Chapter 8: The Doctor's Report
I was out of the bed and in the elevator before Robert finished the sentence.
Dr.
Anand met me in the corridor outside the pediatric ward.
He was a quiet man in his early fifties with careful eyes, and he put his hand up gently as I came toward him.
"Noah is stable," he said immediately.
"He's doing well.
I want you to know that first."
I stopped walking.
My hand found the wall.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay.
Tell me the rest."
"A woman came to the nurses' station this morning at approximately ten o'clock.
She identified herself as Noah's paternal grandmother and asked to be updated on his prognosis.
The nurse on duty, not knowing the family situation, told her Noah was responding well to treatment and that we expected a full recovery."
"What else did she ask?"
Dr.
Anand hesitated.
"She asked whether the birth records listed both parents.
She asked whether the mother had been assessed for postpartum mental health concerns." He held my gaze.
"She asked whether there was any notation in the file about the circumstances of the child being brought in without the father present."
I understood exactly what Vivian was building.
"She's trying to create a record," I said.
"She wants it documented that I brought Noah in alone, that Daniel wasn't there, that someone questioned my mental state."
"I've added a notation to Noah's file explaining that the inquiry was made by a third party without authorization and that no information was released beyond standard prognosis." He paused.
"I also want you to know that the nurse who admitted Noah five days ago wrote a very detailed account of his condition on arrival and your condition as well.
It is not a record that reflects poorly on you."
"Can I have a copy?"
"Patricia Chen already requested it an hour ago."
Something loosened in my chest.
"Can I see him?"
"Of course."
Noah was in a crib surrounded by soft light and the quiet beeping of a monitor that was, for the first time, showing numbers that didn't make me hold my breath.
His color was better.
His chest rose and fell steadily.
He had his fist pressed against his cheek the way he had in the first photograph I ever took of him, three hours after he was born, before any of this had happened.
I sat beside him and didn't say anything for a long time.
Mrs.
Alvarez appeared in the doorway.
I hadn't known she was there.
She was holding a paper bag from the bakery near our building, and she set it on the chair beside me without a word, and then she put her hand on my shoulder and kept it there.
"He looks like his mother," she said softly.
I put my hand over hers.
"Mrs.
Alvarez." My voice came out smaller than I intended.
"I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't thank me," she said firmly.
"You just get better.
Both of you."
We sat together in the quiet room while Noah slept, and for the first time in eight days I let myself cry — not from fear, but from something else, something that had been waiting behind the fear for long enough.
Mrs.
Alvarez didn't move her hand.
When I finally stopped, she reached into the paper bag and produced a small container of soup and a bread roll wrapped in wax paper.
"Eat," she said.
I ate.
My phone buzzed on the chair arm.
It was Patricia.
*Daniel just filed an emergency motion.
He's asking the court to appoint a guardian ad litem for Noah and requesting a psychological evaluation of the mother.
He filed forty minutes ago.*
I read it twice.
Then I set the phone down, finished the soup, and looked at Noah's face.
May you like
"Patricia," I said aloud, as if she were in the room.
"He just made his first mistake."
