The Break(94)

“June,” I say softly, moving closer to her still body. “It’s all over now.” I tuck a piece of blond hair behind her ear. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to make sure of it.” I lean forward to embrace her. Gabe’s arm is around me as I hold my little girl and June tight against me, my makeshift family safe at last.





EPILOGUE


June. One year later.


I’m standing behind the curtain, about to take the stage.

The house lights are still up on the rows of seating in the tiny black box theater. I peek through a gap in the curtain, and I can make out my new friends from acting class, and of course Louisa, Rowan, and Gabe. Elena’s watching Lila tonight back at their apartment. I still babysit once a month, mostly to stay connected with Gabe and Rowan and because I love Lila so much. I don’t need the extra money as much as I used to, because Louisa started her own agency and she pays me pretty well for an assistant position. Nearly all of Louisa’s clients followed her from WTA to her new shop. She’s bringing on another agent next month, and we’re looking for office space; but for now it’s just her and me, so we work from her apartment. Sometimes during work, we sneak out and play with her little boy, Nate, while the nanny makes lunch, just because we can.

I wrote the one-woman show I’m about to perform tonight. I’m not Shakespeare or anything like that, but my stuff is kinda funny. I don’t think I ever realized I could be funny on stage; I was always so drawn to the drama. But I feel lighter on stage when I’m making people laugh, and it’s an escape from everyday life, and from everything that happened this past year. It’s an escape from waiting for the news about Harrison’s sentencing; and it’s an escape from the reality that Sean is dead, and how much I feel like his dying is my fault. I know I didn’t kill him myself, but I dragged him into my mess, and I’ll have to live with the crushing guilt of setting into motion the night of his death. When the cops tried to find Sean’s family, we learned he didn’t have one. I guess he was trying to make one with me, and realizing that awful truth nearly killed me. My mom came to stay with me for a few weeks after I got out of the hospital, and Sylvie has been working with me every Friday for the past year. Finally the nightmares and flashbacks have stopped, but there are things I don’t think I’ll ever shake, like my guilt, or the memory of Sean and me cold and shaking on the floor where Harrison left us to die, Sean bleeding out as I tried, delirious and in vain, to help him. I can’t quite remember the time that passed after I realized he was dead. I remember slipping in and out of consciousness, and the irrational, incessant thought that I couldn’t leave Sean there alone; I just couldn’t.

I exhale. I close my eyes and do one of Sylvie’s breathing exercises that helps me get out of that basement and back into the present moment a little easier. I open my eyes slowly, try to focus on my surroundings, the sights and sounds and smells that anchor me. I can see the audience scurrying around, taking seats, scanning programs, unwrapping mints, taking sips of water, and generally looking excited and pleased to be here.

I feel a little calmer when I see Rowan. She definitely looks happy. I can see it on her face: the dreamy half smile, her hand linked with Gabe’s. Gabe’s dark brow is furrowed with the serious artistic expression he wears at events like this, because that’s part of who he is: Gabe O’Sullivan, writer, creative powerhouse. He’s also Lila’s dad, and Rowan’s husband, and the person who buried his son after a Catholic funeral in a cathedral in Rowan’s hometown. Maybe all of us are more things than we can count.



The lights flicker, warning the audience that the show will start soon. I get the same buzz I always get right before I go on. I have a feeling that Louisa, Rowan, and Gabe are going to love this play. It’s my fourth night performing it, and it’s gone well each time, the laugh lines getting the reaction I hoped for. There’s so much more artistic control in writing my own stuff. And I’m making progress: last month I signed with a small acting agency. It’s not as prestigious as WTA, but Louisa really respects my new agent, Cherise. And Cherise has more expertise in the theater versus film and TV, and it turns out the theater is where I feel more at home.

Home.

What a word. I’ve started going upstate every month for an overnight at my parents’ house. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s not. But it’s my family: the only one I’ve got. My mom and dad have come to every opening night of my performances, and I can always make out the precise ring of my dad’s chuckle from the audience. It’s gotten to the point when I write now, I know the lines he’ll find funny, and sometimes when I get writer’s block I imagine writing only for him, and I find it’s easier to keep going. On opening night this past weekend, my mother brought me a bouquet of red roses. Her hands were shaking when she gave them to me.

The lights dim in the house. I take a breath, my opening lines running through my brain.

The spotlight goes up, blazing down upon me.

I take a deep breath, and then I smile.

I’m on.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



My biggest gratitude goes to all readers, especially those who identified with any aspect of this story. I’m thankful that the conversation around maternal mental health is becoming increasingly open and that awareness is expanding around infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth, traumatic birth, maternal mortality, and postpartum depression and anxiety. If you need help as a new mother, you can always start by asking an OBGYN or primary care doctor. You are not alone.