by Kelly Rimmer
conscious my body language is sending a message I really don’t
want to send, but even so, I can’t convince my limbs to relax.
“Ruth feels that you haven’t been yourself lately. And to be hon-
est with you, I was concerned, too, after your visit with Noah
a few weeks ago. I’ve known you a long time, Beth. I’ve never
seen you quite so…distant. Withdrawn.”
“Withdrawn?” I repeat the word, testing the feel of it in my
mouth. Ruth said the same thing.
“Ruth mentioned she’s noticed the same.”
“My routine has changed. We both worked in downtown
Bellevue so it was easy to see one another for lunch. Now get-
ting out of the house with Noah takes me so long, and I still
find it so stressful when he gets upset while we’re out and about.
I’ve still been going to Sunday dinners every week…but it’s true
that we don’t always stay long after we eat these days because I
always want to get Noah home to bed before it’s too late. Once
upon a time, Hunter would be dragging me out the door hours
after we finished the meal, because Ruth and Dad and I would
be drinking wine and chatting at a million miles an hour. But
that’s changed. Everything is changing.” I’m rambling now, try-
ing to distract Lisa’s eagle eyes. It doesn’t work.
“Beth, I was talking about the way you’re interacting with
us, not your routine. Do you remember that visit with me two
weeks ago?” I think back to my last visit when I came in for
a wellness checkup with Noah. My memory suggests that the
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visit was uneventful, and I don’t remember doing or thinking
or saying anything out of the ordinary. I shake my head. “You
were concerned about Noah’s weight. Remember?”
Ah, yes. Noah was on the fiftieth percentile for height and
weight in the first three months of his life, neatly following the
projected increase on the growth chart. And then in his fourth
month, he suddenly dropped down to the forty-second percen-
tile. I had a feeling that was my fault. Maybe I wasn’t feeding
him enough, or maybe my milk wasn’t satisfying him.
“Yes, but perhaps you don’t remember that there was a good
reason for me to be concerned,” I remind her stiffly.
“Beth, as I told you at the time, a drop of eight percentile on
the growth chart is nothing. Most parents would take my reas-
surance when confronted by something like that, but I could see
you were still anxious, and you weren’t hearing me out. I actu-
ally made a note to check in on you next week. A first baby is
an immense adjustment. It’s okay to admit you’re struggling.”
“I’m not struggling,” I exclaim, crossing my arms over my
chest. “I’m tired. That makes me a little irritable. Taking a while to adapt is hardly a clinical condition.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Lisa murmurs with a very gen-
tle smile. “I know you work with children, but I’m sure you’ve
heard of post-partum depression.”
“I’m definitely not depressed,” I say without hesitation. “I
know what depression is. I’m not sad at all, other than a reason-
able amount of sad because of my father. I’m just…” I’m not my-
self. I guess I am unusually irritable, but then again, I can’t relax
at the moment, so even that makes sense. And yes, I’m probably
agitated, too, but that’s just because everything that’s happen-
ing with Dad. Plus, I’m running on so little sleep. Most of my
problems are my circumstances, and the truth is, I’ve probably
made the worst mistake of my life in having Noah, and I can’t
say it aloud because what kind of a mother admits she doesn’t
enjoy parenting? I chew all of these words up in my mind but
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I can’t say them aloud, and because I have to say something, I
just repeat the words that seem to be my new personal motto.
“It’s just hard, that’s all.”
“Sweetheart,” Lisa murmurs softly. “I’ve got five kids myself,
remember? I know it’s hard, and no one tells you what a shock a
new baby is to the system and so mothers often end up feeling
like they’re the only one struggling to keep their heads above
water. But there’s a difference between that level of struggle and the level Hunter and Ruth described. Depression doesn’t always
look like simple sadness. Sometimes its muddled up with anxi-
ety and irritation and a general inability to manage your way
through the ordinary world. Sometimes it’s intrusive thoughts
you can’t shake, or feeling like the world has been drained of
color. Sometimes it’s like everything leaves you feeling inexpli-
cably flat. Some depressed patients report that finding motivation to tackle simple tasks is completely overwhelming, or figuring
out how to do things they’ve done a million times is suddenly
impossible. Does any of that ring a bell for you?”
I clear my throat, but force myself to shrug nonchalantly.
Don’t label me. God, Lisa, please don’t label me.
“Sure. Some of that sounds familiar, but that doesn’t mean
I’m depressed. Any of those things can be explained by sleep de-
privation, or genuinely stressful circumstances, or even just me
attempting a task I’m not good at. Right? I mean, think about
it. What if what Hunter and Ruth have decided is me being
crazy is actually me just being a particularly inadequate mother?
That’s a legitimate possibility that you can’t dismiss just because it’s easier to slap a diagnosis on me and send me on my way.”
My voice breaks, and Lisa’s expression softens.
“Do you trust me, Bethany?” she asks. It was Lisa who pre-
scribed the pill to me when I was sixteen. Lisa who helped us
navigate Dad’s conditions, in between specialist appointments.
Lisa who helped Hunter and me through six long years of in-
fertility. I swallow the lump in my throat.
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“Of course I trust you.”
“You’re a wonderful, caring woman and your love for Noah
is evident. You aren’t failing here, even if it feels like you are.
You know every bit as well as I do that depression isn’t weak-
ness. It’s a matter of brain chemistry. Postpartum depression is
no different. Pregnancy and childbirth are immensely taxing on
a woman’s body and it’s not at all uncommon for a new mother
to develop depression in the postpartum period. In fact, some
studies suggest as high as ten percent of women suffer from it.”
“I don’t even think I can talk to you about this today,” I whis-
per, suddenly breathless. “I’m just so tired.”
A loud, humiliating sob bursts from my lips. Lisa leans for-
ward to take my hand in hers.
“Let me give you som
e medication to help you sleep tonight.
Everything feels worse when you’re exhausted.”
“But I’m breastfeeding…” I protest through my tears.
“I’ll prescribe a drug that is safe for occasional use. And
Hunter can feed Noah formula just for tonight so you can have
a long stretch of rest. But I do want you to give the matter of his
feeding some serious thought, because the next thing I’m going
to suggest is that we try you on a low dose of Prozac, and that’s
not recommended for breastfeeding mothers.”
“But…”
“I promise you, formula is totally safe. Sure, there are ben-
efits to breastfeeding, but Noah has already enjoyed many of
those benefits after five months, and in any case, your health is
far more important than anything breastfeeding can offer Noah.”
“The only thing that’s working is the breastfeeding,” I blurt
hoarsely. “It’s the only thing I’m actually good at when it comes
to him.”
“I know it feels true, but it’s not true. You’ve got a healthy, happy baby and you’re doing a terrific job.”
“I can’t…” I start to protest, but trail off. Lisa hands me a box
of tissues and I take a handful.
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“I hear what you’re saying about your exhaustion, honey, so
let’s put a pin in this conversation,” Lisa says quietly. “Let’s get
you some rest, and then tomorrow I want you to come back in
so we can make a plan moving forward. Does that sound okay?
You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Beth. But
let’s not make any decisions until you’ve had some sleep and
you’re feeling rested.”
I leave her office with a prescription for sleeping tablets.
Hunter and Ruth are in the waiting room, side by side, both
holding magazines they aren’t actually reading. When they see
me, they dump the magazines onto the coffee table and rise.
The wariness in their gazes sends a punch of guilt to my gut.
“What’s the plan?” Ruth asks me quietly.
“Sleeping tablets for tonight,” I whisper. I’m still teary, over-
whelmed and exposed by the events of the day.
“And then?” Hunter asks. I shift my gaze to his. I’ve found a
home in this man over the past decade. Arm in arm, we battled
to have this baby, facing miscarriage and infertility and heart-
ache after heartache. That’s exactly why it’s so hard for me to
lean on him now. But as he stares at me in this waiting room, I
don’t see judgment or disappointment. I see only concern and
love in his eyes, and some of the resistance I feel to accepting
his or anyone else’s help starts to crumble.
“Tomorrow,” I croak. “Tomorrow we’ll reassess.”
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Grace
March 24, 1958
I’ve spent the past few weeks considering my options. Grieving, never once celebrating. I’ve realized that there is only one thing left to do but it is the worst, most drastic option. The fear looms big and bold, and I cannot
even convince myself to live in its shadow, but there is only one way to outrun it and there is only one way for me to be at peace. It’s bad enough that I’ve come back to this place—my children deserve for me to choose not to stay here. Even Patrick deserves better than this.
I know it is a mortal sin, and I have no idea how I’m ever going to
convince myself to go through with it when I can’t even bring myself to write the word, but I have run out of options, haven’t I? It’s death, one way or another, and at least this way I have control.
May God forgive me for what I have to do.
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11
Beth
1996
I sleep for fourteen hours. I sink into the kind of knockout
dreamless slumber that only comes when you’re utterly spent…
or, I guess, medicated to the gills. I wake alone in our bed with
the predawn light just filtering through the blinds. My breasts
are engorged well beyond comfort—rock-hard and weeping
milk and impossibly hot to the touch. I immediately check the
cradle beside our bed, but Noah isn’t there.
Yesterday Noah’s absence might have spawned an out-of-
control panic in me, but today, after an initial adrenaline spike,
I console myself with logic. Hunter probably took him into one of
the spare rooms so I could sleep. Yesterday such reassurance would have done nothing to calm me, but today I take a deep breath,
and slowly leave the bedroom.
I find Hunter asleep on the bed in the nursery we don’t use.
It seemed like the perfect room for a hypothetical nursery when
we bought the house, but in practice, it’s just too far away from
our bedroom.
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Hunter and I painted this room together when I was preg-
nant the first time. The walls are purple, the trim is white and
the hypoallergenic wool carpet we splurged on is a pretty floral
pattern that’s a mix of the two. There’s teddy-bear artwork on
the walls, and a matching comforter on the cot. The room was
empty when I lost our first baby…freshly painted, but unfur-
nished. I called her Grape and I was convinced she was a girl,
but we lost her so early, we never found out for sure. We closed
the door to this room the day we found out she was gone, and
we didn’t open it for three years—not until I finally fell preg-
nant with Noah and we passed fourteen weeks and two days.
That’s when I lost Grape. I still think about her sometimes, es-
pecially around the key anniversary dates…the date we found
out we were pregnant, the date we saw her on the first scan, the
date we lost her, the date that should have been her due date.
I thought about redecorating when I fell pregnant with Noah.
I thought about it again when we reached fourteen weeks and
three days and I finally found the strength to open this door. I
thought about it again as his birth loomed. Each time, I’d talk
myself out of it, just in case I somehow jinxed this pregnancy,
too. But I kept putting it off, and then Hunter had to race out
to buy furniture when I was in the hospital after the birth.
Then we brought him home and he was so tiny…so fragile.
No way could I sleep if he was all the way down at the other
end of the house. We moved Noah straight into our bedroom,
and this is the first time that crib has ever been used.
Right now Hunter is sprawled out on his stomach on a mat-
tress on the floor, one arm tucked under his face. He’s shirtless
and the duvet is wrapped around his legs. He’s snoring softly. I
take a few very careful steps toward the crib, and there I find
Noah. He’s wriggled his way out of his muslin wrap and he’s
sound asleep with his hands in fists beside his rosy cheeks. I was
going to wake him to drain my breasts, but I�
�m still not entirely
convinced that the sleeping tablet I took is safe for him. After
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all, Lisa did say “safe for periodic use”…so some of it must get
into the milk. Better not risk it. Besides, Noah looks so content
in his sleep, and I can’t stand the thought of waking him up.
Instead, I turn and slip out of the room, making a beeline
for the shower off my bedroom, where I let the warmth of the
stream ease the flow of milk as I send it down the drain. I watch
the milk as it disappears. Breastfeeding was so painful at first,
but I persisted, and it got easier. I didn’t know to expect that.
I didn’t know that once I mastered it, the idea of stopping it
would be devastating.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea when Hunter
emerges, a smiley, drooling Noah in his arms.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Much better. Thanks. I’m really sorry about…” I trail off,
not sure how to describe the events of the past forty-eight hours.
Sorry that I’m flirting with madness? Sorry that I’m losing my
mind? Sorry that I’m not coping with juggling all of these balls?
Sorry that I’m letting you down? Sorry that this situation with
Dad seems to have become the straw that broke this camel’s
back?
Hunter blanches then shoots me an irritated look.
“Jesus, Bethany. You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one
who’s sorry. I knew something was going on—I just didn’t
know it was this bad.”
I swallow and look away.
“Lisa wants me to think about trialing some Prozac. I don’t
think I can do it.”
“Why not?”
“I’d have to stop breastfeeding.”
Hunter doesn’t offer me Noah—instead, he sits him carefully
down into the high chair and then busies himself making cof-
fee and heating up some formula. After a few minutes he lifts
Noah into his arms, then sits beside me to feed him the bottle.
“I know how much you wanted to breastfeed, babe. I know
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that it’s important to you. And I don’t want to influence you
either way—but I do need to say this.” He looks up from No-
