2: MISSING PROOF

Layla's POV 

The room was too quiet after Claudia left.

I lay there staring at the white ceiling tiles while the monitors beeped their steady rhythm and tried to make my brain work through the fog of whatever drugs they'd given me.

My daughter was dead.

That's what they'd said.

But where was she?

I pressed the call button and waited, counted the seconds until footsteps approached and a nurse I didn't recognize pushed open the door with a practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Ms Walsh, what can I do for you?"

"I need to know where my baby is," I said and kept my voice as steady as I could manage. "I need to see her."

The nurse's smile faltered for just a second before snapping back into place.

"Let me check on that for you," she said, already backing toward the door. "The paperwork is still being processed and once everything is in order we'll let you know."

"Processed?" I pushed myself up on my elbows even though my body protested. "What does that mean, what paperwork?"

"Just standard administrative things," she said with that same empty smile. "These things take time, you understand."

She was gone before I could ask what things, before I could demand real answers instead of vague reassurances that meant nothing.

I waited ten minutes and pressed the button again.

A different nurse came this time, older with kind eyes that looked tired.

"I need to see my daughter," I said before she could ask what I needed. "Can you tell me where she is?"

"Oh honey," she said and her voice was gentle but her eyes slid away from mine. "They're still getting everything ready and these situations require special handling, there are protocols we have to follow."

"What protocols?" My hands twisted in the sheets. "She's my baby, I have the right to see her."

"Of course you do," the nurse said while checking my IV with movements that seemed designed to avoid looking at my face. "But there are procedures and forms and it's better if you wait until you're feeling stronger, until you're ready."

"I'm ready now," I said but she was already adjusting my pillows, already moving toward the door.

"Just rest," she said. "Someone will come talk to you later about the arrangements."

Later.

Always later.

I counted the minutes, tried to keep track of time but the drugs made everything fuzzy and I kept drifting in and out of a gray space that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't quite awake either.

When I opened my eyes again Claudia was back, sitting in the same chair with a cup of coffee in her hands and concern etched across her perfect face.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I need to see my baby," I said because it was the only thing that mattered, the only thought I could hold onto. "They keep saying later but when is later, where is she?"

"Layla," Claudia set down her coffee and reached for my hand. "You need to think about your health right now, you just went through a traumatic birth and your body needs time to heal."

"I don't care about my body," my voice came out sharper than I intended. "I care about my daughter."

"I know," she said while squeezing my hand. "But pushing yourself like this isn't good for you, the stress could cause complications and you need to rest."

Rest.

Everyone kept telling me to rest like I could sleep while my daughter was somewhere in this hospital and no one would tell me where.

"I want the paperwork," I said. "The death certificate, the forms, whatever documentation there is, I want to see it."

Claudia's face did something complicated, a flicker of something I couldn't name before smoothing back into sympathy.

"They're still preparing everything," she said. "These things take time, there are legal requirements and medical reviews."

"How long?"

"I don't know," she shifted in her chair, crossed her legs. "A few days maybe, possibly longer depending on what the hospital needs to process."

I stared at her and tried to understand why everything felt wrong, why every answer led to more questions instead of clarity.

"Have you seen any forms?" I asked. "Any paperwork at all?"

"No," she said quickly. "But I'm not family so they wouldn't show me anything, it all has to go through you once it's ready."

A knock on the door interrupted whatever I was going to say next and a doctor I hadn't seen before came in with a clipboard and that same professional sympathy everyone seemed to wear like a uniform.

"Ms Walsh," he said. "I wanted to check in and see how you're managing."

"I want to see my baby," I said and I was so tired of repeating myself, so tired of asking the same question and getting nothing back. "Can you tell me where she is?"

"I understand this is difficult," he said while looking at his clipboard instead of at me. "But right now we need to focus on your recovery, you've been through significant physical trauma."

"I don't care about my recovery," I said and my voice was rising even though I tried to keep it steady. "I want to know where my daughter is and why no one will give me a straight answer."

The doctor exchanged a glance with Claudia, another one of those silent communications that made my stomach twist.

"Perhaps we should discuss getting you something to help with the anxiety," he said. "It's very common after a loss like this to feel agitated."

"I'm not agitated," I said even though my hands were shaking. "I'm asking a simple question and no one will answer it."

"The hospital is handling everything according to standard procedures," he said. "You'll be notified when there's something to notify you about."

He left before I could argue, before I could demand better answers, Claudia stood and smoothed her skirt like she was preparing to follow.

"Wait," I said. "Don't go, please, something isn't right."

"Nothing is right," Claudia said gently. "Your baby died, of course things don't feel right."

"No it's more than that," I tried to find the words through the fog in my brain. "Where's the chaplain, where's the grief counselor, why hasn't anyone come to talk to me about funeral arrangements or what happens next?"

"They will," Claudia said while gathering her purse. "When you're stronger, when you're ready to handle those conversations."

"I'm ready now."

"Layla," she moved to the side of the bed, positioned herself between me and the door in a way that felt deliberate. "You need to stop pushing so hard, you're going to make yourself sick and that won't help anyone."

A nurse passed by the open door and I caught a glimpse of her face, saw the way her eyes widened slightly when she looked into my room before she hurried past.

"Excuse me," I called out but she was already gone. "Wait, please."

Claudia stepped further into my line of sight, blocking my view of the hallway.

"You need to rest," she said firmly. "The more you fight this the worse it's going to be."

"Fight what?" I asked. "I'm just asking questions."

"You're obsessing," she said and something in her voice had shifted, something harder underneath the sympathy. "And that's not healthy, you need to let the hospital do their job and trust that everything is being handled properly."

Trust.

She wanted me to trust that everything was being handled when nothing made sense, when every answer created more questions, when my daughter's body was somewhere and no one would tell me where.

I opened my mouth to argue but Claudia was already moving toward the door, already leaving with that same graceful confidence.

"I'll be back tonight," she said. "Try to sleep."

The door closed and I was alone again with the too bright lights and the steady beeping and the crushing weight of questions no one would answer.

I reached for the call button but stopped when I heard voices in the hallway, low and urgent.

"—can't keep putting her off—"

"—not our decision—"

"—someone needs to tell her—"

The voices cut off abruptly and I realized they'd noticed my door was cracked open, realized I might be listening.

Footsteps moved away quickly and the hallway fell silent.

I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, my mind racing through everything that had happened since I woke up.

No crib.

No body.

No forms.

No chaplain.

No grief counselor.

No death certificate.

Just vague promises of later and everyone telling me to rest, telling me to stop asking questions, telling me to trust them.

But how could I trust them when nothing they said made sense?

How could I rest when my daughter was somewhere in this hospital and I didn't know where?

I pressed my hands against my empty stomach and felt the wrongness of it, felt how my body knew something was missing, how my arms ached to hold her.

They said she was dead.

But where was the proof?

Where was anything that confirmed what they'd told me?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember that cry, tried to hold onto the one moment I was sure of, the one thing I knew was real.

She'd been alive.

I'd heard her.

When I opened my eyes again the room was darker, the sun setting outside my window, shadows creeping across the walls.

My chart hung on the wall by the door and I stared at it, stared at the papers clipped there with their medical terminology and timestamps.

But nothing about a death.

Nothing about a baby at all.

There was no death certificate.