The Stillwater Girls(58)

But . . . nothing.

Brant observes me from his side of the room. “I know why you don’t, Nic.”

“I think a woman would remember giving birth.”

“You don’t understand,” he says before pausing. “You were in shock. Physically. Emotionally. You were exhausted. You were traumatized.”

I take a step back and release a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m sorry . . . this just seems so . . .”

I don’t finish my thought. I don’t need to. He knows I don’t buy this.

“I can show you the medical records. I have a copy of your file in my studio—kept them for . . . this . . . I suppose.” His eyes plead with mine as he wears a painful wince on his chiseled face. “And you can ask Cate. Or talk to your parents. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Cate knew? My parents knew?” The pitch of my voice rises, and the back of my throat burns. I need to remember the girls are upstairs. They don’t need to hear us. I don’t want to upset them. They’ve already been through so much.

“Yes, Nic. They know.”

“Why would the four of you keep this from me?” I run a hand through my hair, turning away and struggling to breathe despite the massive weight on my chest.

Brant steps toward me, slow and careful. “When we took the baby home, you sometimes forgot about her. You had no recollection of her birth. I had to set timers on your phone so you’d remember to feed her when I was gone. And then you were hearing voices, voices that told you that you were a horrible mother who didn’t deserve her.”

I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to imagine the young, terrified woman I once was. She feels like a stranger, and trying to recall these things feels as impossible as trying to experience someone else’s memories, but my heart goes out to her just the same.

“You cried. Constantly. And when you weren’t crying, you were sleeping.” Pinching the bridge of his straight nose, Brant continues, “One day that first week, I came home from running to town for more formula, and you were standing at the end of the driveway with the stroller. I thought maybe you’d taken her for a walk, for some fresh air, which I thought was odd because you were supposed to be recovering from your surgery, but it was an unusually warm day for that time of year. Only when I got closer, there was this dead look in your eyes. And when I looked down, the stroller was empty.”

“Oh, God.”

The nightmares all these years weren’t nightmares after all.

They weren’t a barren woman’s metaphor.

They were memories.

“I ran inside, tearing the house apart looking for Hannah—our baby—but she was gone.” His voice fractures, and his eyes turn glassy. I’ve never seen my husband this choked up. “She was only ten days old.”

Brant lets me go, taking a seat on the sofa and resting his elbows on his knees.

Hannah.

My gaze scans my husband. Hannah was always the name I’d secretly held in the back of my mind for a someday child. In the early days of our relationship when we’d halfheartedly talk about having kids one day, I refused to mention I’d already chosen names for them. Hannah for a girl, Jonah for a boy. I distinctly recall not wanting to scare him away, not wanting him to think I was one of those women who have their entire lives scripted out, and they’re just waiting for a man to come along to play the part of their husband.

It makes sense that if we did have a daughter, I’d insist on calling her Hannah.

That, or it’s an awfully strange coincidence.

“You said you’d given her to some woman at the park by the woods,” he says. “You didn’t know her name. You couldn’t even remember what she looked like. You said the voices told you to do it.”

I take the cushion beside him.

“I’m going to call Cate and ask her,” I say.

“By all means.” His answer is quick, and he clasps one hand on his knee while the other soars through the air. “In fact, I wish you would so you could see I’m not making any of this up. And while you’re at it, I’ll grab your file so you can go over all the doctors’ reports, the tests, the evaluations.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and swallow the heavy nodule in my dry throat.

Brant has never been one to call my bluff.

He wants me to fact-check everything he’s just told me.

I imagine it’s an enormous weight off his shoulders, having carried this burden alone for nearly a decade.

“I’ll call my parents after,” I add. On the off chance the two of them are in on this together, I want him to know I’m going to check under every stone. My parents would never betray me.

“Of course. And you should. We’ve all been waiting for the right time to tell you this,” he says. “Cate thought you should know right away. Your parents and I made the decision to wait a little longer. As the years passed . . . it was easier just to sweep it under the rug a little longer and a little longer. Hannah was gone. What good would it have done to tell you years after the fact? When there was nothing that could be done? When it would only force you to experience that trauma all over again? We’d lost you once, Nic. We were scared to lose you a second time.”

Brant covers my hand with his before giving it a soft squeeze.