by Jen Waite
“We were thinking Ferry Beach?” I say, suggesting Seb’s favorite beach, the one where he spends hours searching for hermit crabs.
When we get to the beach I ask Seb if he wants to come for a walk with me, and he says sure, shyly; he can sense that this isn’t just a walk.
“I wanted to talk to you about a couple things,” I start.
“I know, I know,” Seb breathes out. “I was expecting this.”
“Bear with me.” I laugh. “I promise it’ll be quick. I just want you to know that if you ever want to talk to me about what happened, or ask me any questions, you can. Anything. Anytime.”
“Oh yeah, I know that,” Seb says. “I’ve talked to my mom a lot.”
“That’s good. I’m really glad you guys are so close. It’s important to me that you understand, though, that no one saw this coming. It wasn’t like there were big, hidden adult secrets that you didn’t know about all along. It was a shock to everyone.” I awkwardly weave my way through what I’m trying to tell Seb. I don’t want him to question his own perception of reality because of what happened.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Seb nods.
“And I have a question for you.” I take a deep breath. “I know the circumstances were a little different, but how has it been for you, growing up without your parents together?”
Seb looks up at me sharply, and I brace myself for the answer and for what his answer will mean for Lulu. I know that he is going to tell me that it was hard, that he always felt different from other kids. His face breaks into a smile. “Are you kidding me? My parents splitting was the best thing to ever happen to me. My mom and I talk about it all the time. How much we love our life together.”
“Really?” I say. “Seriously?”
“God yes.” He kicks the water as it laps around our feet. “I mean, I love my dad.” His eyes drop, and he looks embarrassed. I want to hug him and say, “It’s OK, you can love your dad, it’s OK,” but I just smile instead, and he continues. “But my mom and I are best friends, and we have such an awesome, cozy life together.”
I let the wind blow away the tears forming.
“Is that it?” he says. “Can I hunt for hermit crabs now?”
—
THAT night I sprinkle warm water over Louisa’s body with a toy watering can as she sits in the kitchen sink, and I compose a letter in my head:
Louisa. Louisa. I find myself saying your name over and over again. Running my tongue against the syllables. I have never said a sweeter word. I look at you and I realize something. The part of me that I thought Marco ripped out? That I thought was missing, the void that could never be filled again? There was never a void. There was never a hole. Marco never took anything away from me because I was always whole to begin with. And that is what I am going to teach you, my love. You were born whole. Just look at you.
I remember being in the hospital with you those first nights. You screamed and screamed, all night, so loudly that eventually a nurse poked her head into the room.
“Everything OK in here?” she said with a worried look on her face.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, and then broke down in tears. Marco had left hours before, saying he had to work, tie up some loose ends. A couple of hours turned into six hours and then it was 2:00 a.m. Nothing would stop your screaming. I put you on my breast, squeezing my eyes shut as your gums clamped down on my nipple like a trash compactor. I rocked you. I sang. I walked around and around the tiny room, bouncing and swaying. I waited for the love to come. I waited for it to course through my veins, that instinctive motherly love that would make the screaming and the pain all “worth it.” Instead, panic flooded my body. What I really wanted to say to the nurse was, “I don’t think I can do this. I’m so terribly sorry, but I need to go back in time. Please let me go back.” Instead, I asked her to show me how to do a proper swaddle. She wrapped you up, swiftly and tightly, and you slept for the next five hours. You were sleeping when Marco walked back into the room at 2:45 a.m.
When we brought you home, I thought the panic would subside and the love would trickle in, slowly taking its place. But the panic grew. Unfocused and intense, I couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what was so terrifying, I only knew that I needed to rip through my skin and flee, leaving the empty shell of my body there to deal with you and the new life that stretched before me. When I found the e-mail, suddenly I had so much else to worry about that the panic, the hormones, the fear, and you, my love, all faded into the background. I told myself, and others, that you were a blur for months because of what Marco did. When people asked me how motherhood was treating me, I shook my head and said with a wry laugh, “I honestly don’t even remember much from Louisa’s first months of life,” and the reply would always come quickly, “Of course not, you were traumatized, but thank God you had your love for Louisa to carry you through. What a blessing.” And I would nod, conceding that Marco had stolen those months from me and you. The golden excuse. But the truth is, I didn’t fall in love with you all at once, like I did with your father. Here’s the thing: I fell in love with Marco before I really knew him. It was a whimsical, stomach-churning, light-headed love. I fell in love with you bit by bit. I fell in love with your soft golden hair. I fell in love with your dimpled arms. I fell in love with the light in your eyes. I fell in love with the big gummy smile that fills your face 99 percent of the time. I fell in love with the crumpled frown followed by an earth-shattering scream when you topple over, more scared than hurt. I fell in love with the sharp, short, high-pitched shrieks and the low, rumbling lion roar. And once the tiny sapling of love took root, it began to grow. I realize now that it wasn’t that I didn’t love you; it was that I didn’t recognize that I was falling in love with you slowly, in a way that was more pure, more profound, and more real than anything I had ever experienced before.
Lulu stands up in the tub, breaking me out of my thoughts. I wrap my arm around her slick body and lower her back into a sitting position. She furrows her brow, pushes back into a stand, and squawks gleefully. “Gah, Lu!” I grab her wrist right as her feet slide out from under her. “OK, tubby time is over. Tubby time ends early when you insist on standing,” I tell her, and wrap her up in the towel waiting beside the sink. She opens and closes her mouth like a fish and stares at me from her towel hood. I lay her down on top of her pajamas, and she squiggles and struggles with one last burst of energy. “Ha! Done!” I cry victoriously as I do the last snap. My parents each kiss her good night, and “Love you, Lulu” follows us up the stairs. As she lays against me drinking her bottle, I think about how much I loved Marco and how sad I am that I don’t have a husband anymore, but how I would rather live without a husband than live a life built on lies. This life, the one with me and Louisa, feels real in a way I hadn’t known life could. I am happy.
Louisa finishes her bottle, and I turn her limp, milk-drunk body over and pat her on the back.
“Good night, animals,” I say to the mobile as we pass. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,” I count the stars as I lower her into the crib. “Sleep well, my love. I’ll see you in the morning,” I whisper into her hair. And then I add, “I love you so.”
Acknowledgments
EVERY achievement is comprised of a million, billion tiny moments/words/actions gifted to us (though it may not seem like a gift at the time) from other people. This memoir particularly so. And so I would like to thank:
My fearless, dynamic literary agent, Myrsini Stephanides, for taking a chance and rescuing me from the slush pile.
My ridiculously smart and intuitive editor for so gracefully easing me into making edits that strengthened this book and for being my voice in the sometimes scary world of publishing.
My writing consultant, Suzanne Kingsbury, who gave me the courage to embark on this journey.
Lynsey and all the sugarpunks—you have been my sisters and support system for twenty years. Thank yo
u for sitting with me in the darkness until I could see the light.
My soul sister, Aga, for being nocturnal and always responding to my late-night texts.
My parents, words cannot . . . See? I just tried to write something and erased it four times. Without you two, this book, and everything else, would not exist. Thank you for saving us.
Lastly, to the reader—I am with you.
About the Author
JEN WAITE lives in Maine with her young daughter. She plans to pursue a graduate degree to become a licensed therapist, specializing in recovery from psychopathic relationships.
www.jenwaite.com
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