Chapter 2 - The Woman From Room 417
Anton did not move.
For several seconds Delia wondered whether he had even heard Donovan.
Then his jaw tightened.
“My mother?”
Donovan nodded.
“There isn't enough information in the digital summary. Just a note saying a family representative declined continued volunteer contact.”
“You said my mother.”
“Her name appears beside the decision.”
Anton glanced at the triplets.
Still sleeping.
The children had arrived at Bayou Grace screaming so violently that half the restaurant had wanted to leave.
Now Matteo's cheek rested against his blanket.
Nico's small fist remained curled beside his chin.
Lucia slept with her lips parted.
Delia knew that expression.
She had watched it beneath fluorescent hospital lights.
The realization made her knees weak.
Anton pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
Delia immediately bristled.
“Don't order me around.”
His expression shifted.
“Please.”
That was different.
She sat.
The restaurant gradually returned to life around them, though everyone was pretending not to listen.
Anton sat across from her.
“What exactly did you do at Ochsner?”
“Volunteer infant comfort care.”
“For how long?”
“Several months.”
“Did you know my wife?”
“No.”
“Did you know who the babies were?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ever say Marchetti?”
“No.”
Anton studied her face carefully.
Delia leaned forward.
“You can ask me the same question seventeen different ways. I still won't suddenly remember something that didn't happen.”
“I need to understand.”
“So do I.”
The nanny introduced herself quietly.
“I'm Erin.”
Delia nodded.
“Delia.”
“I know.”
Erin glanced at the sleeping triplets.
“I've been with them eight days.”
“That's longer than most.”
Erin gave a nervous laugh.
“You've heard?”
“Everybody's heard.”
Anton looked irritated.
“Apparently my children's childcare history is public entertainment.”
Delia raised an eyebrow.
“You're Anton Marchetti. People probably know what toothpaste you buy.”
“I don't buy toothpaste.”
“Of course you don't.”
For the first time, something almost resembling amusement touched his face.
Then it vanished.
Donovan approached.
“The original paper file may still exist.”
“Get it.”
“I already requested access.”
Delia crossed her arms.
“You can just request hospital records?”
“Not yours.”
“And the babies'?”
“Anton is their legal guardian.”
That answer settled her slightly.
Anton looked at his watch.
“We're leaving.”
Delia stood.
“So am I.”
Lucia woke immediately.
Her face crumpled.
“Mama.”
Delia closed her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She crouched beside the stroller.
“I'm not your mama.”
The baby reached for her.
Something inside Delia cracked.
She touched Lucia's hand.
“Your mama loved you very much.”
Anton looked away.
Delia realized too late what she had said.
“I'm sorry.”
He didn't answer for a moment.
“Her name was Isabella.”
“I know.”
“You knew that?”
“Everyone in New Orleans knew about the accident.”
Anton nodded.
His gaze remained fixed on Lucia.
“She never got to hold them.”
Delia's throat tightened.
“I held them.”
He looked at her.
Delia continued softly.
“Apparently.”
Anton took a slow breath.
Then nodded once.
“Thank you.”
Two words.
Nothing dramatic.
Yet Delia felt them somewhere under her ribs.
She straightened.
“You don't owe me anything.”
“I owe anyone who kept my children from being alone.”
Before she could answer, Matteo woke.
Then Nico.
Both began fussing.
Delia instinctively hummed.
Instant silence.
Anton closed his eyes.
This time the evidence was impossible to dismiss.
Twenty minutes later, Delia stood outside the diner watching a black SUV disappear into the French Quarter.
She should have felt relieved.
Instead she felt as though something had driven away with part of her.
Frank appeared beside her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Offer you money?”
“No.”
“Ask you to marry him?”
Delia glared.
Frank raised both hands.
“Just checking.”
She went inside.
For the rest of her shift, Delia moved automatically.
Coffee.
Pie.
Gumbo.
Checks.
Smile.
Thank you.
Have a good night.
But every time she passed the corner booth, she saw three babies under hospital blankets.
Room 417.
That number surfaced unexpectedly.
Delia stopped beside the coffee machine.
Room 417.
The triplets had been in 417 for part of their stay.
She remembered.
The little girl had a yellow knitted hat.
One boy had needed oxygen longer.
The other hated having his feet covered.
Delia pressed a hand against the counter.
“Oh my God.”
She remembered them.
Not as Marchettis.
As three fragile strangers she had loved anonymously.
When her shift ended after midnight, she drove to her small apartment in Mid-City.
She opened the closet.
At the back sat a cardboard box she hadn't touched in months.
Inside were old volunteer badges, hospital orientation papers, grief group pamphlets and a folded red scarf she used to wear during winter shifts.
She found her Ochsner badge.
DELIA MARSH.
VOLUNTEER.
Her photograph showed a woman who looked older despite being eighteen months younger.
Grief did that.
She sat on the floor holding the badge.
Then she found a small notebook.
Volunteers were forbidden from recording identifying patient information.
But Delia had written vague reminders.
March 11 — Baby B finally slept through humming.
March 14 — Girl squeezed finger. Strong today.
March 19 — All three stable. Best night yet.
She covered her mouth.
Tears came.
Not because she was sad.
Not exactly.
Those babies had lived.
The three infants she had wondered about had survived.
And today they had looked at her.
They had recognized something.
Maybe not her face.
Maybe only the feeling.
The sound.
Safety.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Delia almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
“Miss Marsh.”
Anton.
“How did you get my number?”
“Donovan.”
“That's creepy.”
“I'll tell him.”
“You should.”
A pause.
Then Anton said, “I found the file.”
Delia sat straighter.
“And?”
“It's incomplete.”
“What does that mean?”
“Pages are missing.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Hospital files don't just lose pages.”
“Exactly.”
“What was there?”
“A developmental note from a neonatal specialist.”
“And?”
Anton sounded angry now.
Not at her.
“At discharge, the babies showed a strong calming response to one recurring volunteer.”
Delia looked at the notebook in her hands.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The specialist recommended supervised transition visits for several weeks because Isabella was gone and the children had experienced prolonged medical stress.”
Delia felt tears returning.
“They wanted me to keep seeing them?”
“Yes.”
“No one called.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Anton?”
“The next page is missing.”
Delia stood.
“What does your mother say?”
“I haven't asked her yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted facts first.”
That answer surprised her.
Most powerful men she'd met liked conclusions first and facts later.
Anton continued.
“There is one handwritten notation.”
“What?”
He hesitated.
“Continuity volunteer identified as D.M.”
Delia stared at her badge.
“Okay.”
“Below it someone wrote, ‘Do not contact.’”
Cold moved down Delia's spine.
“Who wrote that?”
“We don't know.”
“Then why did Donovan say your mother?”
“Because the electronic authorization used her family access code.”
Delia paced across her living room.
“Could someone else have used it?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't accuse her until you know.”
Anton became quiet.
“You're defending her?”
“No. I'm defending evidence.”
Another pause.
“You surprise me.”
“Get used to disappointment.”
Something very close to a laugh came through the phone.
Then vanished.
“There's something else.”
Delia stopped pacing.
“I don't like when people say that anymore.”
Anton ignored the comment.
“One nurse from the neonatal unit still works at Ochsner.”
“Who?”
“Naomi Beck.”
Delia's heart jumped.
She remembered Naomi.
Kind eyes.
Silver-framed glasses.
The nurse who had once brought Delia tea at three in the morning.
“She remembers me.”
“You're sure?”
“I don't know. But I remember her.”
“She's agreed to meet tomorrow.”
Delia frowned.
“Meet who?”
“Us.”
“No.”
“Delia.”
“I have a shift.”
“I'll compensate the diner.”
“I don't need you buying my time.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”
Anton exhaled.
“Then I'll ask differently.”
She waited.
“Will you come with me?”
Delia looked at the notebook.
The answer should have been no.
Anton Marchetti's world represented everything she avoided.
Power.
Money.
Attention.
Complication.
But this wasn't about him.
Three babies had once slept beneath her hand.
Three babies had spoken because of a sound she made.
“Yes,” she said.
“Ten tomorrow morning.”
“I'll meet you there.”
“My driver—”
“I own a car.”
“Fine.”
“And Anton?”
“Yes?”
“Don't bring an army.”
Another brief silence.
“One security man.”
“Zero.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“You're exhausting.”
“I've been told.”
The call ended.
The next morning, Naomi Beck was waiting in a private consultation room at Ochsner.
She looked older than Delia remembered.
But when Delia entered, Naomi's eyes filled immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Delia barely had time to react before the nurse hugged her.
Anton watched from the doorway.
Naomi stepped back.
“I wondered if you would ever learn.”
Delia frowned.
“Learn what?”
Naomi looked at Anton.
Then at Delia.
“That those three babies were yours.”
Anton stiffened.
“Mine,” he corrected.
Naomi's face changed.
“I meant the babies she cared for.”
Delia's heart pounded.
Naomi pulled out a chair.
“There are things the official file doesn't say.”
Anton sat.
Delia remained standing.
“What things?”
Naomi folded her hands.
“Your children were very difficult to settle after the emergency delivery. That isn't unusual. Premature babies can respond strongly to sound, touch, routine.”
She looked at Delia.
“Then you came.”
Delia swallowed.
Naomi smiled sadly.
“Matteo's oxygen saturation used to improve when you hummed.”
Anton looked stunned.
“Nico stopped fighting his feeding tube whenever your hand was near him.”
Delia blinked away tears.
“And Lucia?”
Naomi's smile deepened.
“Lucia knew your footsteps.”
Delia sat.
She had no words.
Anton spoke quietly.
“Why wasn't I told?”
Naomi's expression hardened.
“You were told.”
Anton froze.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Naomi stood and walked toward a filing cabinet.
“I attended the discharge planning meeting.”
“I wasn't at a discharge planning meeting.”
Naomi slowly turned.
The room became silent.
“You absolutely were supposed to be.”
Anton stared at her.
Naomi pulled out a photocopy.
“I kept this because what happened afterward bothered me.”
She placed it on the table.
A meeting agenda.
Three infant identification numbers.
Medical staff.
Social worker.
Family representative.
And a line near the bottom:
FATHER/GUARDIAN: ANTON MARCHETTI — REMOTE CONSENT RECEIVED.
Anton went pale.
“I never gave remote consent.”
Naomi looked at him.
“Then someone gave it for you.”
Delia leaned closer.
Below Anton's printed name was a signature.
Anton examined it.
His expression changed from confusion to fury.
“That isn't mine.”
Naomi nodded.
“I didn't think so.”
Delia pointed lower.
“What does this mean?”
Continuity recommendation rejected.
Reason: family prefers private in-home staff.
Authorization signature beneath it.
A familiar surname.
Marchetti.
But not Anton's.
Anton stared.
Delia whispered, “Your mother?”
Naomi shook her head.
“No.”
Anton looked closer.
His face hardened.
The signature belonged to someone else.
Vittorio Marchetti.
Anton's uncle.
And beside his name someone had written a handwritten instruction:
May you like
Do not allow the volunteer named Delia Marsh any further contact with the children.
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