Paul was frantic.
Our mother was strangely calm.
Hours later, Helen saw a nurse carrying a premature baby through the
corridor.
The baby’s right shoulder was exposed.
There was a tiny crescent-shaped mark beneath the shoulder blade.
Helen remembered it because our father had the same mark.
So did I, faintly, near my hip.
“I asked if that was your baby,” Helen said.
“What did they tell you?”
“The nurse said she couldn’t discuss another patient’s child.”
“Another patient’s child?”
Helen nodded.
“Then Mom dragged me away.”
PART 7 — THE ARGUMENT
Helen heard our mother and Paul arguing that night.
She couldn’t hear everything.
Only fragments.
“He can’t know.”
“She’ll never forgive us.”
“This is the only way.”
Helen assumed they were discussing my medical condition.
The next morning, Mom told her my baby had died.
“I believed her,” Helen said.
“Then why are you crying now?”
