Chapter 2 - Graham Had Two Birth CertificatesFor several seconds, Edmund could not move.
The hallway remained exactly as it had been before Beatrice spoke.
Late-afternoon light through the tall windows.
The old runner carpet Marian had chosen thirty years earlier.
A framed photograph of Graham at twelve hanging beside the staircase.
Nothing physical changed.
Yet Edmund no longer recognized the house.
“What did you say?”
Beatrice’s lips trembled.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Edmund stared at her.
“You should have said something thirty-nine years ago.”
Owen pressed against his side.
“Grandpa?”
Edmund looked down.
The child was watching every adult reaction.
This was not a conversation he wanted Owen to hear.
But after what Beatrice had done, he would not order him away frightened and alone.
He pulled out his phone.
First, he called emergency medical services.
Beatrice looked alarmed.
“I’m fine.”
“It isn’t for you.”
Owen had not swallowed the tablets, as far as he knew.
That still needed confirmation.
Then Edmund called the Newport police.
Beatrice stared.
“You’re calling police?”
“You pinned my grandson to the floor and tried to force medication into his mouth.”
“I wasn’t myself.”
“We’ll let doctors determine that.”
Her expression hardened for one second.
That convinced him more than anything.
While they waited, Edmund gathered every tablet into a small envelope without handling them more than necessary.
He photographed where they had fallen.
Then he photographed Beatrice’s bag and the documents exactly as he had found them.
Graham had taught him to do that.
His son had been meticulous about evidence.
“Never move something before you remember where it was,” Graham once said after a break-in at one of the company warehouses.
Edmund nearly laughed at the memory.
His son.
Was Graham still his son?
The question appeared so suddenly Edmund hated himself for having it.
Of course he was.
Thirty-nine years did not disappear because of one line on paper.
But biology had always been something Edmund assumed.
Now assumption had cracked.
Paramedics examined Owen.
No tablets appeared to have been swallowed.
His vitals were normal.
One medic asked what the medication was.
Beatrice refused to answer.
Then an officer found the labeled bottle in her handbag.
The prescription belonged to Beatrice.
The medic read it and frowned.
“This was not prescribed for a child.”
Edmund looked at Beatrice.
“What were you thinking?”
She began crying again.
“I don’t know.”
The officer asked:
“Mrs. Lowell, are you currently diagnosed with dementia or another cognitive condition?”
Beatrice hesitated.
“I have episodes.”
“Diagnosed by whom?”
“My doctor knows.”
“Name?”
She gave one.
Edmund noticed she suddenly remembered that easily.
The officer noticed too.
Beatrice was escorted downstairs for further questioning.
Owen refused to let go of Edmund’s hand until she was gone.
Then he whispered:
“I wasn’t snooping.”
Edmund crouched despite his knees.
“I know.”
“She left her bag open.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself.”
“I saw Dad’s name.”
Edmund looked at him.
“Where?”
“On another paper.”
Owen pointed toward the documents Edmund had collected.
“Then I pulled them out.”
“What happened?”
“Beatrice came upstairs.”
Owen swallowed.
“She got really scared.”
“What did she say?”
“She said they were private.”
“And then?”
“I told her I was showing you.”
Owen’s eyes filled.
“She said I couldn’t.”
Edmund felt anger rise again.
“Did she offer you the pills first?”
Owen shook his head.
“She told me I was getting upset and should take something to calm down.”
“Had she ever given you medicine before?”
The boy hesitated.
Edmund’s heart stopped.
“Owen.”
“Sometimes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she tell you it was?”
“For sleep.”
Edmund closed his eyes.
He had trusted Beatrice.
After Graham died, she sometimes stayed overnight when Edmund traveled or attended board meetings.
Had she been medicating Owen then?
“Did you ask for it?”
“No.”
“Did she force you before?”
“No.”
Owen thought.
“She put it in juice once.”
Edmund felt sick.
That statement went immediately to the officers.
Owen would be evaluated further and later interviewed appropriately with his guardian and professionals involved.
Edmund refused to turn his grandson into an evidence machine.
The boy had already been frightened enough.
By evening, Beatrice had been taken for medical evaluation as well as questioning.
Edmund and Owen sat in the library.
The documents were spread across the large table.
Police had photographed them and allowed Edmund to retain them temporarily after recording their existence, since most appeared to be family records rather than contraband.
Edmund placed the two birth certificates beside each other.
The one he had always known:
Graham Edmund Winslow.
Mother: Marian Louise Winslow.
Father: Edmund Charles Winslow.
Place of birth: Providence.
Then the original.
Evan Matthew Rowan.
Mother: Lena Margaret Rowan.
Father: Robert Daniel Rowan.
Place of birth: Newport County Hospital.
Same date.
Different parents.
Different hospital.
Different child.
Owen stared.
“So Dad had two names?”
“It looks that way.”
“Which one was real?”
Edmund almost answered Graham.
Then stopped.
A name could be legally changed.
That didn’t make one fake and the other real.
“Both were his at different times.”
Owen frowned.
“Was he adopted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad know?”
Edmund looked at the papers.
“I don’t know that either.”
That answer frightened him.
He found an amended court petition.
Petitioner:
Marian Louise Winslow.
Supporting witness:
Beatrice Lowell.
Edmund’s name appeared nowhere.
He turned another page.
A medical statement from Dr. Franklin Saye.
Deceased infant:
Unnamed male Winslow.
Date:
September 18, 1986.
Time of death:
4:17 a.m.
Edmund stopped breathing.
Owen looked at him.
“What?”
Edmund folded the page over before the boy could read it.
“Nothing you need to worry about tonight.”
For once, withholding information was not about protecting himself.
Owen did not need to learn about a dead newborn through bureaucratic language.
The landline rang.
Edmund almost ignored it.
Then he saw the caller ID.
Dr. Elaine Merritt.
Beatrice’s physician.
He answered.
“Dr. Merritt.”
“Mr. Winslow, the police asked me to confirm something, but I thought you should hear it too.”
Edmund glanced at Owen.
“What?”
“Beatrice Lowell has never been diagnosed with dementia.”
Edmund closed his eyes.
“Any cognitive impairment?”
“Nothing beyond ordinary age-related complaints. Her most recent screening six months ago was normal.”
Edmund stared at the dark windows.
“So the memory-loss episodes…”
“I can’t tell you what she experiences privately.”
The doctor paused.
“But medically, I have no documented condition that would explain what happened today.”
Edmund thanked her.
When he ended the call, Owen asked:
“She was pretending?”
Edmund looked at the boy.
He wanted to say he didn’t know.
This time he did know enough.
“Yes.”
Owen’s face changed.
“Why?”
Edmund looked toward the two birth certificates.
“That is exactly what we’re going to find out.”
Then his phone vibrated.
A voicemail notification.
From Beatrice.
Recorded before the police took her phone.
Edmund played it.
Her voice shook.
“Mr. Winslow, if you found the papers, please don’t call Malcolm.”
Edmund frowned.
Malcolm Winslow was his cousin.
Current chairman of Winslow Maritime.
Beatrice continued.
“Whatever you do, don’t let Malcolm know Owen saw the original certificate.”
The message ended.
Edmund stared at the screen.
Owen whispered:
“Who’s Malcolm?”
Edmund looked at his grandson.
“Someone who apparently knows a secret I didn’t.”
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And for the first time, Edmund realized Beatrice might not have been hiding Graham’s identity only because of the past.
Someone in the present still needed it buried.
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