by Kelly Rimmer
There is only one way to outrun it. There is only one way to 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.
ELEVEN
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 mattress 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.
Hunter and I painted this room together when I was pregnant 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 unfurnished. 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 pregnant with Noah and we passed fourteen weeks and two days. That’s when I lost Grape. I still think about her sometimes, especially 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 mattress 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 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 coffee 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 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 Noah’s face to mine, and he blinks too fast, then looks away and clears his throat. “I don’t really understand what’s going on with you—I guess I can’t. But I’m scared. Really scared. I want you to be happy, and I can see that you’re not.”
“I am happy,” I say weakly. I can’t be honest with him. The only way my husband could possibly respond to “I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to our kid” or “Is it possible we should have listened to Mother Nature and given up on a child years ago?” would be with platitudes and false reassurances I can’t handle at the moment. “Okay, yes. I’m struggling a little.”
“A little?” he repeats, giving me a wry look. “Honey, come on. I have eyes. I can see that you’re in your own world at the moment, and I know you. That’s not a place you want to stay. If you switch to formula, I can help more...take some of the pressure off.”
“I don’t get why everyone is so determined to stop me breastfeeding. First your mom, now Lisa and you. It’s the only thing I’m good at these days!”
“The only thing you’re good at?” Hunter blinks at me as if this statement makes no sense at all, and while I love him for it, I’m reminded only of how much he loves me, and how that makes him biased. “You’re amazing at everything. Noah is a contented, healthy, happy baby and I’m at work fifty hours a week. Our son is incredible and you did that.”
I wonder what he’d say if I told him about the time I left Noah alone in the house. Or the incident just two days ago when I left him crying in the attic at Dad’s because I freaked out. Amazing at everything? Not so much.
“I’m going to think about it,” I say stiffly.
“Okay. That’s all we can ask.”
I don’t miss his use of the pronoun—we. So, it’s me against “them” now. Hunter and no doubt Ruth are on Team Lisa, convinced this is all in my head, all of them failing to see what should be right in front of their eyes—I’m struggling because I’m just not up to this task. I try to stop myself from becoming defensive, but I can’t help it. My mood sours so fast it’s like an out-of-control brushfire, turning a peaceful morning to ashes in seconds. I push back my chair and stand.
“I’m not going to work today. I thought I’d take you back to the doctors,” Hunter says quietly.
“I don’t need you to treat me like an invalid. You don’t have to patronize me.”
At the sharpness in my tone, Hunter’s gaze narrows.
“You can look at it like that, or you can
see a husband who loves you and who’s doing everything he can to support you. Either way, I’m not going to work. If you don’t want me to drive you, I’ll watch Noah while you go alone.”
“Fine,” I say, and I spin on my heel and go back into the bedroom. I manage to cling to my frustration and avoid Hunter all morning, until it’s time to go to the clinic for my follow-up appointment.
And I do leave him and Noah at home. I give them a stilted goodbye and drive to Lisa’s clinic. As I lower myself into the upholstered chair opposite her desk, I try to say what I think she wants to hear.
“I feel back to normal now. It was definitely just sleep deprivation.”
I’m impressed with my delivery. It sounds fluid and convincing, and I think I’ve convinced Lisa, too, because she nods slowly then straightens in her chair.
“So everything’s okay now that you’ve had some rest?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I’m fine now.” Fine, and ready to get right back to clearing out Dad’s attic to find the rest of those notes.
“Let me read you something, Beth. I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to listen and see how this list lines up with your situation. Okay?” I nod, and Lisa selects a heavy textbook on her desk, then angles it toward her so I can’t see the page. She slides her reading glasses on and reads, “Sleep disturbance. Lack of usual pleasure in activities. Depressed mood. Severe irritability. Unexplained agitation. Withdrawal from usual social activities and networks. Lack of interest in food. Hints at feelings of worthlessness and references failures others can’t see. Apparent inability to concentrate.” She looks at me over her glasses and says, “What do you think that was?”
“I’m guessing that’s a list of symptoms for postpartum depression,” I say impatiently. “But we already discussed this, Lisa. I’m not depressed.”
She sets the book down on her desk and withdraws a piece of paper, then turns the page toward me. At the top, she’s scrawled the words Call from Ruth re Bethany Evans. Beneath that, she’s written Call to Hunter, re Beth.
The symptoms she’s just rattled off to me are the notes she took in her calls with my sister and husband. My stomach drops. Lisa’s gaze is fixed on my face.
“Have you had any thoughts of self-harm, Beth?”
“What? No!” Thoughts of running away, sure. Self-harm? No. The professional in me feels that now would be an excellent time to mention that my mother may have been a woman who really did have postpartum depression. However, I don’t mention this to Lisa, mainly because my situation is not the same, and I cannot let her label me.
“Any thoughts of harming Noah?”
Does leaving him alone in his crib while I left the house count?
“Lisa, this is ridiculous.”
“Can you answer the question?”
“No, of course I haven’t had thoughts of harming Noah!”
“What about your anxieties about his health and welfare? Can we talk about those? Hunter said you reacted quite violently to an incident with a teething biscuit yesterday.”
“Okay,” I groan. “Yes. I overreacted. I was exhausted and seeing him choke like that was overwhelming.”
“Any intrusive thoughts, Beth?”
Yes. That’s exactly why I can’t sleep. My mind is constantly engaged in what-ifs and I simply can’t talk myself out of fixating on them. My body is on high alert—and it just won’t turn off the adrenaline because it’s convinced that danger is imminent.
“I don’t want to stop breastfeeding,” I blurt.
“I was hoping you’d agree to the Prozac, in conjunction with cognitive behavioral therapy. But if you’re adamant about not taking the medication, we can try the CBT first.”
How did I get here? How do I get back? What if I can’t get back? What if I feel like this forever?
“I don’t want anyone to know,” I whisper. “Lisa, I’m scared of what my colleagues would think. I extended my leave but I told them it was just because I loved being at home.”
“You don’t have to tell anyone at your clinic, Beth,” Lisa says gently. “We’ll find you therapy somewhere else in the city if you’re really concerned about confidentiality.”
“Honestly, I’m certain I’m already doing everything a therapist would tell me to do.”
“Oh, honey.” Her gaze is gentle. “You know that’s not how this works. You can’t treat yourself.”
“Can I think about this?”
“I’m going to give you the script today, and the name for a really fantastic psychologist in Seattle, right near Hunter’s office. I’m also going to give you a fact sheet about postpartum depression. I want to see you in a few days, and you have my number and my on-call number. You can call me anytime—if I’m with a patient, I’ll call you back as soon as I finish.”
I leave her office for the second time in two days with a stack of paperwork. I stuff it all into my handbag and start the car. For a while, I drive around the suburb on autopilot—up and down tree-lined streets and roads, stopping for a while at one lookout over the water, then another. I pass my own house and Chiara’s house. I stop on her street and think about knocking on the door and going inside for a coffee with her, but I guess it turns out that I’m still embarrassed that I made her miss the recital, and maybe I’m not ready to face her in person yet.
Finally, I concede defeat and go searching for solace. It’s no surprise that I find myself back at Dad’s place, the safest house I’ve ever known. The first thing I do when I’m inside is to call Hunter to let him know where I am. We have a brief, terse conversation where he asks what Lisa said, and I act like a petulant child because I don’t want to talk about it, and I tell him I’ll be home when I’ve had some time to think.
I desperately want his comfort, and the last thing I actually want is to push him away, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. Is this what Lisa and Ruth meant by withdrawn? I feel like there’s an invisible force field around me and everyone who crashes into it is magically repelled with some force. It’s awfully lonely in here with all of these secrets, especially when I’m not even sure why I’m keeping them.
Loneliness is worse than sadness. I’ve come to realize that’s because loneliness, by its very definition, cannot be shared...
Cause of death unable to be determined due to body decomposition.
The notes. The notes might have the answers.
I draw in a deep breath and climb the stairs to the attic to keep sorting through the mess—not because I actually want to, but because I have no idea what else to do.
* * *
It’s just after 6 p.m. when I leave Dad’s house, after another fruitless afternoon of sorting through trash. As I step out of the car on our driveway, I catch the scent of fresh bread on the breeze and my stomach rumbles. Chiara taught Hunter to cook, and while he’s usually too busy to do much of it, when he does step into the kitchen, the results are always spectacular.
“Hi,” I say softly when I find him over the stove. He’s sautéing Brussels sprouts and bacon, and there’s a loaf of bread cooling on the table. On the countertop foil covers several other plates. I slip the breastmilk I pumped this afternoon from my handbag into the fridge, then walk around my husband to peek beneath the foil. When I find grilled pork loins and buttery potatoes, I moan in appreciation, feeling a burst of hunger that’s become alien after weeks of lackluster appetite. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?” Hunter asks me, but he’s watching the Brussels sprouts closely.
“I’m okay,” I say. Hunter glances at me, then looks back to the frying pan. “Where’s Noah?”
“He didn’t sleep long this afternoon. He’s already in bed.”
I creep down the hallway to our room, but the cradle there is empty, and so I frown and go to check the nursery. Noah is in the crib, and Hunter has already made up the mattr
ess on the floor, obviously intending to sleep here, too. I don’t like this at all, and I quickly head back into the kitchen.
“Why the nursery?” I ask abruptly. Hunter sighs and starts plating up the food.
“Beth, I don’t want to argue tonight. It’s obvious you need to rest, and I just want to do what I can to help you. Okay?”
“That doesn’t mean I want you to move out of our bedroom,” I say, throat aching with the force it takes to hold back my tears.
“How could I possibly know what you want at the moment?” Hunter shrugs, sliding the Brussels sprouts onto each plate. “You’re not exactly talking to me. I’m guessing at what might help because you’re not giving me any guidance whatsoever.”
We sit side by side at the kitchen table and begin to eat in silence.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” I say without even thinking about it. But once the words are out, I feel better, not worse. Hunter raises his gaze to mine.
“Okay.”
I draw in a deep breath, and it takes some effort, but I force myself to keep speaking.
“I do. I love him so much.”
“I know that, Beth.”
“I really just thought I’d be better at this.”
“You keep saying that... I just don’t understand where it’s coming from. You’re doing everything right.”
“But it’s so hard,” I whisper, eyes filling with tears. I set my cutlery down to pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought all of this would feel natural. I thought I’d have some kind of instinct about what to do and when, but I just don’t.”
“Why on earth would you think you’d automatically know how to raise a kid?”
“It seems to be easy for everyone else.”
“You’re a good listener. Did that make you a psychologist?”
“You know it didn’t, Hunter.”
