Woman on the Edge(14)
Desperate, Nicole did as Tessa instructed. Her doctor prescribed Xanax immediately, assuring her it was the safest option. Nicole had taken the pills as prescribed for four days already. Now, Nicole was sure she’d never make it through the day without drugs. Frantically, she raked her bedside table, a gorgeous hand-rubbed mahogany that their decorator had picked up from a beautiful shop on North Clybourn Avenue. But she couldn’t find the omnipresent orange bottle of white tablets she always kept by her bed.
She got up, holding on to the edge of the table so she wouldn’t pass out. Had the bottle somehow rolled onto the floor? Nothing. She was so tired she couldn’t think straight. Had she moved the bottle and forgotten?
She opened the drawer of her bedside table to see if she’d put the bottle inside by mistake. No pills. But there was a crumpled ball of paper next to a hardcover book. Nicole pulled it out. Donna’s last letter. The letter Nicole was sure she’d left in her desk at Breathe.
You don’t deserve a baby girl. You’re a murderer. You can’t keep her safe.
How did it get in her house? Had she brought it home herself and forgotten? Or had someone put it in there?
Quinn cried out again. Nicole put the paper back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
“Mommy’s here. I’m here,” she said, her breath ragged. She reached into the bassinet to cradle her baby. Her stomach pulled. She’d had no idea recovering from a C-section would be so painful. No idea that the love she felt for Quinn would completely overtake her.
With Quinn tucked against her, Nicole managed to make it to her en suite. She flipped open the glass cabinet while still holding her baby. There was her bottle of medication. Relief washed over her. Was this what motherhood felt like for everyone? A constant state of fear and panic? Transforming overnight from a fully confident adult into a terrified, anxious, forgetful mess? She had no friends with children, and though some of her staff had kids, it wasn’t like she had a personal relationship with them, so she couldn’t ask. And she couldn’t ask her mother. The thought made her feel a spear of grief in her heart.
Quinn was still sobbing. She brought her back to the bassinet in the bedroom and dry-swallowed the tablets, knowing it would take only a short time before her head was clearer. Greg’s cell trilled from downstairs. His Mission: Impossible ringtone used to make her roll her eyes and giggle. Nothing made her giggle lately.
From downstairs, she heard him answering the call. Greg chuckled; she could tell he was talking to a woman. He never laughed like that with her these days. Not since the baby was born. Nicole was simply no fun since she’d become a mother.
She picked up her daughter and curled her fingers around Quinn’s fragile head. Then she made it to the top stair, carefully descending to the main floor on her bottom. It was humiliating to have to do this, and every step shot pain through her stomach, but it was better than crashing headfirst to the marble and Quinn’s skull splitting open.
“Calm,” she said out loud to remove the intrusive thought.
She thought about her misplaced pills. When she’d dropped the white prescription bag on the kitchen counter after seeing her doctor, Greg had said, “You wouldn’t get an epidural, but you’re going to take Xanax?”
“I’ve always had a bit of an issue with anxiety, but it was manageable for a long time,” Nicole had replied, the most she’d ever admitted to him. “It started after my parents were killed. Then I went on Zoloft in college but stopped taking it years ago. It made me drowsy and unfocused. My doctor said Xanax is better and totally safe for me to be on while I take care of Quinn.”
“You never told me you took antianxiety meds.” He’d rubbed his forehead, then gently caressed the back of her neck. “Nic, I know you’re a workaholic, but never once have I seen you so on edge. I worry about you.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Nicole had said as she popped the cap and took two tablets.
Now she made it to the bottom step, tucking Quinn firmly in the crook of her arm so she could use her other to lift herself. Getting to the main floor was exhausting, but it was also good to move. How she loved this house. Their three-story graystone on East Bellevue Place was a masterpiece, prime Gold Coast real estate. Paid for in cash, and a far cry from the two-story brick house in North Kenwood she and her brother, Ben, had struggled to maintain after their parents died. Their inheritance ultimately couldn’t keep up with the leaking roof, busted boiler, and flooded basement. They’d sold their family home after Nicole returned from Kenosha. She’d moved into the dorms at Columbia College, and Ben got a small apartment near his medical school.
Nicole passed the pure-white living room, decorated with chrome and glass—all clean lines and no clutter—and saw that the purple tulips she always kept fresh in Lalique vases were dead, their petals falling to the floor in a sad heap. She had postponed the cleaning crew that used to keep her home spotless. She wasn’t comfortable with strangers in the house right now.
Greg was in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, phone to his ear. He flushed and ended the call when he saw her looking at him. Why was it that lately he hung up quickly whenever she walked into the room?
“Who was that?” she asked.
“My assistant, calling about a client’s portfolio.”
Greg stroked his hands up and down his suit-clad thighs, a habit that was endearing to her. It was a small crack in his confident facade, and it made her feel like she wasn’t the only one with flaws. “She has a big learning curve and needs help.”