Now I looked at Watson. “I need the old folder.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
He followed me to the hall closet while the party music kept thumping away outside, oblivious to what was happening two rooms over. I pulled down the plastic bin and dumped the hospital papers across the bedroom floor.
Watson knelt beside me. “What are we looking for?”
“Proof that Rowan died.”
His hands stopped moving entirely.
I found Riley’s discharge papers, Rex’s feeding chart, old condolence cards, the funeral receipt my mother had handled because I could barely stand upright at the time. But there was no death certificate anywhere in the pile. My mother had always told me the official papers were kept safe in her fireproof box at home.
“Watson.” I looked at the empty space in the folder where it should have been. “There’s nothing.”
“Maybe Peggy kept it.”
“Of course she did.”
Then I found Doctor Jefferson’s old business card, tucked at the very bottom, with a message written on the back in fading pen.
I hope one day you find peace with the decision made for Rowan.
Watson read it twice. “Decision?”
“That’s what I thought too.”
I grabbed my keys off the dresser. “We’re going to Doctor Jefferson.”
Watson stood. “Now?”
“Right now.”
For illustrative purposes only
The Question
Doctor Jefferson looked older than I remembered, grayer, slower. His receptionist tried to stop us at the front desk, but I held up Rowan’s bracelet where she could see it clearly.
“Tell him it’s about the baby he told me was dead.”
A minute later, after the receptionist showed him the bracelet through his office door, he let us in himself. I placed the bracelet on his desk. “Where did this come from?”
His face changed the second he saw it. “Where did you get that?”
“From my son.”
He looked at the copied form still in my hand. “I want Rowan’s records,” I said.
“There are procedures, Dawn.”
“Then get me the form.”
“Dawn, I can’t discuss this without proper paperwork.”
“Fine. Answer one question.” I leaned forward across his desk. “Did Rowan die?”
Doctor Jefferson sat down slowly, like his legs had suddenly stopped fully supporting him. “Rowan was critically ill.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His hands folded together on the desk. “He stabilized after the transfer.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. “You told me he died.”
“I was told you understood the placement option,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Your mother said the private placement had already been discussed with the social worker.”
The source material for this story ends here, mid-confrontation, with a “see next page” marker. If you have the continuation, send it over and I’ll pick the rewrite back up from this exact point.
