else?””
“The doctor.””
“What did he say?””
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“He told me that the mark wasn't the important thing at that moment. He said the priority was making sure everything was documented properly.””
I frowned.
“That sounds reasonable.””
“It did then.””
He looked at our daughter.
“But I remember asking him why he was being so careful with his words.””
“What did he say?””
“He told me that he didn't want me to misunderstand something while I was grieving.””
I felt cold.
“Misunderstand what?””
Daniel shook his head.
“He didn't explain.””
I stood in silence, trying to imagine the scene.
My husband holding our tiny daughter.
A doctor standing nearby.
A mark on a shoulder.
A question that had gone unanswered.
And me, eleven feet away, refusing to hear anything.
“Why didn't you tell me this before?”” I asked.
“Because I didn't think it meant anything. I thought the doctor was just being careful. I didn't want to upset you with something that might have been completely ordinary.””
I sat down beside him.
For a moment, I was angry.
Not because he had kept a secret out of cruelty, but because we had spent six years protecting each other from questions that might have helped us understand what happened.
“I wish you had told me,” I whispered.
“I know.””
“I wish you had told me everything.””
He nodded.
“I wish I had.””
Our daughter made a small sound.
Daniel immediately reached for her.
I watched him lift her into his arms, and I saw the same mixture of love and fear that had been on his face when she was born.
I touched his arm.
“We'll find out tomorrow.””
He looked at me.
“And if the answer is something we don't want to hear?””
I swallowed.
“Then we'll hear it together.””
For the first time, he leaned against me instead of trying to hold himself upright.
We stayed like that until the room grew dark.
Later, after our daughter had fallen asleep, I went into the bedroom to change.
As I passed the mirror, I noticed the small hospital folder Daniel had brought home.
It contained our discharge papers and our daughter's newborn information.
I picked it up, intending to put it away.
Then a folded sheet slipped from the back pocket.
It wasn't one of the papers I remembered receiving.
The heading read Newborn Examination Summary.
My hands began to tremble.
I opened it.
Most of the page contained ordinary clinical details.
Weight.
Measurements.
Time of birth.
Routine observations.
Then I saw a handwritten note near the bottom.
The writing was faint, but I could make out the words.
“Small crescent-shaped mark, left shoulder. Photograph requested for documentation.””
I read it again.
A photograph.
I called Daniel into the bedroom.
He took one look at the paper and went pale.
“Did you know about this?”” I asked.
“No.””
“Did anyone tell you they photographed her?””
“No.””
I looked at the date.
The note had been entered on the day our daughter was born.
I thought of the midwife bringing her over with one shoulder exposed.
I thought of Daniel freezing when he saw the mark.
And I thought of the hospital asking us to come in because of a discrepancy in the records from 2019.
“Daniel,” I whispered, “what if they have a photograph of Hope, too?””
He stared at the paper.
Neither of us spoke.
Because suddenly, the question was no longer whether two babies could have similar marks.
May you like
The question was why someone had thought the mark on our lost daughter needed special documentation.
And whether the hospital had noticed the same thing we had.
