by Jolie, Mika
“I don’t feel beautiful. I have a little bit of keloid,” she said, referring to the raised scar tissue where the skin had healed after her C-section.
“You’re stunning.” He pulled back, cupping her face once more and forcing her to look at him. “You’re sexy as hell, and I love every curve, scar tissue, or whatever the hell you have.” His lips brushed over her eyelids. “I am in love with you, Minka Greene Montgomery. I don’t care about anything else.” His lips grazed her cheeks, kissing away the streaked tears.
She sucked in a breath, tilted her head back, turned her face to him, and found his mouth with hers. Jason’s tongue slid into her mouth, filling her with comfort, want, and desire. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the kiss. Their mouths molded together as their hands moved on each other, desperation in their touch. She pressed closer. The warmth of his body flowed through her, easing the anguish still stirring through her veins.
An intense need to connect physically and glue back the shattered glass took over. She slipped her hand between their bodies, unsnapping his pants. With a moan, smothered deep within his throat, he moved his mouth away from hers, no more than a fraction of an inch, such a small space that his lips still brushed hers as he spoke. “Not yet.” He took hold of her hand and sat her on the bed. “First we get you—us—better. Sex can wait.”
“I want to, you know,” she started, needing him to understand how she loved the heady passion between them, and that her desire for him had not waned. However, there was still one huge, underlying problem. Her. “But…”
“It’s okay, Minka. At least now I know what’s going on. We can work through this.”
“I made an appointment with Adam’s therapist.”
“Good. When is it?”
“Tomorrow.” Until now, she’d been wrestling with whether she should go or not.
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Are we going?”
“Yes. But just me, Jason. I need to do this alone. Not just for me, but for us.”
“Minka…”
She turned to him, nervous but also determined, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I can do this.”
Chapter Six
“Oh, Christmas isn’t just a day, it’s a frame of mind and that’s what’s been changing. That’s why I’m glad I’m here, maybe I can do something about it.”
Kris Kringle—Miracle on 34th Street
Nine days before Christmas
Minka’s hands spread like an octopus around her cup of coffee. Her fingers, numbed with cold, resisted the warmth that struggled to seep into them. The fleeting sense of confidence she had when leaving the house had flown away. Now, niggling doubts pushed away during her commute nudged her yet again.
She examined the house with the Christmas wreath hanging on the door. Under the drab, gray winter sky, it shone with an organic feel—rough, original brickwork in a rustic state. It was quaint, charming. From the outside, it looked more like a home than a shrink’s office.
She should leave or best drive away. No way in hell would a few therapy sessions ease her mind. Counseling meant she had to strip those layers she’d been using to camouflage her troubled mind.
Yeah, right. She was naturally guarded, not her fault. She was born this way.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on the car dashboard, the ticking seconds told her she was right on time. Everything hinged on what she did next—hightail it out of there and catch the ferry back to the island or go inside and bare her soul to a complete stranger. She could picture her now, a little plump, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, and smiling at her like some insipid aunt who only tolerates you because you are related.
Yep. Fun times ahead.
Minka shifted in her seat, gulped down the last of her coffee, placed the Styrofoam cup in the cup-holder, and shoved her car door open. She stood, shaky on jelly legs. A sharp December wind whipped her face, permeating the air with the smell of snow. Wise thing to do was to get back in her car and cut this trip short, no need risking the chance of being stuck in Falmouth. In the winter, the ferries were temperamental. Not reliable at all.
Excuses.
Digging her phone from her coat pocket, she glanced at the snapshot recently saved as her screensaver. The twins, in their Christmas outfits, and Jason smiled back at her, making her feel alive, and squashing the creeping doubts.
Depression had set her inner compass spinning aimlessly. This couldn’t go on any longer. It was time to point the needle north, be brave, and face this monster head-on. She had to do this. She wanted to do this—for the twins, Jason, and, last but not least, for her. Now or never.
Determined, she squared her shoulders and marched up the cobblestone path leading to the green front door. Her palm grazed the wood and the door flew open. In front of her stood a woman in her early thirties with sienna skin and wearing a V-neck sheath dress.
“You must be Minka Montgomery.” Brown eyes instantly revealed warmth. “I’m Peyton Edwards.”
Minka was sure her jaw hit the floor. Every muscle of her body froze. Adam’s therapist could have leaped from the pages of Essence or VOGUE.
This was the woman she was supposed to bare her soul to?
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Lily had conveniently failed to mention that Adam’s head doctor was drop-dead gorgeous. Nothing like the simpering, middle-aged woman with no dress sense, she had imagined. Nerves tingled under her skin. Instead of bolting to her car like every fiber of her being told her to do, she stood a little straighter, and shook the extended hand.
“Please, come in.” Peyton stepped to the side, and Minka followed.
“When I spoke to your secretary about my appointment, I mentioned that I could only stay one-hour.” Perfect. Set the expectation. Not one minute over.
“Oh, yes. She did let me know.” Peyton smiled. “We only need one hour today. Let’s go to my office and get started, shall we?”
“Yes. Of course.”
With a slight wave, Peyton motioned ahead and started down the hall. Minka followed in silence, absorbing the cozy feel of the house. Black frames decorated the wall. She glanced at the pictures—the afternoon sun making shadows across the grass, pots of flowers, a silhouette of a woman hugging a basket of dandelions, and a closed-frame shot of a smiling child with two missing front teeth. It was simple and peaceful—evidence of the beautiful souls and the calming feel nature held.
Peyton opened a door on the left and stepped inside. Minka followed and stood awkwardly in the room. Doubt crept in and tangled into a tight nervous knot deep in her belly. Her gaze quickly swiveled around the room.
Pastel shade of green, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing acres of land, gave the room a serene and soothing atmosphere. On the white desk sat a laptop, an open notebook, a stack of papers under a turtle-shaped paperweight, and a bouquet of winter-white flowers stood in a birchwood container. The professional space appeared comfortable, projecting warmth and relaxation. Everything Minka wasn’t feeling.
“This is our first visit, so there will be a lot of getting to know each other.” Peyton picked up a thick, hardcover tome and the notebook from her desk, then walked to the bookshelf and scanned the titles before squeezing the volume into place. She then turned and focused her assessing eyes on Minka. “Please, sit down.”
Ready to be patronized, Minka perched on the plush sofa with her hands folded primly together in her lap. Her eyes stayed on Peyton as she sat on the leather swivel chair in the middle of the room with notebook and pen in hand.
“Today’s session is going to be pretty informal. We’ll discuss your reason for seeking help. But first, I want to make sure you feel comfortable with me as your counselor.”
Minka continued to sit motionless. At ease. Yeah right. What did she have to do to achieve that? Pull out her yoga mat, cross her legs like a Buddha, and chant ‘Ohmm, Ohmm, Ohmm’?
“We’ll get better results if we establish what to expect from each other. Good?”
“Um…yes.”
“Honesty is the key, and in order to accomplish that, we have to achieve a level of trust, yes?”
Minka webbed her fingers together. Not that she had issues trusting others, but this was just hard. She released a deep breath, calming her nerves and removing the shutters. “Yes.”
“Great. Let’s talk about why you are here. What’s the particular issue that led you to seek counseling?”
“Well.” Minka felt Peyton’s eyes on her, and her mouth went dry. She swallowed the lump lodging in the back of her throat. “I’ve been having a difficult time lately.”
Peyton scribbled something in her notebook then focused on Minka. It unnerved her. What had she written? This woman is crazy?
Her heartbeat took off, thumping like a jack-hammer inside her chest.
“I understand you gave birth to twins recently.”
Minka nodded. She glanced at her watch, fifty-five minutes to go.
“Congratulations. Babies are precious.” Peyton smiled and her whole face lit up. “I’m sure your lives have changed quite a bit since the twins came into the picture.”
Minka shrugged. “It’s not so bad.” Liar. Liar. Pants on fire. The moment they wheeled her from surgery, she’d become a mess.
“Let’s talk about that—the changes in your life and the way you’re feeling.”
How was she supposed to explain the darkness and depression that crawled into her heart like an insidious shadow? Oh wait! Let’s not forget the denial. She needed at least fifty fingers to count the many times she’d attempted to file away her anxieties and forget they ever existed.
She squeezed her hands into fists and wasn’t surprised to feel her palms had moistened. No backing out. No backing out. “I think I have postpartum depression,” she admitted in a feathery whisper.
Peyton scribbled something in her notebook. Uneasiness curled in Minka’s stomach.
What was she writing over there? War and Peace for psychos? Mental note…head doctors needed to stop writing shit down during a session. It was a continuous stab at the patient’s panic button.
“Why do you feel that way?” Peyton asked. Her attention never wavered.
Minka’s fingers twitched as she ran nervous hands over her jeans, silently reminding herself she had nothing to worry about. “Most days, I struggle with these feelings.”
The doctor’s pen poised over her notebook as she examined Minka. “What kind of feelings?”
“I feel…” Her voice quaked as she searched for the right word. The list was rather on the long side—unaccomplished, powerless, haunted. Nervous energy spiked through her. “Unhappy.” Just admitting that made her sound selfish and unappreciative. Guilt flooded her veins. This was going to be hard.
Panic crept upon her like a snake on its prey. She let out a low laugh. “I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I should be happy. I have a great husband, two beautiful, healthy babies, and a wonderful circle of friends.” She moved her now soaked hands to the back of her neck. Her heart felt as if her blood had become tar, struggling to keep a steady beat. “But this…melancholy mood hangs over me like a black cloud and it continues to weigh me down.”
Peyton scribbled something quickly in her notebook then closed it. “Are you angry at your husband?”
“No,” she answered too quickly.
“Not even a little resentful?”
Of course not. Jason was kind, loving, and sexy as sin. She was definitely the winner in the relationship. “Why would I feel that way?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Well, lately he hadn’t been around much. “I do wish he was home more.” That felt good to admit. “I’ve often wondered if he needs to make all these trips for work. I mean, we are living in a virtual era.”
“Have you talked to him about his schedule and how you feel?”
Kind of. Not really. “He offered to cut back on his travels.”
“What did you say?”
“I can manage.”
“So, you said no?”
The question was met by a willful silence.
“Minka, if you want your husband to be home, you should tell him.”
“He should know.”
“Sometimes we have to voice what we want.”
Minka nodded. She knew that. One of the things she loved about her marriage was the ability to talk to Jason about anything—that is, until anxiety, the mood disorder, had become her BFF.
“I’m ashamed.” She bowed her head, embarrassed of her weakness. She was the mother, the wife, the root, the springboard for her family’s foundation, and yet, here she was, at a breaking point. Her eyes welled up. Struggling to keep her tears silent, she buried her face in her hands and tried to regain the slipping control. The sobs, muffled at first, as she attempted to hide her grief. Eventually, sadness took over and they gradually became louder.
Tears flowed down her face like a lone stream of water traveling in the middle of nowhere, departing from the wide river mixed of emotions—bottled-up feelings, old things lost, the changes of her body, things she was ashamed of feeling.
“Postpartum depression isn’t a flaw or a weakness,” Peyton said in a low, soothing voice once Minka quieted. No hint of judgment tinted her tone. “We are conditioned to believe the experience of motherhood should bring only joy and fulfillment. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that being a new mom is an emotional and challenging transition.” She handed Minka a box of Kleenex. “And it’s okay to feel sad. You’ve gained something and lost something. The birth of a baby can trigger a jumble of powerful emotions—from excitement and joy, to fear and anxiety. But it can also result in something you might not expect, and that’s depression.”
“Sorry for crying.” A hiccup shook her chest. “Sorry.”
“Never apologize for being honest. Talking about your symptoms is an important step toward finding relief. Besides, that’s why we’re here, right?”
“Yes.”
“We are here to help you get better. As I mentioned earlier, the first step of healing is to be open and honest about your feelings. Before you leave, I’m going to give you some information on a support group here in Falmouth. Some of the mothers live in Martha’s Vineyard, as well. They also have a website and you can join online. But, no pressure, do it when you’re ready, okay?”
“I’m ready.”
Peyton gave her another one of her warm smiles that lit up her pretty face. “Remember, this is going to be a process. Think of this as more like a journey than a quick fix.”
Minka swiped her hands across her face, then met Peyton’s gaze. Her heart was going a mile minute, and the little voice of denial whispered, ‘smile and say thanks, but no thanks.’ Ready to be brave and start establishing some sort of normalcy back in her life, she took a deep breath and answered with a bit more conviction, “I’m ready.”
By the time, she returned home, a serene evening had arrived and enveloped Katama in a blanket of darkness. She stood in the driveway under the fallen snow for a beat and examined the house Jason had remodeled. Her home. Feather-like flakes gently kissed her cheeks and melted. For the first time in a long time, her state of mind wasn’t a blender of ice going at high speed.
She scurried across the driveway toward her house, her boots crunching through the fresh snow against the stone steps that led to her front door. As soon as she stepped inside, sharp cries echoed down the hall, throwing her once more into her worries.
The twins!
Did Jason remember to put them to sleep on their backs?
She threw her keys on the table and followed the sound to Jason’s office. Her husband was nowhere in sight. Aside from being on the fussy side, and their golden-brown, wavy locks matted with what appeared to be milk, Maya and Bas seemed okay. She let out a breath. Relief.
She glanced around the room. Jason’s laptop sat open, the screen displaying a list of e-mails. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a Santa Claus, red-rimmed plate atop th
e desk, accompanied by two empty Boston Bruins coffee mugs. The small, metal wastebasket, overflowing with crumpled paper, begged to be emptied. Someone was trying to multitask.
She walked over to the playpens, scooped the twins close to her chest, and started shushing a soothing tune into their ears. Immediately, they quieted, calmed by the body-to-body contact.
“Tired babies.” She placed a kiss on each of their heads, just before a yawn escaped her mouth. Apparently, so was she. Between her first session with Peyton and the every-hour-on-the-hour feedings, she could use a recharge. Although Jason had split feeding time during the night, she’d found herself wide awake in spite of his effort. Not his fault. Her body was conditioned.
She was still rocking Maya and Bas in her arms when Jason stumbled into the room, half-drunk with sleep, and flopped into the chair in front of her. He sat, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Days-old stubble covered his jaw, his hair rumpled—not the designer kind of rumpling, either. She bit the inside of her mouth as a small smile touched her lips. Her husband had never looked sexier.
“I’ll take one of those little troublemakers from you,” he said, slowly rising from the chair. “Let’s put them in their room for a bit so we can talk. Yes?”
“Sounds like a good idea.” She handed him Maya. As she did so, she leaned into him for a quick kiss. “Give me fifteen to change their diapers and set them at ease.”
“I’ll help. Meet me in the family room. A hurricane named ‘Bas and Maya’ stormed through there.”
Thirty minutes later, she entered the family room and gasped. To say a hurricane ran through the area was an understatement. Sofa pillows were strewn across the floor, along with baby clothes, Jason’s tees, and the red throw. Immediate panic stirred in her stomach. She took one deep breath and silently reminding herself that a messy room was okay. It showed life.
“How do you do this every day?” Jason asked over his shoulder. He picked up the bottles, and looked at the leftover milk, seeming to contemplate whether they were salvageable.
Ummm…no. She took the bottles from him and placed them on the console table. “I managed.”
