“Yes.”
She opened the folder.
“The county child-welfare office, the neonatal attending, and risk management have all authorized it.”
The administrator accepted the documents.
My supervisor's jaw set.
“No one passed this information to maternity.”
“I'm aware.”
“Four outside visitors were escorted through a secured corridor.”
Linda indicated their identification.
“They're licensed foster caregivers with authorization to be here.”
“All of them?” the administrator asked Hank.
Hank took out his license.
“Yes, sir.”
After examining the paperwork, the administrator looked at Sophie, then at Dorothy. His expression became less severe.
“Very well.”
My supervisor released a measured breath.
“We'll make sure the documentation is complete.”
At last, my shoulders relaxed.
Dorothy gave a faint laugh, little more than a breath escaping.
“I was sure they'd come.”
The administrator turned to her.
“You're acquainted with these men?”
She looked at Hank.
“Have been for years and years.”
His posture stiffened.
“Dorothy…”
She smiled at him.
“There's no reason to look so anxious.”
Ray brushed tears from his face.
“Do you still remember us?”
“Your names, no.”
He laughed.
“But I remember a bunch of silly boys revving their motorcycles outside my community center.”
Marcus grinned.
“We were grown men.”
“You were fools.”
All four laughed, Hank among them.
Dorothy looked at me again.
“People can become different.”
Her gaze moved toward my birthmark.
“And sometimes they find their way back.”
No one appeared to understand her meaning. I certainly didn't.
About an hour later, her condition suddenly worsened.
Staff gathered around her bed, and the bikers moved back without being asked. Linda nodded before Caleb lifted Sophie from Dorothy's arms.
Hank put his red bandana back on. Ray waited beside the wall, his hands tightened into fists.
As soon as Sophie was taken away, she began crying. We could still hear her as we walked into the corridor.
I headed back downstairs, or at least attempted to.
My supervisor had plenty to say to me. Most of the lecture was deserved.
When she finished, she lowered her voice.
“In your position, I'd probably have done it too.”
CHAPTER 8
Three hours afterward, Linda asked me to return upstairs.
Dorothy wanted to see us. This time, she hadn't asked for Sophie. She wanted the four men and me.
Room 304 was dimmer now. Long spaces separated Dorothy's breaths.
Hank stood at her bedside.
“Evelyn's here, as you asked.”
Dorothy's eyelids rose.
“Yes.”
I approached and took the hand she moved from beneath the covers.
She studied me.
“Were your parents kind to you?”
I frowned.
“My parents?”
“The ones who brought you up.”
“They were wonderful people.”
“Both of them?”
“Dad is still living.”
“Your mother?”
“She died four years ago.”
Tears gathered in Dorothy's eyes.
“Did she give you love?”
“More than I could ever describe.”
Dorothy smiled.
“I'm glad.”
My confusion deepened.
“Why do you want to know?”
Rather than answering, she looked at Hank.
“The box.”
His expression closed immediately.
“Dorothy.”
“The box,” she said again.
He shut his eyes, then nodded.
“What box are you talking about?”
Neither answered.
Dorothy fought to draw breath, glancing toward the door through which Sophie had been carried.
“Only promise what you're able to do.”
Hank bent toward her.
“What would you like us to do, ma'am?”
“Tell Sophie…”
She stopped, and we waited.
“Tell her she had my love before she was ever in my arms.”
Hank's eyes filled.
“She'll know.”
Then Dorothy looked straight at me and said one final thing I couldn't make sense of.
“Tell Evelyn that she came first.”
Something tightened inside my chest.
“First in what way?”
But Dorothy had closed her eyes.
Only minutes afterward, at 2:41 that afternoon, Dorothy Chen passed away.
There was no dramatic alarm or sudden last rush around the bed.
She breathed once, then again.
And then she didn't.
Afterward, the bikers waited outside. Each removed his leather vest and folded it over an arm while the hospital staff completed their work.
No photographs were taken. No speeches followed. None of the men tried to become the center of Dorothy's farewell.
Hank settled into a plastic chair in the corridor, forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.
I stopped in front of him.
“What was she talking about?”
He glanced up.
“Which part?”
“You already know.”
He passed a hand over his beard.
“She was very ill.”
“Please don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Act as if you have no idea what I mean.”
I gestured behind my ear.
“She knew my birthmark. She wanted to know my birthday.”
He remained quiet.
“And she hummed a tune my mother used to sing to me.”
Hank rose slowly.
“Evelyn…”
“What took place on June fourteenth, 1988?”
He stopped.
“The date stitched on your vest. What happened?”
Suddenly, he seemed much older.
“Hank. Tell me.”
“I gave Dorothy my word.”
“About what?”
“That I wouldn't tell you anything unless she gave me permission.”
“She just did.”
His jaw tightened.
“She mentioned the box.”
“Yes.”
He looked down the corridor toward Linda. When she saw us looking, uneasiness crossed her face.
“Do you know about this?” I asked her.
“No,” she said at once. “But three days ago, Dorothy left something with me.”
She searched her bag and approached with a small key made of brass.
A strip of white tape encircled it. Two words were written on it in unsteady blue lettering.
FOR EVELYN.
My pulse began racing.
“What is it a key to?”
“I honestly don't know.”
Hank did know. His face told me that much.
“Where can I find the box?”
He glanced toward the elevators.
“Somewhere else.”
Dorothy had died only moments earlier. Yet the deepest secret attached to Room 304 still lay waiting beyond the hospital.