The Room Two Doors Away

For six years, I had lived and worked in one of the coldest places on earth, where the wind could sting your cheeks through a scarf and a cup of coffee cooled before you had crossed the station yard. I had learned to sleep through rattling windows, to make a meal out of powdered eggs, and to keep my sense of humor when a storm pinned our research team indoors for days.

Still, none of that prepared me for the cold that settled in when my parents spent nine hours in my younger sister’s hospital room and never came to see me.

My sister, Marissa, and I gave birth on the same Thursday in October, at the same hospital in Portland, Maine. Her son arrived in the morning; my daughter, Nora, came later that afternoon, after a long labor that left me aching and worn down to the bone. Our rooms were only two doors apart, with a linen closet between them.

My parents, Frank and Elaine, had been with Marissa since early morning. They brought flowers, balloons, sandwiches, a stuffed giraffe, and a cake decorated with blue frosting and the words Welcome, Little Prince. I tried not to dwell on the fact that nobody had thought to bring so much as a card for Nora. I had spent the previous four years sending my parents twelve hundred dollars each month to help with their mortgage, and I was still paying it. Yet somehow, on the day both their daughters had children, only one grandchild seemed to have crossed their minds.

At about six that evening, I called my mother. Nora slept in the bassinet beside me, her pink cap snug over her tiny head.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom said when she finally answered. I could hear people laughing behind her, then Marissa complaining that Dad was taking pictures of her swollen ankles.

I tried to keep my voice even. “Are you coming to see us?”

There was a pause. “Oh, honey. We’re just exhausted. We’ve been here since this morning.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve been here since this morning, too.”

Mom sighed as if I had asked her to make a difficult trip across the state. “Marissa had a very hard day.”

I looked down at the hospital bracelet on my wrist. “So did I. I had Nora this afternoon.”

“I know that, Claire.”

“Then why haven’t you walked down the hall?”

Dad’s voice came from somewhere near the phone. “Tell her we’re tired!”

Mom tried to cover the receiver, but he was too loud to miss.

“She can hear you, Frank.”

“Good. Maybe she’ll understand.”

He took the phone. “Claire, we’ve been sitting in these hospital chairs for nine hours. Do you have any idea how draining that is?”

I stared at the ceiling tiles and felt a humorless laugh rise in my throat. “I just gave birth, Dad. I’m not sure this needs to become a contest.”

He made a dismissive sound. “You’ve always been independent.”

In my family, independent meant I could be counted on to manage without anyone checking whether I wanted help. I had been independent when my parents forgot to pick me up from a science fair, when I worked my way through college, and when Dad needed money to replace the furnace. Apparently, I was independent enough to have a baby without my parents coming to meet her.

I ended the call, and then I cried quietly, because I was too tired for anything more dramatic. My nurse, a kind, no-nonsense woman named Paula, came in while I was trying to settle Nora. She checked the baby’s temperature, helped me adjust the blanket, and glanced at the empty chairs by my bed.

“Your parents are in your sister’s room?”

I nodded.

Paula’s eyes softened. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Nora.”

“That’s lovely. Do they know it?”

I looked at my silent phone. “They know I had a baby. I’m not sure they know which room she’s in.”

Paula gave me a look that suggested she understood more than I had said. She told me she would check on something, then left to refill my water.

My husband, Matthew, had gone to the cafeteria for food. He had been gone longer than expected when he finally returned, empty-handed and pale.

“What happened?” I asked.

He pulled a chair up beside the bed. “I heard your mother talking in Marissa’s room. She told your dad to take your car from the hospital garage tonight. She said they still have the spare key.”

I felt my stomach tighten. I had given my parents a spare set years earlier, in case of a house emergency.

“Why do they want my car?”

“Marissa’s lease is up, and apparently they think she can use yours. But that’s not all.” He lowered his voice. “They were talking about moving Marissa, her husband, and the baby into our house while you’re here. Your mother said you’ll be going back to the research station eventually and won’t need all three bedrooms.”

I stared at him, not quite able to take in the words. Our house was our home, the place Matthew and I had worked hard to make ready for Nora. My parents had decided that my sister could move into it without asking me.

Before I could answer, Paula returned. Her expression had changed.

“Claire, I need to tell you something. Earlier, while you were in labor, your mother came to the nurses’ station and asked whether a grandparent could sign paperwork to take a baby home if the mother was too tired to care for her.”

The monitor beside me began beeping faster.

“She asked to take Nora?”

“She said you worked overseas and that she was making arrangements for you. We explained that only a legal guardian can authorize discharge. I need to know whether you want anyone besides your husband on your visitor list.”

I looked at Matthew, who had gone very still. I understood then that the plan for our house was only part of what my mother had imagined she could arrange.

“Please remove my parents and my sister from the visitor list,” I said. “And put in Nora’s file that she can leave only with Matthew or me.”

Paula nodded and began writing.

“Also, could you tell my mother I want the spare keys returned?” I added. “And please let the social worker know what she asked about taking Nora.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Paula said.

She had barely left when my mother came rushing into the room, clutching a plastic cake knife smeared with blue frosting.

“Claire, what have you been telling these people?”

Paula appeared right behind her. “Ma’am, she has asked you not to come in.”

Mom ignored her and looked at me. She still hadn’t glanced at Nora.

“Did you tell the hospital I was trying to take your baby?”

“I told them I hadn’t authorized anyone else to make decisions about Nora.”

“I was trying to help!”