The Break(72)
“That’s not true, Rowan,” Sylvie says firmly. “The truth is that you’ve done a beautiful job feeding, loving, and taking care of your surviving baby, creating the kind of bond every mother hopes for. And that’s a monumental thing.”
My feet tap the floor. I can feel my body coming back to itself, being mine again. And then I think of something that makes more sense now. “Is this why Gabe hasn’t let me see my friends?”
Sylvie nods. “So many people can’t bear to witness PTSD this severe up close. The last thing we wanted was your friends breaking down in front of you and you not understanding why. We also tried to stall you on seeing your mother because, though we spoke to her about Gray dying and you blocking out his memory, we knew there was a chance she’d become confused and accidentally tell you about him. But then when you’d gone a few weeks without remembering, we were willing to take that risk so you could see her. It seemed very important for you to see your mom, and not worth the damage caused by keeping you away and Lila not meeting her. Elena, of course, was able to keep it together. And the entire reason Gabe brought June in to help is because he was sure she’d be able to keep a professional distance and respect what we were asking of her, which was for her to help you with Lila and not remind you of the baby you’d lost, and to let you come to it in your own time. The ultimate acting job, really, and Louisa was also sure June could do it. And I think June did do it, actually—I think she handled all of it remarkably well for a young person, until of course that day you accused her of hurting Lila. But perhaps now you understand why your mind was so shattered and confused by the memories it was trying to repress. Perhaps now you can understand why you lashed out at June, why you were so sure your baby was hurt.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, the words nearly unbearable to say. “To my son. Do you know?”
“Gray’s placenta detached, which your OB told me occurs more frequently during twin pregnancies. Your OB is updated on everything we’ve been doing here, and he’ll be ready for your call when you are. After you speak with him, I hope you’ll come to me, and we can process it together. The sad truth is that so many women lose babies during miscarriages and stillbirths and most don’t receive the proper help for it. It is a trauma to lose a baby, no doubt about that. But often we brush it under the rug as normal, just a fact of life. And it may be a fact of life, but the women I see here, and some of the men, too, depending on how far along the pregnancy was and if they were present for the miscarriage, are extremely traumatized.”
“I’ll keep coming,” I say, knowing that I will. “I want to remember him and mourn him and I want the sonogram photos back and maybe photos of him when he was born, if we have any, and I want to frame them and have them in our home and tell Lila about him and never ever forget him again.” I’m sobbing now. “I need to get to Gabe,” I say, and then my phone rings. It’s the detective again. He’s the last person I want to talk to, but what if he needs my help? What if June needs me?
I pick up the call.
“Mrs. O’Sullivan,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, and there’s so much static on the line it’s hard to hear him, and he goes on about something I can’t make out, but then the line goes crystal clear and he says, “I need you here to identify the body.”
My heart pounds so ferociously I’m sure it’ll beat free of my chest. “No,” I say. “No.”
“We found June inside the billiards room in the basement of your apartment building,” he says into my ear. “Can you hear me?” he asks. I shake my head furiously. There’s static in my ears and I’m sure it’s my blood going haywire, and the detective is trying to tell me something, something about June, but his words are too staticky and I can’t process them.
“Please, please,” I say, because I need a minute, but he won’t stop talking.
“Are you okay?” he’s asking me, his voice finally cutting through the static. And then, “Rowan, just come back to your apartment building. I need you here immediately.”
FORTY-TWO
June. Three months ago. August 4th.
It’s crazy, sitting here with Gabe in the back garden, his dark eyes so intense. Ivy climbs up a stone wall. A pile of sticks and rocks in the corner looks like it could be a campsite. Cobblestones are beneath our feet, and we’re sitting at a small circular iron table that can barely fit the two of us. The walls are two stories high—you can’t really tell you’re still in New York City; we could be anywhere. I felt like that—hidden away—in the billiards room beneath the building, too, when Gabe gave me the tour and told me stories about rumored parties that happened down there during Prohibition, because there are no windows to the outside and the place is practically soundproof. There were framed photos of jazz singers on the walls, along with a deed for the building that looked as if it would disintegrate if the glass in the frame wasn’t holding it in place.
It’s cozy out here in the garden, to say the least, and something has shifted in the air between Gabe and me. I’m starting to think I didn’t peg him right at the reading—that I misjudged what I saw. I’m starting to think he’s less interested in me as some kind of love object and more interested in me as a person who will make him feel good—whether that’s by sleeping with him or talking feverishly about his work, I really can’t tell. But right now I think it’s the latter. His eyes widen as he talks about where he was going with this scene and that scene, and how he thinks he needs to plant the killer early enough that the audience will be satisfied to learn that it’s really her.