Before I Let You Go(72)
And then I couldn’t afford to pay my rent and to buy enough smack to last me the whole week, and so I started selling off things in my apartment. First it was the meager jewelry I’d amassed, then furniture. Soon, my apartment contained only my computer, stacks of books and a mattress.
I got a warning at work for missing days I hadn’t even realized I’d missed.
And then one of my colleagues caught me shooting in the disabled toilet and I lost my job.
31
LEXIE
Daisy’s pediatrician tells me that she’s probably going to be ready for discharge in a few days. This is great news, but it’s also terrifying news.
Forty days have passed since the birth. Forty days that I have not worked, I’ve barely kept up with my laundry and cleaning the house has become a distant memory. Forty days over which Sam has gradually become a stranger I pass in the hallway and share lunch with every now and again. Forty days and my life has shifted from predictable and organized and functional to chaos that I cannot seem to unscramble. I have bonded deeply with Daisy, of course I have; she is tiny and fragile, and she’s been in pain for so much of that time. I’ve wept for her almost as much over this month as I have wept for Annie in the last decade. But now she’s coming into my home. No longer can I just clock out and leave the responsibility behind with nurses overnight—no, once Daisy is discharged, it is entirely up to me to keep her safe and well.
And I have to get it right. I can’t afford to take a wrong step—Daisy has already been through hell, and there’s more to come. If Annie gets herself together in rehab somehow, and we can convince CPS she’s up to the task of parenting Daisy, then Daisy will go home with her mother eventually. But where is home? Is it in my house—further extending the chaos? Or is it in the trailer? I don’t even know who owns that trailer, or how Annie paid the rent . . . if she has at all. And what if Annie doesn’t make it through rehab, as seems increasingly likely? I don’t have a clue what I’d do then, and I can’t bear to think about it.
Mary Rafferty calls and asks if she and Bill Weston can visit the house.
“There are some formalities we need to attend to before Daisy formally comes into your care,” she says. “Bill and I could come by this evening? Maybe after your fiancé finishes at the hospital?”
“Ah . . .” I fumble to think of a reason to decline or at least postpone her request. “Of course you can, but . . .”
I trail off, thinking of the dishes in the sink and the piles of laundry waiting for our attention. Then I think of the room where Daisy will sleep, which is full of boxes—some of which I’ve torn open and tipped onto the floor when I was looking for Annie’s diary.
“I know you’ve been busy with the baby at the hospital, Dr. Vidler. I won’t be expecting a clean house, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mary says gently.
“It’s just . . . we haven’t even got the nursery in order yet,” I say hesitantly. “We’ll do it on the weekend but . . .”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m looking for, either. It’s a safety check—a procedural thing, you understand. There’s a checklist I need to follow. I mainly need to see that Daisy is going to a home where she will be safe. And if there’s a thing or two that still needs doing before she comes home, it’s no big deal, truly.”
I agree to meet Mary and Bill at our place just after 5:00 p.m., and then I sprint to my car and call Sam as I drive home. I spend the afternoon frantically cleaning and trying to restore some order to the house. I hide baskets of laundry and scrub the kitchen, focusing so hard my vision almost tunnels. I spend ten minutes trying to polish out a tiny stain on the countertop that was there when we bought the house, and when I can’t lift it, I sob. When Sam comes home, he finds me in the immaculate bathroom trying to hide my blotchy skin with makeup.
“Uh . . .” he says, looking at me with visible panic. “What happened?”
“There’s a stain on the countertop,” I say, and I burst into tears again. “What if they say we can’t have her? What if they want to send her to some foster carer who has clean countertops?”
Sam looks at me blankly.
“Can’t we just cover the stain with the fruit bowl?”
But by the time we open the front door, the house is sparkling clean and Sam and I are both wearing our brightest smiles.
“It’s so lovely to see you again, Dr. Vidler,” Mary greets me with a beam.
“You, too,” I say politely, and I step aside to allow them to enter the hallway.
Sam leads the way around our house, giving a laid-back tour, mentioning the layout and the renovations as we walk. Mary scrawls notes, and I twist my neck this way and that, trying unsuccessfully to read what she’s written. We finish at the room we’re planning to set up for Daisy, right across the hall from ours.
“It’s been our storage room,” Sam says wryly. “We’re going shopping for baby things on the weekend.” I hastily glance at Mary and Bill, but neither seems bothered by our lack of preparation. Mary catches my eye and offers me a quiet smile.
“Can we take a seat downstairs and have a little chat?”
My knees are stiff as we walk down to the living room. Bill and Mary sit on the sofa opposite Sam and me, and Sam takes my hand, then glances at me. He must correctly read in my face how terrified I am, because he releases my hand and instead slides his arm around my shoulders.