The Other Mother

by Carol Goodman

  On the ground, the woman continues to struggle. Ben Marcus is trying to hold her down, and it looks to me like he’s trying to do it without hurting her. Another guard who’s come onto the scene loses patience and Tases her. I look away as her body jerks, not wanting to see more, and realize that now that she’s been caught Dr. Hancock may be back soon.

  I hurry back to the file drawer but before I put the folder away I open it to look at the photo one more time. The young hopeful girl in the picture with the old-fashioned hairdo, sweater set, and graduated pearls couldn’t be more unlike the bedraggled fleeing woman with the wild nimbus of hair and lined, weathered face, but the eyes . . . the wide green eyes are the same.

  THAT NIGHT AT dinner I don’t mention the attempted escape. I’m still trying to sort out what I saw. More than forty years have elapsed since Edith Sharp was admitted. Was the escapee really the girl in the picture? And if she is Edith Sharp, why did Billie say she got better? And why didn’t Dr. Hancock say she was still at Crantham?

  I focus on Chloe, spooning carrots into her mouth, singing the ridiculous little choo-choo song that Billie uses to get her to eat, burping her afterward and walking back and forth on the terrace until she falls asleep. Finally, though, when she is asleep, there’s no reason not to put her down. When I look up from her stroller, I see that Sky is watching me.

  “I hear that there was an incident at the hospital today,” she says. “It must have been frightening for you.”

  “Not nearly as frightening for me as for that poor woman,” I say, adding, “I saw her from the window. She looked . . . terrified.”

  Sky clucks her tongue. “Poor lamb, she thinks it’s 1971 and she’s being punished for having had premarital sex.”

  “You know her?” I ask.

  “I know of her,” Sky says. “She was one of my father’s last patients. Edith Sharp.”

  “But I thought . . .” I look over at Billie, who’s placidly cutting her steak into tiny pieces. Edith Sharp must be the woman Billie told me about who jumped from the tower and got better, but for some reason Billie must not want me to let Sky know that we’ve talked about her. Maybe she doesn’t want Sky to know she was talking about a patient.

  “What did you think?” Sky asks.

  Should I mention the story Billie told me? But if Billie doesn’t want Sky to know she told me that story, I don’t want to embarrass her. After all, she is taking care of Chloe. “I guess I just never imagined that she might still be here. She was suffering from postpartum psychosis and that’s usually temporary.”

  “Usually, but not always,” Sky says. “Sometimes postpartum psychosis occurs in women with previous histories of mental illness—bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder.”

  “That’s what Dr. Hancock said Edith had—borderline personality disorder. He said she gave birth in her dorm bathroom but convinced herself that it was her roommate who had the baby.”

  “Well,” Sky says. “I suppose such a terrifying occurrence could unhinge a person.” There’s a tremor in her voice that makes Billie look up from her carefully shredded steak.

  “This is not very pleasant dinnertime conversation,” she says with a reproving look at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, thinking that I wasn’t the one who brought it up. It reminds me of when Esta chided me for telling the jumper story. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

  “It’s all right,” Sky says. “Living in such close proximity to a mental hospital I’ve seen and heard worse than poor Edith’s story. And besides, you see it proves your thesis.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes. I had heard of Edith’s case. It must have influenced my writing of the changeling story and I simply forgot about it. I imagine that once I’d made it into my own fictional story I forgot all about the source. I think you should continue exploring Edith’s case. I’ll tell Dr. Hancock to make a copy of the file for you.”

  Billie looks up at this, caution on her face. I don’t blame her; I’m sure that releasing a patient’s file to non-hospital personnel must violate any number of legal and ethical codes. But I don’t really care. I’m still smarting from Billie’s remark about “inappropriate dinner conversation” and I’m childishly glad to have Sky siding with me. Most of all, though, I want to find out more about Edith Sharp.

  I DREAM ABOUT her that night. Edith is running in front of me, her white hair glowing like one of the lanterns in the gardens, and I’m following her through the hedge maze. Then we’re climbing the spiral stairs in the tower, going up and up for so long I feel like we’re climbing to the moon.

  “We need to get the right view,” Edith says without turning around. When we get to the top floor, there’s a huge claw-foot tub where the desk used to be. I can hear water dripping into the tub, but I can’t see the surface because it’s too high. “We need to get the right perspective,” Edith says, walking toward the tub.

  I freeze on the top step, unable or unwilling to follow her. I don’t want to see what’s in that tub.

  I look down and notice that the floor is wet. The hem of Edith’s pajama bottoms is darkening in the water as she walks toward the tub. Water is dripping down the stairs, pinging on each metal step, making a sorrowful music.

  “A water dirge,” Edith says.

  I look up despite my urge not to. She is standing beside the tub, facing me, but she’s no longer the old Edith; she’s the girl in the photograph, neat hair, headband, sweater set, graduated pearls. She’s motioning to the tub like a campus tour guide. Like it’s a stop on the tour I can’t miss.

  I wade through the water, which is surprisingly warm—like bathwater, which I suppose it is—until I am standing beside the tub.

  “We need to get the right view,” Edith says, stepping aside so that I can see what’s in the tub. It’s a woman lying just below the surface of the red-tinged water, her face oddly peaceful, turned to the baby cradled in her arms.

  I jerk awake, my arms flying out to grasp something—

  The baby. I’m trying to grab the baby in the dream and pull her out of the tub but there’s nothing to hold on to. My arms collapse on empty air.

  The baby is gone.

  I come fully awake, tangled in sweaty sheets, alone in the bed.

  Alone.

  Chloe is gone.

  I sit up, pulling the sheets apart, looking for her. The cushion is still propped up on the other side of the bed. Did she somehow slide under it and fall off the bed? I push the cushion aside and crawl to the other side of the bed, then slither to the floor. I paw the dusty floorboards, peering through the dark for Chloe. I need light. But when I stand up the room spins and when I try to turn on the lamp my fingers are too slick with sweat—as if I’d really just plunged my arms into a bathtub—

  The bathtub.

  It was just a dream, I tell myself, but I’m already running, flinging open the bedroom door. Across the living room I can see that the bathroom door is open. A wedge of light spills out onto the floor like a blade that cuts off the air in my throat.

  I didn’t leave that light on, I tell myself as I wade across the room through air that has turned heavy as water. I didn’t carry Chloe into the bathroom. I didn’t run a bath and put her into the tub.

  The worst story anyone told in group was told by a mousy little woman named Judith who said she’d heard of a woman (a friend of a friend, as if this were a sort of postpartum urban legend) who was so afraid of hurting her baby that she would sleepwalk at night and move her baby to places where she would be safe. She’d wake up and find her baby under the bed, in the laundry hamper, and, finally, in the car seat in a running car in the garage, where the paramedics found him, dead of carbon monoxide poisoning. She’d been dreaming, Judith told us in a breathy whisper, of taking the baby to the doctor to find out why he kept crying.

  When I reach the bathroom, the tile feels wet under my feet but that could be because sweat is pouring off me. Even though I am shaking with cold. I cross
to the tub, look down, and there she is. My baby. My perfect, plump, chubby-armed baby lying at the bottom of the bone-dry tub.

  Chloe is swaddled in blankets and sleeping peacefully, but when I scoop her up she awakes and cries out as if angry to be taken from her comfy tub-bed. I squeeze her to my chest, rocking her back and forth, not sure who I’m trying to comfort with the motion. “It’s okay,” I tell her as I take us both back to the bedroom. “I’ll never do that again.”

  Even, I tell myself, if I have to never sleep again.

  Daphne’s Journal, August 7, 20—

  Ever since the argument Peter’s been acting as if nothing happened. He’s been really nice, checking with me to see if I need anything when he goes out and offering to watch Chloe for me.

  Maybe he feels bad about what he said . . . or maybe he’s just being nice because he’s afraid I’m going to take Chloe from him.

  Just like you would be if he tried to take Chloe from you, the Laurel voice, which has taken up permanent residence in my head, points out.

  But he won’t do that as long as I stay here and act sane.

  Only what if he really thinks I’m a danger to Chloe and decides he has to take her from me for her own safety? Would I be able to stop him? Would I be able to convince anyone that I’m sane? I keep thinking of all the terrible things I admitted in group and to Laurel, all the “intrusive thoughts” I’ve had about dropping Chloe over the banister, drowning her in the bath, leaving her in the car—how would that look to a judge? One of the women in the group who was going through a divorce said that you never knew how a judge would rule in a custody case.

  And I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer.

  I think I should look again at those job ads. As long as I’m dependent on Peter for everything I’m completely in his control. Not that I’d take a job far away, but if I could find one nearby, start part-time, save up . . . I’m going to look now . . .

  WELL! THERE WEREN’T any openings for school librarians nearby, but there was one for an archivist. It’s working for an author who needs someone to archive her private papers. A six-month position in a country estate in the Catskills, room and board provided, which means I could bring Chloe. But here’s the really amazing thing about it. The author is Schuyler Bennett!!! Practically my favorite writer! It feels like a sign!

  Only of course I wouldn’t get it. Laurel could, with her credentials. I could show it to her . . .

  Or I could apply for her. That would show her that she had options . . .

  I DID IT! I even made up a new email account. I came up with ArchAngel, which I thought of because of the name of the software package Laurel showed me once. I had to add a number, so I used Laurel’s birthday. Then I wrote an email to Schuyler Bennett. I had a copy of Laurel’s résumé that she’d given me when I told her once I wanted to polish up my résumé, so it wasn’t hard to talk about my (her) work experience. Then I had to say why I wanted to work with her and that wasn’t hard either. Schuyler Bennett is practically my favorite writer, so I just told her that. When I looked at what I’d written so far I saw how Laurel and I together made the perfect candidate for the job. It’s a shame we can’t do it together. But I can’t imagine Peter going for that. Besides, I’m doing this to show Laurel that she has options.

  I thought of just leaving it there and not saying anything about having a baby. Who’s going to hire a single mother with a baby, Laurel had said. But then what was the point of showing Laurel that she could get the job if it wouldn’t work with Chloë? So I added: “On a personal note, I am recently separated and have a six-month-old baby. I realize this might present difficulties but I assure you I will find child care and work twice as hard for this opportunity. Your stories of women persevering through difficult times have been an inspiration to me.”

  I deleted and retyped the last line three times. It sounded a little pleading, which isn’t how Laurel would sound, but then part of Laurel’s problem is that she’s too proud to ask for help. So I retyped it a final time and hit Send.

  I immediately felt a little sick. What if Schuyler Bennett could tell right away that I wasn’t Laurel? What if she somehow got Laurel’s phone number and called her? I really should tell Laurel what I’ve done—and besides, I still have to return her diaper bag.

  I JUST GOT back from Laurel’s house. I tried calling but it just went to voicemail and said her mailbox was full. So I called Vanessa to come watch Chloe and I drove over there. I was surprised when Stan opened the door because it was the middle of the day. Then I felt scared, remembering what she’d said—that Chloë would be better off without her. “Is Laurel all right?” I asked.

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  I didn’t know what to say right away. After all, it was Stan who’d told me that Laurel had BPD and had tried to kill herself. “I just wondered because she’s not picking up her phone and she didn’t seem . . .” I hated to say anything bad about her, especially given all the stuff she’d said about Stan the last time I saw her. But that had been part of her delusional thinking, so I said, “She wasn’t in good shape when I saw her last. It made me worry . . . about what you told me.”

  “She’s much better now,” Stan said coolly. “And frankly . . . well, I think she’s better off not spending time with you anymore.”

  I was so shocked you could have knocked me over with a feather! I think I just stammered something about not understanding and then Stan said, “I’ve discussed this with Esta and we agree that you’re not a good influence on Laurel right now. It may not be your fault, but your own morbid delusions about your child are giving Laurel . . . ideas.”

  “My morbid delusions?”

  “Yes, that you’re afraid you might hurt her. That you’ve thought about killing yourself and taking her with you. That you have a recurring nightmare about sleepwalking and leaving your baby in the car or drowning her in the bath—”

  “That was Judith who told the story about the car! And the part about the bathtub—that was only a thought. Esta calls them intrusive thoughts. I’d never—”

  “No? Peter told me that you tried to kill yourself in the bathtub. The last thing Laurel needs is someone planting those kinds of ideas in her head. Laurel is very impressionable.”

  “Laurel? Impressionable?” I scoffed. I’m afraid I may have laughed then. I could see by Stan’s face that I must have looked a little crazy. “Laurel’s the one who’s impressed herself on me! She’s the one who’s always telling me how I should do my hair and what to wear and what to think.”

  Stan’s expression changed then. He almost looked like he felt sorry for me, but then his face hardened and he said that was my problem. He asked me not to come by anymore and he closed the door in my face.

  I stood there like an idiot for a couple of minutes. I even tried looking in the window to see if I could find Laurel, but all the blinds were drawn. Laurel always had them open. The house was dark and quiet, like a tomb, or a prison. I suddenly had the conviction that Stan was holding Laurel prisoner inside.

  And then I remembered the bottle of water Laurel had been drinking the last time I was there. Stan mixed it for me, she’d said, with electrolytes and shit. I think he’s trying to poison me.

  I’d thought she was crazy, but what if she had been right? What if he was drugging her to have her declared incompetent so he could gain control over her money? I stared at the house for another few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Go to the police? They’d never believe me. They would think I was crazy.

  I got back in my car and sat there gripping the steering wheel, my hands shaking so hard I was afraid to drive. Thank God Vanessa had Chloe. Vanessa. She had Simone’s phone number. I’d go home and get Simone’s number and call her. She would know if Laurel was really in danger.

  I drove home slowly, making sure I made a full stop at every stop sign, signaling at every turn, waiting extra long for oncoming traffic at every corner. I had the feeling that I was being watched. That i
f I slipped up even a little the police would descend on me and take me away. They’d take me away from Chloe.

  When I got home I was so anxious to see Chloe that I ran into the house crying, “Mommy’s home!” and found Peter sitting in the living room with Chloe in his lap. “Where’s Vanessa?” I asked.

  “I told her to go home,” he said. He was giving me that sideways look. Examining me. I found myself patting my clothes to make sure they were all right.

  “I thought you were playing golf,” I said.

  “Stan canceled,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “Laurel’s not well.”

  “No, she’s not,” I said. “Remember? I told you that.”

  “He said you came by.”

  “Yes! To check on Laurel, but he wouldn’t let me see her. Listen, Peter, I think there’s something wrong—”

  “He said you’ve been telling Laurel stories about hurting yourself and Chloe.”

  “No!” I cried so loudly that Chloe whimpered. I went to comfort her, but Peter shielded her with his arm to keep her from me.

  “You shouldn’t be around her when you’re like this,” he said.

  “I-I’m all right,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m just upset about Laurel. I think Stan is keeping her from me. I think he might be medicating her so she seems crazy.” I almost said poisoning her, but I stopped myself in time.

  Peter stared at me. “Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

  “Yes!” I said, again too loud. Chloe’s face puckered, the way it does before she cries. I just wanted to hold her but Peter was keeping her from me. “I know that’s how it sounds but it’s what Laurel said the last time I saw her and now Stan won’t let me in to see her.”