“If I had something to hide, why wouldn’t I go to a different hospital where no one knows me?”
Tomalewicz turns to Potts, gesturing at the bottles full of Rose Gold’s breast milk. “Let’s pack these up and get them tested.”
At her command, Potts repacks the diaper bag. He drifts out of the room with the bottles and Rose Gold’s iPhone. I watch him go in disbelief.
“I haven’t spoken to Billy Gillespie in twenty-five years,” I protest. “I didn’t even know Rose Gold knew his real name. I didn’t know about any of this.”
Tomalewicz uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Yes, we know all about your long record of claiming innocence. You’re never guilty of anything,” she says. “It’s always everyone else’s fault. Funny, the justice system didn’t agree.”
I have a decision to make, but not a lot of time to make it. My instinct is—always has been—to deny, deny, deny. But I realize the gravity of the charges I could be facing: kidnapping, aggravated child abuse a second time, and I don’t know what else. I’m backed into a corner. I take a deep breath.
The words tumble out. “Okay, I admit I sometimes mistreated Rose Gold when she was a child,” I say.
I expect a flood of relief in finally saying the words out loud. I’ve been holding this in for so long, pretending I’m innocent, acting like I didn’t know any better. But all I feel is empty, defeated, a loser. No one would ever smile at me or pat me on the back again, tell me I was good enough, even great once in a while. Superhuman mother is the one role I know how to play. Without it, I am nobody.
I swallow hard. “But I have never, ever abused Adam—I mean, Luke. I had no idea he was kidnapped.”
The door to the room swings open. Mary Stone barges in, irate. “I knew you were guilty!” she shrieks. “We all did. We knew you hurt Rose Gold then, and now you’ve done it again. What did you do with her, you monster?”
Tomalewicz jumps to her feet, alarmed by the intrusion. She puts a hand on Mary’s arm. “Mrs. Stone, I told you to wait in the lobby,” she says calmly. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Mary rips her arm from Tomalewicz’s grip and keeps raving, jabbing a finger at me. “You poisoned them both and then killed Rose Gold. You wanted her out of the way so you could ruin that poor baby’s life the same way you ruined hers. She told me all about you in her letter. And when she started standing up to you, you destroyed her.”
Mary bursts into tears.
Tomalewicz speaks into her radio, “Welch and Mitchell to room sixteen.”
“I didn’t see Rose Gold for a month after the baby was born,” Mary cried. “She told me she had to go to a hospital in Springfield because of pregnancy complications. Where is she?”
Mary’s rants have woken Adam. He starts to cry too.
“The baby,” she shouts, reaching for him with red-rimmed eyes and snot running down her face. Tomalewicz plants herself in front of Adam, blocking both of us from him.
“That poor, poor baby,” Mary wails, folding herself in half with sobs.
Two more officers enter the room. Their eyes go straight to Mary. One of them turns to Tomalewicz for confirmation. She gives a short nod. The officer holds Mary by the arm, helping her stand upright.
“Let’s go, ma’am,” he says, pushing her toward the door. I can still hear her shrieks once the door has closed.
Tomalewicz addresses the other officer. “Get Dr. Soukup or a nurse for the baby.”
The officer nods and leaves. Thirty seconds later, Janet—our original nurse—rushes through the door.
Tomalewicz nods at Janet. “We suspect the baby has been poisoned with ipecac syrup. I’m not sure what testing or treatments should be done—”
Janet interrupts, smooth and confident. “We’ll take care of him.”
She strides to the cot. When she tucks Adam—Luke—into her arms, my stomach heaves. She whispers to him as she heads for the door, trying to calm his tired cries. Shifting him to one arm, she opens the door. Before she takes my baby away from me forever, she gives me an evil look, one full of hatred and disgust. Then she is gone, and so is Adam—I mean Luke.
The room is silent.
I am numb.
Tomalewicz and I don’t wait long before the two officers reenter. I spot the handcuffs right away. I put my hands behind my back while the officers cuff me.
“I’m innocent,” I protest. “I’m telling you the truth!”
Tomalewicz begins reading me my rights, but I don’t listen. The accused don’t have any rights. Innocent until proven guilty? What a load of horse hockey.
Tomalewicz keeps talking. “These officers will escort you to the station. I’d love to take you myself, but I have an important call to make to the Fairfield Police Department. I think we’re about to make an entire town very happy.”
But Rose Gold visited me while pregnant. She pumped all that milk. She thought her father was dead, that his name was Grant. I never used my bottle of ipecac. None of this makes any sense.
“You need to find my daughter,” I say. “She has the answers you want.”
Tomalewicz pierces me again with those vulture eyes. “Trust me, we’ll find her.”
She nods at the other officers and leaves.
The officers escort me out of the patient’s room and into the hallway. I keep my eyes glued to the tile floor, hoping Tom is either on a lunch break or fell through the earth’s crust and is boiling somewhere in its inner core. We shuffle toward the exit. I see the stares but am too shocked to be humiliated.
Adam’s name is Luke. My grandson is Billy’s son. I don’t have a grandson.
The police car has already been pulled up to the front doors of the hospital. One of the officers guides me into the backseat while the other gets behind the wheel. Their faces are a blur. Their words are a blur. This car is a blur. All of it, this whole town, is one big whirly blur. I try to reason my way out of this, try to string a coherent thought together. I have only one.
The little bitch set me up.
28
Rose Gold
Of course I set her up.
You’ve wanted to do the same. You have lain in bed at night thinking of all the exquisite ways you could punish the person who wronged you. You know the one—even now, their face hovers in your mind. If only, you think, not daring to finish the thought.
The difference between you and me is follow-through. I made it happen.