He cleared his throat, still staring down at the baby, his hands visibly starting to shake around her tiny weight.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t take her home.”
PART 3
My voice came out trembling. “Desmond, she’s your daughter. What’s going on?”
He looked directly at Renee first, something desperate and apologetic in his expression, then turned to look straight at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “but I have to give up the baby. I’m not taking her with me.”
He placed Nora gently back into my arms, his hands still shaking, and stepped back from the bed like he needed physical distance from what he’d just done.
Renee’s eyes filled instantly with tears. “Why,” she demanded, her voice climbing toward something close to a scream. “Why can’t we take our daughter home, Desmond? Tell me right now.”
Desmond exhaled hard, his face flushing red now instead of pale, both hands pressed against the sides of his own head like he was trying to physically hold something together.
“Look at her back,” he said. “We can’t do this.”
I looked down at Nora, gently turning her slightly in my arms, and when I saw what he meant, I nearly lost my footing entirely, one hand gripping the hospital bed railing to keep myself upright.
Renee screamed loudly enough that a nurse came rushing through the door within seconds, and I imagine, from the sound of it, half the maternity floor heard her too.
PART 4
Along Nora’s lower back, just above the base of her spine, was a large, dark, irregularly shaped birthmark, roughly the size of my own palm, the pigmentation deep and mottled in a pattern I recognized with a horror that dropped straight through my chest.
It was nearly identical, in size, shape, and location, to the birthmark our mother had carried her entire life, in almost exactly the same spot on her own lower back.