Mother of All Secrets(62)

We spent much of the rest of the night talking through the plans. We sat around the table and talked, and then when we couldn’t sit any longer, we walked on the beach, occasionally grasping hands or elbows because it was so dark, the noise from the crashing ocean keeping our secrets safe. When we got back to the house, we went over every detail again. Doing everything we could to flush out every possible hiccup or surprise or misstep or unanticipated outcome. We took breaks to refill wine or when one of us needed to pump. We ordered pizza from a place called Best Pizza down Montauk Highway and ate every slice. We argued until we agreed. And then we were done. We went to bed very late and I slept like a rock, well into the morning.

When everyone was awake, we ate blueberry muffins that Vanessa had picked up from Round Swamp Market. For some reason, I was starving, and food tasted better to me than it had in months. It was like I was remembering my body’s own likes and needs for the first time since Clara had been born. After we were full, we went for another walk on the beach, not even mentioning Connor, or what our return to the city and subsequent days would look like; we’d ironed all that out yesterday, as much as possible. Instead, we did what we always did: talked about our babies. How amazing and adorable and frustrating and all-consuming they were. How lucky we were. How tired we were. How beautiful and hard it was to be a mother. I knew Vanessa must have been thinking of Allison as we talked and how her sister wouldn’t get to experience all that we were discussing.

That afternoon, the three of us—Selena, Kira, and I—took the train back to the city, leaving Vanessa and Isabel behind. Isabel’s return had to be separate, obviously, and she couldn’t risk being seen on a train. It felt strange leaving without her, but she assured us that she knew what she was doing and would see us soon.

As we neared the city, I started to itch to see Clara. Tim had been sending me All good texts and photos throughout my time away, and we’d FaceTimed briefly that morning. But I needed to feel her skin on mine, to hug her, to nurse her.

When I finally got home, Tim and Clara were on the couch. “I hear Mommy!” he said as I opened the door to our apartment. He was feeding her a bottle, and she was sucking it down contentedly, wrapped up in a fleece blanket. “How was it?” he asked enthusiastically.

I washed my hands quickly and rushed over to them on the couch, planting a dozen kisses on Clara’s head, cheek, and neck as she drank. I kissed Tim, too. “It was good,” I said, honestly. “I needed it.” Even though I was petrified for what was to come, I was telling the truth.

“That’s awesome. Well, feel free to go away anytime. This girl was an angel, and I think we had a lot of fun.” He kissed Clara’s head. “See, Daddy’s awesome, right? I’ve been telling you,” he said, shaking her hand in his. “Though I am ready to get some sleep tonight,” he admitted, turning back toward me. “I’m exhausted. It’s not easy, doing this”—he gestured toward Clara—“all night and day. I don’t know how you do it.” Tim put his arm around me. I nuzzled Clara’s stomach with my nose. She looked at me and beamed. And I was grateful beyond measure for this one perfect moment before whatever would come my way days from now.





July 17

Dear Baby,

Last night you slept for nine hours straight. So did I. And I woke up this morning literally gasping for air, like I’d been underwater and I was finally surfacing. It was like the first time in so long that I could see things clearly. Things look very different after a good night’s sleep.

I read what I wrote a few days ago, and I can’t believe I wrote that. I know I did, but it wasn’t me, if that makes sense. I may be a little crazy, but I’ve always been the good kind of crazy. Never that.

What happened with Connor—I’m ready to say his name, and I’ll never call him your father again, because that’s not what he is or what he’ll ever be—it was traumatizing, humiliating, and brutal. But I can put it behind me. And I will, for you.

I wrote down the names of three therapists who specialize in postpartum depression and birth-related trauma. I’m going to call them today and start getting the help that I should have sought weeks ago.

In the meantime, though, your aunt thinks I’ve totally lost it. I hope she’ll soon see that I’m trying and that I’m going to be okay. She’s around all the time now, before and after work, weekends, checking on the both of us—which is good, I guess. It’s nice to have the help, and she always brings Thai food. But I can tell that she’s frustrated with me for being such a mess. The look she gives me when she asks me if I’ve done laundry yet and I say no . . .

I know it’s all out of love and concern. She adores you and she’s wonderful with you. I just wish she would stop mothering me and let me be the mother. But then, she’s always treated me like I’m some irresponsible child. And sure, when I was thirteen and shoplifting earrings from Claire’s every weekend, maybe I deserved that. But this isn’t that. I’m a college-educated, gainfully employed, financially independent woman. I am responsible enough to be your mom, and I don’t and will never regret my decision to keep you. I’m just having a hard time right now, which will pass. I only wish she could see that.

I’m taking some medication now, thanks to Aunt V, and that’s helping me stay more even. I probably should have started taking something sooner. It makes me feel sort of numb, though, which I don’t like. And my milk is drying up, so I’ll have to start giving you formula soon. I wish I could have nursed you for longer.