The Mother Who Asked the Wrong Question
Chapter 03 - The Mother Who Asked the Wrong Question
Adrian did not answer his mother immediately.
That was how Elina knew the call mattered.
Celeste Valenti’s voice came again.
“Adrian?”
He looked at Elina.
Then said:
“What waitress?”
A pause.
Too long.
“From Orelio.”
“How do you know I’m here?”
His mother recovered quickly.
“Nico told someone.”
Nico shook his head.
Adrian saw.
“No.”
Silence.
Celeste’s voice sharpened.
“Bring Leo home.”
“I will.”
“And stay away from the waitress.”
Elina’s stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Celeste sighed.
“Because grief makes men stupid.”
Adrian’s face became still.
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
He had started using Elina’s sentences.
Interesting.
Celeste changed tactics.
“Sofia is dead.”
Elina felt the words physically.
“Do not turn another woman into her because she has dark hair.”
Adrian looked at Elina.
“She shares Sofia’s birthday.”
Silence.
“Same hospital.”
Another silence.
Celeste hung up.
No goodbye.
Adrian lowered the phone.
Nico said:
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
Elina looked at him.
“Who is she?”
“My mother.”
“That was not what I meant.”
Adrian almost smiled without humor.
“Celeste Valenti. Chair of the Valenti Foundation. Former nurse.”
Elina froze.
“Nurse where?”
Adrian saw it.
“St. Agnes.”
There.
Twenty-eight years ago, Celeste had worked in obstetrics at the hospital where both Elina and Sofia were born.
No one spoke.
Emilio whispered:
“Jesus.”
Elina sat.
“My mother knew her?”
“Maybe.”
Adrian corrected himself before she could.
“She may have.”
Better.
Police secured Elina’s apartment.
Nothing stolen.
That was worse.
The intruder had searched carefully.
Birth certificate.
Old photographs.
Her mother Teresa’s medical folder.
Those had been moved.
Not taken.
Looking.
Elina called Teresa.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Panic rose.
Her mother lived forty minutes away in Cranston.
Retired seamstress.
Arthritic hands.
Hated smartphones.
Adrian said:
“Let police check.”
“Yes.”
Not his men.
Good.
Officers found Teresa asleep.
Safe.
Her phone charging in the kitchen.
When Elina arrived, her mother opened the door wearing an old robe and immediately knew something had happened.
“Elina?”
Elina stepped inside.
Adrian stayed outside.
Her choice.
Teresa looked through the curtain.
“Who is that?”
“You know.”
Her mother’s face changed.
There.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Elina’s stomach dropped.
“You know Adrian Valenti.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I know the family.”
“How?”
Teresa sat.
Slowly.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Elina.”
“Was I a twin?”
The room became silent.
Teresa closed her eyes.
Elina stopped breathing.
“Oh my God.”
“Elina—”
“I was.”
“Yes.”
The answer was barely sound.
She laughed once.
Then began crying.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother’s face collapsed.
“Because I thought she died.”
“Sofia.”
Teresa looked up.
“You know her name.”
“She was alive.”
“What?”
The shock looked real.
Elina stared.
“She was adopted.”
Teresa covered her mouth.
“No.”
“She married Adrian Valenti.”
“No.”
“She had a baby.”
Teresa began to shake.
Elina hated herself for continuing.
“She died seven months ago.”
Her mother made a sound Elina had never heard from her.
Not grief for someone known.
Grief for someone lost twice.
Elina sat finally.
Teresa looked at her hands.
“They told me she died.”
“Who?”
“The hospital.”
“Celeste?”
Her mother’s head lifted.
“You know Celeste.”
“She was a nurse there.”
Teresa’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Teresa swallowed.
She had been twenty-two.
Unmarried.
Working at a laundry.
Twins delivered early.
One healthy enough to stay with her.
One taken to neonatal care.
“Sofia?”
“They did not call her that.”
“What did you call her?”
Teresa began crying.
“Marisol.”
The name sat between them.
Not Sofia.
Marisol.
The first name her biological mother gave her before somebody erased it.
“Who told you she died?”
“Dr. Samuel Rossi.”
Elina knew the surname.
Sofia’s adoptive surname before marriage had been Rossi.
Her skin went cold.
“Rossi.”
Teresa looked confused.
“What?”
“Sofia’s adoptive father was Vincent Rossi.”
Silence.
Dr. Samuel Rossi.
Vincent Rossi.
Same family?
Adrian entered only when Elina called him.
He stood near the door.
Teresa looked at him with fear.
He stopped.
“I won’t come closer.”
Good.
Elina asked:
“Who was Samuel Rossi?”
Adrian’s face changed.
“Sofia’s grandfather.”
There.
Sofia’s adoptive grandfather had been the doctor who told Teresa her baby died.
Not random.
Not error.
A family.
Teresa stared.
“He took her.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“Evidence suggests that.”
Elina looked at him sharply.
Better.
Not certainty yet.
Teresa began recounting that night.
A nurse named Celeste had been kind to her.
Brought water.
Held her hand.
Told her one baby was strong.
Then disappeared for hours.
Later Dr. Rossi said the second infant had died from respiratory failure.
No body shown.
No funeral.
Hospital handled remains.
Teresa had been too poor.
Too young.
Too sedated.
Too ashamed to fight.
Elina looked at Adrian.
“Your mother was there.”
“Yes.”
“Did she help?”
“I don’t know.”
The words were becoming unbearable.
Teresa suddenly stood.
“I have something.”
She went to the bedroom.
Returned with a small metal sewing tin.
Inside:
Elina’s hospital bracelet.
One faded newborn card.
And a second bracelet.
BABY B — VALDEZ.
Elina’s hands shook.
“They gave you this?”
“No.”
Teresa looked toward Adrian.
“Celeste did.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Two weeks after the birth.”
“What did she say?”
“That I should keep it in case anybody ever asked questions.”
Adrian went completely still.
His mother had known.
Maybe regretted.
Maybe participated.
Both were possible.
Then Elina noticed something tucked beneath the bracelet.
A business card.
Old.
Yellowed.
ST. AGNES OBSTETRICS — CELESTE MARINO, RN.
On the back, Celeste had written one sentence.
I AM SORRY I WAS TOO AFRAID TO STOP HIM.
Elina read it aloud.
Adrian closed his eyes.
The villain did not simplify.
Celeste may have helped take Sofia.
She may also have tried, too late, to leave evidence.
Then the front window shattered.
Everyone dropped.
Adrian moved toward Elina.
Stopped before pulling her.
“Floor.”
This time she obeyed because glass was falling.
Police outside shouted.
One shot.
Then tires.
No one inside was hit.
A bullet had struck the wall above Teresa’s sewing machine.
Pinned beneath it was a note.
Adrian read it after officers cleared the room.
STOP DIGGING UP DEAD CHILDREN.
Elina looked at the BABY B bracelet in her hand.
May you like
The person who had searched her apartment was no longer trying to frighten her quietly.
And somebody had just fired into her mother’s home to keep a twenty-eight-year-old birth record buried.
