The Laminated Card That Matched the One in My Wallet

Saturday at Ashgrove rink. I had Junie’s hand when the soda cup burst across the boy’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t wipe the ice from his neck. Just pulled his sleeve down over his wrist and stared at the rubber matting.

“Nice shot, Reeder,” someone shouted near the concession stand.

I dropped to one knee on the wet tile. “Hey. Look at me. Nothing’s broken, right?”

He reached into his backpack. The zipper stuck, then gave, and a laminated card slid out face-down into the puddle.

I turned it over.

Two inked infant footprints. Brayton Harbor Mercy. The date my son was born. 3:41 a.m. On the back, in my mother’s blue ballpoint: DO NOT LOSE.

My hands shook as I pulled my wallet from my jacket. In the billfold was the identical card I’d carried for nine years, ever since the hospital told me my baby died. Same ink. Same date. Same nurse’s initials.

I laid them side by side on the floor.

He looked down at the twin cards, then up into my face, waiting. My own mother’s handwriting was staring back at me, and I had no legal right to the boy in front of me.