Almost without thinking, she retrieved a small scissors from the desk and went back to the King bassinet. She reached in once more for the baby’s wrist and snipped off the identification bracelet, dropping it into her uniform pocket. Next, she made copies of both babies’ birth certificates and wrote down what she knew about the circumstances of their births. She didn’t know what she would do with all of it, but she sensed it was important to keep track of exactly what had taken place that day. She put the materials in a large white envelope, which she folded and stuffed into her purse. Then, as if in a dream, she went back to changing diapers and preparing to give the babies their bottles of formula.
An odd thought struck her. Why hadn’t the Lawrence mother recognized that the baby wasn’t her own? Violet searched her memory for the sequence of events. That first day, the mother would have been woozy from anesthesia from her C-section, so it was easy to imagine that she might not have imprinted the baby’s face clearly in her mind. After that, she now recalled, there had been some complications with the mother. Loss of blood, infection—she wasn’t sure, but the mother had barely seen the baby over the past two days. The two babies were quite similar—the same size, delicate features, little hair to speak of—so a change could easily have gone unnoticed by a woman still on medication and in pain.
Which left the Amish parents, Leah and Isaac King, according to the birth certificate Violet had just copied. She remembered that there had been some concerns about the delivery that brought the couple to the hospital instead of having a home birth, which she knew the Amish preferred. Based on the hospital’s schedule, the babies would have been brought around to the mothers earlier this afternoon, so that mother had seen and probably held this baby today. Yet, apparently, no one said a word about anything being amiss.
Violet recalled the mother had come in very early yesterday morning, already having contractions, and endured at least twenty-four hours of labor. An exhausted mother holds her newborn, takes a loving look, counts fingers and toes, then relinquishes it to a waiting nurse and falls asleep. Violet had no problem understanding how the woman might not have noticed any difference between that baby she’d seen for a few moments and the one she saw today.
The magnitude of the mistake was too much for Violet to contemplate any further. She went about the business of her shift, and left the nursery when her husband came in to sign discharge papers for the King baby. She wasn’t there to witness the Amish couple take home Rachel Lawrence, believing her to be their child. Later, without indicating anything was wrong, Violet updated the nurse who came to relieve her at midnight and went home.
Paul was asleep in their bed when she arrived. She smelled alcohol on his breath, but shook him, calling his name until he awoke, his legs thrashing as he was yanked from dark oblivion.
“What is it? What?” His words were slurred.
“Paul, get up! It’s important. Listen to me—the babies you discharged today …”
“Babies?” His voice faded as he closed his eyes again. “Always dis …”
“Do you know what you did?”
He struggled to open his eyes, staring at her uncomprehendingly.
“Get out of bed,” she commanded.
Violet made a pot of coffee as he roused himself and came into the kitchen. She didn’t say anything until they were seated at the table, cups of hot coffee in front of them, her husband more alert.
“What’s the emergency?” Paul asked, taking a gulp of coffee. “I’m listening.”
Violet paused, wondering how to begin. “In the morning, you sent home a family from New York named Lawrence with their baby, Rachel.”
“Okay,” Paul nodded, “makes sense. I don’t remember their name, but okay. Why is that a problem?”
“Because the baby they took home wasn’t their baby. They took Rachel King, the Amish baby that was delivered near midnight yesterday.”
The color drained from his face. “No, no. That can’t be.”
“This afternoon,” she continued, “you sent the New York baby, Rachel Lawrence, home with the other set of parents, an Amish family from here named King. You mixed up the babies and sent them off with the wrong families.”
Her husband shook his head in frantic disbelief. “Oh, no, that’s impossible. I would never … I would have double-checked … I always do.”
Violet said nothing.
He leaned his head against one hand, going over what he could remember of the two discharges. “I followed procedures, checked the mother’s ID, the baby’s …” He paused. “Didn’t I check them both?” he muttered. “I know I did for the baby in the morning.”
“The babies were both named Rachel. Do you remember that?”
He continued to think, then raised his eyes, which were filled with fear. “That must have been it, the first names. I must have glanced at the first name and not really taken in the last name. And I was rushing, I remember now. But, still …”
Neither one of them spoke for a few moments.
“Violet, what am I going to do? We have to make this right.” His words came pouring out. “I have to call the hospital.” He got up from the table.
“Paul, stop. Listen to me for a minute. Please.”
“What? Yes, you’re right, it’s too late. It’ll have to wait until the morning.” He sat down again.
She reached over to take his hand in hers. “You understand this will be the last straw at the hospital. And the end of your practicing medicine.”
He stared at her.
“I just want to make sure you understand,” she said as gently as she could.
“But if we make it right, and everybody is okay with it …”
She shook her head. “Come on, Paul. Be realistic.”
He nodded, biting his lip, thinking. Finally, he gave her a sad smile. “I don’t think I could stand that, Violet, you know?”
“Yes. I do know.”
“So where does that leave us?”
She paused, steeling herself to say it all aloud. “There are only two choices that I can think of. You can tell the hospital and sort it out, which means you will be finished as a doctor. Actually, we’d probably have to move away from here altogether. I can’t see either of us staying with everyone knowing.”
“And the other choice?” he whispered.
Her eyes filled with pain. “We say nothing. We let the mistake stand, and hope no one ever figures it out. The families don’t know they have the wrong babies, and they’ll just raise them as their own.”
“We couldn’t. No. We couldn’t do that.”
They sat there, the kitchen clock’s ticking suddenly unbearably loud.
Paul was first to break the silence. He spoke slowly. “If I had a second chance, I can tell you one thing. I would never, never touch another drop of alcohol for the rest of my life.”
She closed her eyes. The decision had been made.
The two of them never discussed it again. He kept his vow not to drink, from that moment until twenty-six years later when he died. She never stopped thinking about those two babies. Every Sunday, she went to church to pray that the mistake had been part of a larger plan. It had saved her husband, of that she was sure. Maybe it required something so awful to do it, but she wanted to believe saving him was in the service of something bigger. He went on to save the lives of so many children over the years. Perhaps that was the reason he was spared from his self-destructive ways.
Even after Paul died, Violet didn’t tell a soul what happened in the hospital all those years ago. Now, though, she was dying, and when she died, the truth would go with her. It was time to tell those babies—grown women now—what had happened.
Seated at her husband’s desk, squinting in the dim light, she picked up a pen and reached for one of the pieces of stationery. Her fingers were stiff with age, so she wrote slowly.
Dear Rachel,
You wouldn’t recognize my name, but I was a nurse at the hospital where you were born in Lancaster
, Pennsylvania …
To Mark, Jenna,
and Carly
for whom I am grateful each and every day
And
for Jean Katz
we battle the darkness of sorrow
with the brilliant light of loving memory
Acknowledgments
It is a lucky writer who has the good fortune to have colleagues who are also friends. I have known and collaborated on many projects with my agent, Victoria Skurnick, for over two decades. She is supremely generous in deed and spirit, fantastically smart, and the most kindhearted person I know. She can also make me laugh until I cry, one of my favorite qualities in a person. In good times, she is the first to applaud me, and in bad, the first to extend a helping hand. It is a true privilege to call her my friend.
A special thank-you goes to Sharon Fantera, who is the godmother of this book and without whom it would not exist.
My editor, Linda Marrow, has been fantastic in every way, from her early support to her encouragement and wise suggestions. She is all you could want in an editor—plus, we had fun. I am thrilled and grateful that I had this opportunity to work with her.
I hope my husband and children know how touched I have been by their tireless cheerleading and their desire to help in whatever way I asked. Sharing this experience with you three has made it that much more meaningful. I love you with all my heart.
About the Author
CYNTHIA KELLER lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.
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