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STEVEN HELD THE CAR door open.
“Are you sure they’ll give us the baby?” Serena asked. Her brown eyes begged for confirmation and she gripped the edge of the seat, unwilling to release her doubts and believe.
“Of course. I wouldn’t have brought you here if there were any chance it would fall through. The baby is ours. We just have to go inside and pick him up.” He glanced in the rear window at the infant car seat buckled in and waiting, the diaper bag already filled with all the necessary items for a new baby. These things and many others had been purchased long ago. They would finally be doing more than gathering dust in the nursery. He held out his hand. “Let’s go meet our son.”
Serena sniffed and wiped moisture from her lashes with the tips of her fingers, then tentatively clasped Steven’s hand and let him help her from the car. Out of habit or perhaps just nerves, she reached up and straightened his tie. “Do you think he’ll like us?” she asked, her voice soft and unsure.
“What’s not to like?” He shut the car door. “He needs parents. We need a son. It’s a match made in heaven.” Or hell, with Uncle Frank the devil and myself the helpful henchman.
Steven pulled her within the circle of his arms and breathed in the floral scent of her hair. He felt the same overpowering need to possess her as he did the first time he saw her. She’d come to the party on the arm of Carl Devlin that night, but he’d managed to steal one dance with her and afterward swore he’d steal her heart. And he had. Now he was doing everything in his power to keep it.
They took the elevator to the third floor where the clink of lunch trays could be heard over the mewling cries of a newborn and squeak of rubber-soled shoes. Serena clung to Steven’s arm as they paused at the nurse’s station. The prickly scent of disinfectant pervaded the air and they could see a janitor mopping something up in a patient’s room directly across the hall.
“Could you point us in the right direction?” Steven smiled at the nurse manning the station. “We’re looking for the administrator’s office.”
“Follow the green arrows,” the woman said. She pointed back in the direction they’d come, and then hurried off to respond to a patient’s call button.
They left Labor and Delivery behind, and followed green arrows back past the elevators, through double doors to the Nursery. Windows gave full view to rows of tiny newborns nestled in bassinets, bundled in pastel blankets like miniature Egyptian mummies. Each wore a pink or blue knit cap on their head.
Serena pulled her hand from Steven’s and eagerly pressed her face against the glass separating her from the babies. “Which one is he, do you think? Is that him?” she asked. She pointed to a round, red face wearing a blue cap. “He looks strong and healthy.”
Steven slipped his arm around her. “Yes, he does. But he has a name tag, honey.” He turned her gently from the window. “Our son will be just as strong and just as healthy,” he promised.
Andrew Fillmore waited outside the door of the hospital administrator’s office, briefcase in hand. Ever the loyal Basset Hound to Frank Howard, he could be counted on to do whatever asked. In his double-breasted suit and shiny wingtips, he resembled any other corporate lawyer, but unlike others in his field he possessed all the charm of a block of white cheese. What he lacked in personality, he made up for in connections. His father was a Minnesota State Supreme Court judge and another reigning board member of Howard Pharmaceuticals.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Howard, Mrs. Howard.” Andrew Fillmore’s thinning blonde hair was combed straight back to cover what he could, but it didn’t cover his lack of interest in the job he was here to perform. He shook Steven’s hand. “I’ve already presented them with the paperwork. All you have to do is sign the official document and take possession of the child mentioned therein,” he said, as though they were purchasing a new car.
A heavyset woman stepped out of the office. Her mouth lifted into a tight-lipped smile, more polite than welcoming. She invited them to join her inside. “I’m Gloria Svendahl. Central Lake Hospital’s chief administrator. Please sit down,” she said, indicating a set of straight-backed chairs that faced her desk. She placed her hands flat on the desktop and lowered herself carefully into her seat before addressing them. “This is a bit unorthodox, but Mr. Fillmore has assured me it is legally adequate. The mother already signed papers relinquishing custody before her accident. I just need both of your signatures and we can release the infant to you.” She slid the document toward Steven. Her gaze met his. “Please express our gratitude to your uncle for his generous donation to the hospital’s foundation,” she said. Her face remained impassive, but her voice held the slightest inflection of reprimand, like the Dali Lama trying to instill a moral lesson.
“I’ll be sure and do that.”
Steven glanced over the document. His uncle’s underhanded dealings had brought about the impossible. If Frank’s money oiled the wheels of bureaucracy and made things move faster, so be it. He no longer cared if it was wrong or unfair. His own ethics had certainly flown out the window on this one. Serena sat stiffly on the edge of the chair next to him, her eagerness barely contained like a wild thing bursting to be free. He wouldn’t be surprised if she jumped up and started pacing. He scrawled his name and slid the paper toward his wife.
Serena didn’t bother to read the words but simply signed. She probably would have opened a vein to write in blood if Ms. Svendahl had asked her to.
Steven handed the document back and waited. Andrew witnessed their signatures and signed as well. Ms. Svendahl placed the document inside a file folder and hoisted herself up from her chair again. “Please wait here while I arrange your son’s departure,” she said.
Andrew followed her out.
Alone together in the small office, Steven reached out and clasped Serena’s hand. Her fingers were cold and damp. Excitement rushed between them like a live current. She began to laugh, notes of joy released from years of captivity. The sound washed over Steven, filling his heart with hope once again. He pushed all the unscrupulous details of his new son’s existence out of his mind and relished the moment. They would be a family, and everything would be all right.
The sound of wailing preceded their new son’s entrance. Ms. Svendahl held the door to the office open wide while a young nurse pushed a bassinet into the room. With his arms and legs bound snugly in the blanket to offer a feeling of security in his new environment, and his head covered with a blue knit cap for additional warmth, he appeared little more than a tiny shrunken face. His cries were strong in spite of small lungs, impatience obviously his downfall. The nurse smiled and backed away as Serena and Steven bent over their son.
The stern set of Ms. Svendahl’s jaw relaxed as she witnessed the family’s first meeting. She leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “What are you going to name him?” she asked, her voice barely loud enough to be heard over the baby’s cries.
Steven was suddenly overwhelmed. He was now a father, and fathers were bound to love, protect, and provide for their children. He watched Serena pick up their son, her movements tentative, her hands shaking. His eyes filled with tears. Loving him was the easy part. Protecting him would be much more complicated. Serena leaned in close to Steven as she held the baby and he wrapped an arm around them both, pressing his bearded cheek to hers.
“We talked about Alexander, if it was a boy,” he said.
“Yes, we did.” Serena kissed the tiny forehead and smiled when the bundle suddenly went still in her arms. “We can call him Zander,” she said. “He’s much too small to be an Alexander yet.”
Ms. Svendahl nodded. “That’s a good, solid name. Alexander means ‘Protector of men’. Perhaps he’ll be a great President someday. Or better yet—find a cure for cancer.”
Steven felt his throat constrict. The thought of this tiny child continuing his grandfather’s legacy was more than he could contemplate right now. Perhaps Zander would be a protector of men someday, but for now he needed protection from men that wanted to use him to further their own plans of power. He needed a Protector—a father who wouldn’t fail him.
Serena insisted on sitting in the backseat with Zander on the way home, unwilling to be even an arm’s length away from the tiny infant. She bent over his car seat gently stroking his temple with the pad of her thumb, a smile softening the line of her lips. The baby slept all the way home, his eyes shut tight against the harsh world he’d been brought into, his adopted father’s insecurities, and his new mother’s desperate love.
*****
ALICIA FELT A SHIVER run down her spine and glanced up from the chart in her hand. A man stood a few feet away, watching her. His round face reflected a Scandinavian heritage; pale skin, hair, and eyes. In a dark business suit and shiny wingtips, he seemed innocuous enough, but her heart beat irrationally fast nonetheless. The past twenty-four hours had been more stressful than all her years of medical school. She replaced the chart on the door of her patient’s room and glanced toward the nurses’ station before meeting his pointed stare.
“Excuse me.” He gave a slight deferential nod of his head. “You’re Dr. Brock, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound too busy for chitchat. Wasn’t he the man who had followed Lionel Richards into the elevator earlier?
“I represent Mr. Howard. He wanted me to check in with you and see that everything went as planned, and you severed the loose end.” He spoke in a low voice to assure that no one overheard, but his expression was eerily nonchalant as though he had asked about the weather.
Hearing the life of a baby referred to as a loose end made her feel physically ill. Sharp pain burned through her stomach. Did they consider Mr. Richards a loose end as well? She cleared her throat, but only managed to nod.
“Excellent,” he said. “My employer wanted to thank you and give you this.” He held a thick manila envelope toward her.
Alicia forced herself to reach out and take it.
The man’s mouth turned up at the corners, but his pale eyes remained cold, impersonal. “Good day,” he said, and strode away.
Alicia turned the envelope over in her hands. She hoped it contained the string that attached her to Frank Howard’s whim and would finally release her from his control. But she couldn’t open it here. The hospital had too many pair of eyes. She tucked it under her arm and hurried down the hall to the room she knew had recently been vacated.
“Dr. Brock!” someone called. “Dr. Brock!”
She turned and recognized the diminutive form of Labor and Delivery’s head nurse, Babs Kaufman. The woman hurried along, Peter Webber at her side. Her short legs had to do double-time to keep up with Peter’s long stride, but he was the one that looked tired.
“Dr. Brock, Peter and I have something we need to speak with you about.” As head nurse, Babs could be counted on to be calm and collected on the job. She was an efficient and likable leader. But right now, she seemed less sure and definitely flustered. “It’s very important,” she added, glancing nervously around.
Alicia gripped the envelope tightly, knowing it would have to wait, but unhappy with the delay. “Well, what is it?” she asked, trying not to sound as impatient as she felt.
“Perhaps we should speak in private,” Peter suggested. A young couple passed by with a baby gift bag in hand, glancing with interest at the cluster of medical personnel. “It’s not something you want to discuss out in the open.”
“Okay,” Alicia said, her interest suddenly peaked. “Follow me.” She led them to the empty room she’d been heading for just moments before and waited for the door to close behind them. “So...?”
Babs flipped the light on. The sheets were stripped from the bed but not yet replaced, and the closet stood open and empty except for three hangers and a tissue box. Convinced they were alone, she began to explain. “Dr. Brock, Peter believes there may have been a mix up with the babies.”
Alicia swallowed down a quick retort, not wanting to incriminate herself, and waited.
With a nod from Babs, Peter continued, his normally mellow voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “If you recall, I was the nurse that took charge of the Tatum baby girl and cleaned her up before we put her in neonatal. She had a small red birthmark on her left thigh. She’s been doing surprisingly well since last night. None of us thought she’d make it.” He paused, his expression ironically sad at such news. “I brought her to her mother’s room a few minutes ago. Mr. and Mrs. Tatum wanted to see her unwrapped, to check all of her fingers and toes as most parents do, and I noticed the mark was gone.”
Alicia released a quiet breath, relief flowing through her veins. “So, you’re telling me that you think the Tatum’s baby is not theirs because she no longer has a red mark on her thigh?” She shook her head. “Peter, you should know that red or bruised areas can be caused during the birth process and until the baby is a few days old, should not be classified as permanent.” She turned her attention to Babs, her eyes narrowed as though trying to understand the problem. “You could have explained this to Peter without bringing it to my attention. Was there something else besides a disappearing bruise? Was her identification bracelet missing?”
Bab’s confidence in Peter’s accusation was melting as quickly as ice in July. She shook her head. “Nothing conclusive,” she said, her tone apologetic.
Peter’s eyes widened. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at his supervisor with obvious outrage. “How can you say that? I told you the baby weighed a pound less than last night and her hair is a darker shade. I swear it’s not the same baby!”
“That’s enough.” Alicia put all the authority she could muster into her voice. She couldn’t afford to let them see her confidence crumble. As the attending physician, she had the final word. “Let me see if I get this straight. The Tatum baby did not die last night as you expected. A red mark disappeared from her thigh. And her hair seems darker than you remember.” She raised one brow. “Is that the conclusive evidence you want to present to her parents?”
“What about her birth weight?” Peter asked, his voice softer, but still persistent. “I weighed her myself. Babies often lose weight before they begin gaining, but a whole pound over night?”
“You were worried about the baby, whether it would survive. Sometimes in stressful situations mistakes are made. Numbers written incorrectly. It’s as simple as that.”
“But...” he began, and she cut him off with a raised hand.
“No buts. There is no mix-up. The only other newborns in the nursery from yesterday are male. It would be very hard, even for you, to mix that up.” She gave a slight smile and patted his arm. “Just thank God everything is as it should be and the Tatum family will be going home soon, intact.” She stepped past the two nurses and reached out for the handle of the door, but Peter’s voice stopped her mid-stride.
“What about the homeless woman who was hit by a car? She had twins. A boy and a girl.”
Alicia slowly turned and met Peter’s accusation with stony silence. When he dropped his gaze, she blew out a breath of frustration. “If you did your research before coming to me, you would know that the twin girl died last night. It is very sad but at least she didn’t have a mother and father to mourn her. The boy was adopted just this afternoon. So, you see...there is no mix-up.” She turned around and pulled open the door. “If you don’t mind, I have rounds to make.”
*****
ALICIA LET HERSELF in the door of her condo, flipped on the lights, and tossed her keys on the table to her right. She locked the deadbolt before slipping out of her shoes, then crossed the marble entrance tile to the kitchen and placed her bag on the counter. Inside was the envelope from Frank Howard, still unopened. But she didn’t have strength to deal with that now. Still shaky after her confrontation with Babs and Peter, she needed to relax.
A half empty bottle of champagne greeted her when she pulled open the door of the refrigerator, left over from the birthday party she threw her cousin Betty three days ago. She set it on the counter along with leftover vegetable chicken soup of indeterminate age. After popping the container of soup in the microwave, she filled a wine glass and carried it to the living room.
Her phone rang on the kitchen counter just as she settled into the recliner. She groaned. Not tonight. Tonight, was off limits. She had too much to think about and dozens of stress knots to work out of her muscles in a steaming bubble bath before she could function in doctor mode again. She drained her glass in one gulp and leaned back with eyes closed, trying to ignore the interruption. The ringing stopped.
She marveled at the quiet. At the hospital there was always noise: interruptions, voices, machines chirping, beeping, whirring. She imagined she could hear the beat of her own heart. She put a hand to her chest. The steady thump, thump was reassuring. No matter how bad things got, at least she had that. She released the breath of a laugh, remembering her grandmother’s words of wisdom administered when she struggled through an angst-filled pre-teen stage. When she came home down in the dumps about not being in the popular crowd, depressed that a particular boy failed to notice her, or worried that her science project wasn’t good enough to go to State, Grandma Bea told her that, “To be content in life you only need the three H’s: Him, Hanes, and a Heartbeat. If you put your trust in the Lord, have on a clean pair of undies, and your heart beats like clockwork, what else do you need?” Obviously, life was a lot less complicated in Grandma’s day.
Alicia got up to retrieve her dinner. The soup was hot and savory, and it quickly disappeared along with a second glass of wine. Her phone rang again while she washed dishes. She dried her hands on a towel and squinted at the caller ID lit up on the counter answering machine. Just Betty. Her cousin often called in the evenings to chat, share family gossip, or ask for free medical advice. She had two toddlers that somehow contracted every cold, flu, or virus that blew into town. Alicia waited for the ringing to stop and shut it off.
She tipped her bag and let the envelope slide out, then quickly tore the flap open. A VHS tape dropped to the counter top. The label read: Dr. A.B./Aug 1989. She took it to the player and slipped it in, turned on the television screen, and muted the sound. Watching would be bad enough. She didn’t think she could endure hearing it.
The picture flickered and then held steady. It was night. The focal point was an empty street lit only by dim lampposts a block or so apart. The camera panned back and forth as though looking for something. Nothing moved but the leaves on nearby trees. Lights flashed in the distance as a car approached. The cameraman must have stepped into the shadows but held the camera steady on the approaching car. Suddenly a woman ran out from behind dark bushes on the opposite side of the street and into the path of the oncoming vehicle. The car swerved but still hit the woman, throwing her a good twenty feet before her body collided with pavement. The camera panned back to the car. The driver’s side door opened, and a young medical student stepped out. Her hand covered her mouth, holding back a scream. She instinctively ran toward the woman in the street but stopped short of touching her. With eyes wide and straining against the darkness, she looked up and down the empty street. Satisfied that no one had seen what she’d done, she hurried back to her car.
Alicia stared in horror and shame. As she watched the car in the video back up and speed away, tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. The cameraman stepped into the street. He stood over the woman, zoomed in on her face and slowly panned down the length of her body. Her feet were bare. The screen went black.
Dr. Alicia Brock did not feel relieved that she now held the only known evidence of her crime. In fact, she felt as though her heart was being squeezed tighter and tighter by a clamp of guilt. For the first time since her dear grandmother passed away thirteen months earlier, she was glad. Thankfully, Grandma Bea wasn’t here to see her now.