Woman on the Edge(13)

Horrible things happened when no one was watching.

As a teenager, she’d never understood why Donna was so anxious and uptight all the time. The shelves in her living room were full of her dog-eared parenting books. She kept charts and notes on sleep and diaper schedules. Nicole had thought it was all over the top. Amanda was the sweetest, most content baby. But now that she had Quinn, she suddenly understood Donna’s worries. All she could think about were disaster scenarios. What if Quinn choked on her formula? If Nicole dropped her? Held her too tightly?

The transition from hyperefficient, confident CEO to nervous, insecure new mother was overwhelming. Nicole wasn’t quite sure who she was anymore.

She squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the white lattice headboard, trying to hold herself steady against waves of dizziness. Quinn cried in her bassinet, wanting to be snuggled. Nicole opened her eyes to look at Quinn, and all she saw was Amanda.

Suddenly, she was a seventeen-year-old nanny once again, walking slowly down the narrow hall to Amanda’s nursery. Nicole had just meant to close her eyes on the sofa for a second, but somehow she’d fallen asleep for longer. Nap time was over, but Amanda was still sleeping, which was strange. She had never slept this long before—a full three hours. Nicole pushed open the door to the nursery. Spinning above the crib was the butterfly mobile that always put Amanda to sleep. The soft, slow pings of “Rock-a-Bye Baby” still played on a continuous loop.

Nicole edged closer to the crib. Amanda looked so peaceful. “Never wake a sleeping baby,” Donna had told her over and over. Inexperienced Nicole did what she was told. That was her job.

But something was terribly wrong. The baby was too still. She leaned down to pick up Amanda, and when her long dark curls brushed the baby’s cheek, it didn’t make her open her eyes and giggle as it usually did. Those little arms didn’t reach for her. Amanda didn’t move.

Nicole lifted her out of the crib and felt her forehead. The baby was cold to the touch. Heart pounding, Nicole fell to her knees. She gently laid the tiny, limp body on the floor, pressing her mouth to the baby’s and pushing the tips of her fingers into her fragile, narrow chest. Please, please, please, she said out loud.

Her chest pinched so hard that she thought she was having a heart attack. She crawled to the phone to call 911, and the next thing she remembered was an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose.

“What have you done?” Donna howled when she showed up to find Nicole on a stretcher. Donna’s long red hair curtained Nicole as she screamed, “You’re a murderer!”

It was then Nicole learned Amanda was dead.

And it was her fault.

She could never tell Greg any of it. Yes, some of the worry and panic she’d experienced since Quinn’s birth was normal. But he would never understand the depth of her terror, its true source. Never for a moment could she forget that something awful could happen to Quinn. And because of that, Nicole never let her out of her sight. She would be the perfect mother. That was her goal. But when she expressed any concern, all Greg could say was “Follow your maternal instincts.” How could she when she wasn’t even able to breastfeed her baby? No matter how hard she tried, she didn’t have enough milk. She was so disappointed in herself; in turn, Greg had been frustrated, distant, and short with her. And when she raised her concerns with him, he dismissed her.

“You don’t understand, Greg,” she told him, tears streaming down her face. “Breast milk contains antibodies to fight infections. It lowers her risk of asthma. It keeps her safe, and I can’t do it!”

“I wasn’t breastfed, and I turned out okay.” He’d wrapped her in his arms, but she couldn’t stop crying. “Nic, you have to calm down. You’re a great mother, and Quinn is healthy. So she gets a few more colds? It’s going to be fine.”

It wasn’t fine, though. Amanda had been healthy, too.

Now Nicole could hear Greg banging around downstairs, getting ready for work. She considered asking him to come up and hold the baby so she could shower and get dressed, but she decided she could manage on her own.

She placed a hand on her still-tender stomach, trying to draw in a breath and let it out slowly, but it hurt her incision. And deep breathing was no longer a match for her incessant panic attacks. Those attacks weren’t just because of Quinn. No, not at all. She could deal with her daughter’s cries. Those were the sign of a healthy, lively baby. But what still had her rattled was that name on the bassinet: Amanda. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Or that she was seeing things that weren’t really there. Had Donna been right outside her hospital room? Was she in Chicago now? If so, what did she want? Payback? Revenge? And if so, how far was she willing to go to get it?

For two weeks, Tessa had come over almost daily, bringing oil samples from Breathe and trying every mindfulness technique she could to help Nicole, but nothing worked. Finally, a few days ago when Greg was at work, they were sitting on the couch in the living room, Tess holding Quinn because Nicole couldn’t breathe. Sweat dripped down her face, and she had a hand jammed against her chest to relieve the crushing pain.

“Nic, I think you might need to see a doctor. I know you don’t want to go on medication again, but you’re really struggling.”

“I hate meds, Tess. I need to be alert,” she choked out.

“You’re not alert, though. And medication has changed a lot in the last few years. Please. For Quinn. Just talk to your doctor.”