Before I Let You Go(59)
And then it’s incredibly unfair when 3:00 p.m. ticks around.
“Come on, love. We need to get going.”
Annie holds Daisy close to her face, and her tears rise again—quickly escalating into heartbreaking sobs that rack her entire body. She shudders and she wails and she weeps so hard that the NICU nurse asks us if we need a doctor to order a sedative.
“She can’t go into rehab sedated,” Sam whispers pointedly to the nurse, who grimaces and shrugs.
“I don’t know how you’re going to get her away from that kid otherwise.”
“Come on, Annie . . .” I say again, this time with rising urgency. I’m no longer whispering, because Annie is making a racket anyway. I pull on her shoulder, and she shakes me off, so I clutch it again. We have to go. I don’t even know what would happen if we miss that 5:00 p.m. deadline—will police just turn up and drag her there? Will she go straight to prison? “I know it’s hard, Annie. I know. But you have to do this for her.”
Annie’s spine stiffens, and after a long pause, she draws onto some reserve of strength and passes her baby to the nurse. She snatches a handful of Kleenex from a box beside the crib, and she wipes her eyes and blows her nose, and then she stares right at me. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there is such desperation in them . . . it’s the same look she wears when she is craving a fix.
I can’t even begin to imagine how much she is craving that high right now. I doubt I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life as much as Annie would like to escape from this moment.
“Let’s go,” she croaks.
She keeps glancing back at Daisy as we walk down the hallway toward the parking lot, even long after we have left the room where Daisy lies, even after we have turned a dozen corners and she can’t possibly see the NICU.
Every now and again, a fresh sob leaves Annie’s mouth. Every now and again, she hesitates just a little—her steps faltering, as if . . . maybe she can’t do this after all. Every time this happens, I touch her gently—on her upper arm, or her waist, or the small of her back . . . and then when she finally stops altogether I wrap my arms around her, and I hope that I can somehow transfer some of my strength to her. Annie cries, but then, once again, she straightens and keeps on walking.
Sam follows close behind us. I keep glancing back at him. He wears a constant, guarded expression until I meet his gaze, and then he offers me the same reassuring smile. I’m glad I don’t have to find out what he would do if she turned and tried to run back. I have a feeling he chose that position so he could block her way if he needed to.
By the time we reach the car, Annie seems to have run out of tears. I sit in the back with her, our hands linked on the seat between us. As Sam pulls the car away from the hospital, she clears her throat and says, “Thanks for making me leave, guys.”
“We know it was hard,” Sam says when I stay silent. “We’re proud of you, Annie.”
We drive in silence until we are miles down the road, and Annie turns to me and whispers, “Lexie, you will look after her, won’t you?”
My eyes have been fixed on my lap, but I drag them away long enough to look at her in surprise.
“Of course I will. She’ll be my priority until you can come back and take over.”
Annie nods, then she looks out the window at the passing scenery. We pass stores, homes, parks. This is such a nice area . . . the kind of area Daisy deserves to grow up in. Will Annie be able to achieve that for her daughter? And if she doesn’t, what will my role be? I can’t consider it, especially not now. It’s too frightening.
“I know she’s on the morphine and they’ll step her down slowly, but . . . withdrawal is actually terrifying, Lexie. It’s more painful than anything you can imagine, and to think that she’s going to suffer through without me . . .”
Annie is rambling, and it’s all for nothing, because I do understand exactly what she’s saying. I rub my thumb over the thin skin that lies across the knuckles on the back of her hand, and I murmur, “Remember that time when you asked me to help you detox?”
Annie snorts derisively.
“Which time are you talking about? I’ve done that to you twice.” The self-loathing in her tone is hard to hear.
“Annie, this time is going to be different. And I was talking about the first time, when you first came to live with me in Montgomery but you didn’t make it through the rehab program we found.”
“I remember the first day or so.”
“I actually thought you were going to die,” I admit weakly. “You were so out of it, and you were so, so sick . . . I didn’t think you’d make it, and I thought I’d killed you.”
We drive in silence for a moment, before Annie turns to me again.
“It feels like the life is being pulled out of you. It feels like whatever it is that makes us more than stone, whatever it is that makes us conscious, whatever it is that makes us human—detoxing feels like that’s being pulled out of your body. My baby is seven days old, and she’s feeling like that today. I know that the nurses are looking after her, and I know that they understand it as well as anybody, but Daisy needs me and because I’ve fucked this all up so badly, I can’t be there for her. I know that I’ve asked a lot of you, Lexie, and that I have messed up your life more times than we can both count. But I have never needed anything from you like I need you to be there for Daisy in the next few weeks. So firstly, thank you. And secondly, I’ll never forget this—I’ll always be grateful to you for this. And I’ll make sure that I find a way to make this right.”