Hayden considers this. “Maybe you’re right.”
“She has two other children,” I say. “They’ll keep her busy. And I bet she sues that hospital for millions.”
“That’s not the point, though, is it?” says Hayden.
I lean my head against his shoulder and mesh my fingers with his, brushing my thumb over the hairs on the back of his hand. “You’re right. I’ll wait until she gets home from hospital and give her a call.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Forty-eight hours have passed. The critical time frame. If a missing person isn’t found, or a crime isn’t solved, or a suspect isn’t charged within two days, the chance of success begins to diminish. I’m sure I’ve read that somewhere or seen it on TV.
Ben has been gone for longer than that. Annie and Lisa-Jayne, my police liaison officers, are taking turns sitting with me. They’re “running defense,” keeping the reporters at bay, answering my phone, reading messages, and vetting visitors.
The hospital has transferred me to a different room, away from the maternity ward, so as not to upset other women who are having babies. I’m like a body that has to be removed quickly from an accident scene, or a mistake that has to be hushed up.
Pretending to be asleep, I hear the squeak of the nurses’ shoes and the clatter of a trolley in the corridor outside, the singing of telephones and the droning of the intercom. My imagination projects images on my closed eyelids. I keep seeing Ben being nursed by someone else. Either that or I picture him abandoned on a mountainside like Oedipus, or set adrift like the infant Moses.
At other times I imagine that I can communicate with him telepathically. Not because we share the same DNA, but because I carried him inside me for nine months. We shared blood and nutrients. We listened to each other’s hearts. He heard my voice. You cannot break a bond like that by clamping and cutting a cord or by stealing a baby from his mother.
With each new change of shift, I ask the same question: “Has there been any news?”
“No news is good news,” replies Annie.
“How can no news be good news?”
“It means that whoever took your baby hasn’t panicked and dumped him. She has taken him home. She’ll keep him safe. She’ll look after him.”
I think of Madeleine McCann, the little girl who disappeared in Portugal and has never been found. What if that happens to us? What if they never find Ben? Are we going to spend the rest of our lives wondering, waiting for a knock on the door or a phone call to say that he’s alive or dead?
Annie keeps reminding me that babies are resilient. The doctors say the same thing. One of them told me a story yesterday about a baby who survived in the rubble of an earthquake for ten days. Why are you talking about earthquakes? I wanted to say. What does that have to do with anything?
Annie and Lisa-Jayne are supposed to get as many details from me as possible. In practice, it means they keep asking me the same questions over and over until I get annoyed. Do I have any enemies? Did I notice anyone hanging around the corridors of the hospital?
Meanwhile, outside of these walls, Ben has become more than a name. He is a brand now—a product to sell newspapers and boost ratings. The alliteration works well in headlines: Baby Ben—every mother’s nightmare
Baby Ben—Three more sightings
White van seized in hunt for Baby Ben
Baby Ben—how did he disappear?
Jack shares my uncertainty but we each pretend otherwise. He sits beside my bed or we go downstairs to the café. He’s frustrated at the lack of progress, constantly asking why the police aren’t busting down doors and taking down names. He wants to see posters in every shop window and to hear them shouting Ben’s name from the rooftops.
I am trying so hard not to blame him. I am fighting against the idea, knowing its wrongness and irrationality, but I cannot help myself. He gave our baby to a stranger. He watched someone carry Ben away.
Annie is sitting at a nearby table, giving us some privacy. She’s keeping watch for any reporters who may have sneaked into the hospital looking for an interview or photographs. They are camped outside, dozens of them, sending me letters and notes via nurses and orderlies, offering us money for an exclusive interview. One of the cleaners was caught trying to slip into my room with a disposable camera hidden in his pocket.
Jack and I are sitting at a booth, saying nothing. He has torn the top from a packet of sugar and poured the contents on the plastic table, pushing the grains into small mounds with his forefinger. I wish I could comfort him. I wish he could comfort me.
Two men approach wearing dark gray suits, white shirts, and silk ties.
“I’m Patrick Carmody,” says the younger man, “director of hospital services.”
“Thomas Glenelg,” says the other one, handing Jack his business card.
“I cannot express how sincerely and deeply sorry we are for what’s happened,” says Mr. Carmody. “I am personally shocked and saddened that a newborn baby could be taken from this hospital despite our state-of-the-art security system. Please accept my personal apology.”
Neither of us answers.
Mr. Carmody glances at the other man and continues. “The Churchill is cooperating fully with the police—giving them access to our cameras, our staff, our records. If there is anything else that you feel you need, please let us know.”
“You could resign,” says Jack, deadpan.
Mr. Carmody laughs nervously before recovering his composure. “As well as helping the police, we are reviewing our security. The hospital board has reacted swiftly, approving identity bracelets and movement sensors to prevent this sort of thing from ever happening.”
“?‘This sort of thing,’?” says Jack, mimicking Carmody’s accent. “I rather think that horse has bolted, don’t you? He’s thrown the jockey, kicked down the barn door, and he’s out of sight.”
The administrator tries again. “I understand you’re upset, Mr. Shaughnessy. You have every right to be. We have a proud history at the Churchill. We have delivered thousands of babies and nothing like this has ever happened before. We have very robust security protocols, but no system is foolproof.”
“You’re wrong,” replies Jack, interrupting him. “A maternity hospital should be completely foolproof so that no fool can walk out with someone else’s baby.”
The other man finally speaks. “The Churchill is not your enemy, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
Jack glances at the business card he was given. “You’re a lawyer.”
“My firm represents the hospital.”
“You’re frightened that we’re going to sue.”
“That’s not the reason that we’ve—”
“You’re worried about how much money this is going to cost you.”
“We wish to express our sorrow and sympathy,” says Mr. Carmody.
Jack points to the lawyer. “Did he brief you beforehand—tell you what to say?”
“I don’t think this is helpful—”
Jack pushes back his chair. “Get out!”