PART 3 — WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE
I sat in the hospital waiting room while Mom drove there.
Every few minutes, I looked through the glass doors toward the treatment area.
The baby was being examined.
The police had taken my brother away.
And I was sitting there trying to understand how something I had never remembered could somehow explain what had happened in my own bathroom.
A nurse eventually came out.
“Are you the baby’s aunt?”
“Yes.”
“He’s stable.”
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“But the doctor would like to speak with the family.”
“Is he badly injured?”
“The baby wasn’t submerged,” she said carefully. “There are areas of irritated skin, but we’re treating him.”
I thanked her.
Then she walked away.
Ten minutes later, Mom arrived.
She looked older than she had that morning.
She sat beside me and held both hands together.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
Mom stared at the floor.
“Your brother was six when he found the photograph. He came running to me, crying.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked why you had red stains on your body.”
I frowned.
“And what did you tell him?”
“That they were birthmarks.”
“Then why was he afraid of them?”
“Because our father told him they were a warning.”
I stared at her.
“A warning of what?”
Mom shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I knew what your father believed. That doesn’t mean I believed it.”
“What did Dad believe?”
Mom looked toward the hospital room.
“He believed the marks meant something was wrong with a child.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“I know.”
“Mom, my brother nearly killed his own baby because of these marks.”
“I know.”
“So stop protecting Dad.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I am not protecting him.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
She finally looked at me.
“Your brother saw something else that day.”
“What?”
“A second photograph.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Whose?”
“Your aunt’s.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Our aunt had died before I was born.
Mom had always said she was sick.
But now I realized there were details about her life I’d never questioned.
“What was in the photograph?”
Mom swallowed.
“She had the same marks.”
“Was she a baby?”
“No.”
That answer frightened me more than I expected.
“How old was she?”
“Twenty-two.”
I stared at Mom.
“So you’re saying the marks appeared later?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Mom shook her head.
“I’m saying they were there when she was born, and they never disappeared.”
I looked down at my hands.
“What happened to her?”
Mom’s silence was answer enough.
“She died?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Mom looked away.
“That is the part your father never wanted us discussing.”
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