So Much More(14)

I had been defeated again. By my own seed. Fucking little traitor. I lay there staring at Seamus, begging him with my thoughts, Please look at me. Please tell me you love me. Pleading. It didn’t work. He only saw the turncoat cuddled up to my bosom.

“Do you like the name Rory?” He was smiling so sweetly that I would swear the two of them were having a telepathic conversation and had already bonded for life.

I didn’t answer his question. I hadn’t thought about names. I was in denial prior to the birth. And now that it was over I just felt empty.

“I’m sorry to cut your time with him short, but we need to get him checked out. Being premature, he’ll need some extra attention.”

Take him. Please. And while you’re at it, I could use some f*cking extra attention, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I was still looking at Seamus’s beautiful face as it crumbled in the understanding that his little boy may have complications due to an early arrival into the world.

I should’ve been crumbling for the same reason, but I wasn’t. I was crumbling for myself.





Rory spent four weeks at Children’s Hospital before he was cleared to come home. I went back to work after the third week. Fortunately, Seamus was on summer break from school and took on parenting full time with both the boys.

The postpartum depression was real this time around. I avoided emotion at all costs and what overtook me was suffocating. I was medicated. It helped with my moods, but love never bloomed for my boys.

I saw the way Seamus looked at me. Questions like, “What do you need?” and, “How can I help?” were common additions to our limited conversations. I knew he genuinely wanted to help me, but I also knew that by helping me he thought he was helping the boys. Helping our family. Because Seamus was a family man, through and through.

I started to resent the fact that I was being silently judged, even if it was being done with good intent on his part. I felt weak and vulnerable. We all had our part to play in this goddamn fa?ade, and postpartum depression was f*cking it all up.





Kai is three now, and Rory is one, I’ve accepted the fact that I birthed these children, and that’s enough. Their father loves them for both of us. I’m playing my get out of hell free card—Seamus. He will always deliver me from evil. Unknowingly atone for my sins. Thank God he hasn’t left me. He’s too blinded by his love for our boys to see me for who I really am.

The fa?ade remains intact.





We needed a hero





present





“Seamus!” It’s the muffled cry of someone in trouble. Someone who needs help.

I blink the sleep from my eyes once and strip the covers back and bound from bed in one clumsy motion. I’m standing in the hallway outside the kids’ bedroom trying to recall if the cry for help was female or male.

I’m only half awake, but my mind is leaning toward female when I hear it again, “Seamus!” accompanied by more knocking on the front door.

My heart’s pounding in my chest, but there’s a degree of relief when I realize it’s not my kids calling out. They’re safe and sound. I shuffle toward the door because tired legs paired with numbness don’t make for a cooperative couple.

When I open it, Faith is standing on the W…E mat in wet pajamas. She’s out of breath, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s just run up the stairs, or if it’s because she’s scared. “Thank God. Seamus, we need your help. A pipe broke in Hope’s apartment, and The Lipokowskis aren’t home. There’s water everywhere, and we can’t find the main water shut off.”

I look down at my underwear, all too aware the time for modesty was before I opened the door, not now that Faith is standing in front of me asking for help. I’m sure she could care less if I walked downstairs naked at this point, as long as I shut off the water. Hope, however, I’ve never met. And underwear is not appropriate introduction attire, even during a crisis.

After I throw on some shorts, I instruct, “Stay here with the kids, please.”

She nods quickly.

I’m walking down the stairs, just past midnight, trying to keep my balance. There’s a recliner, small table, and dresser on the sidewalk in front of apartment one’s door. When I knock on the unlatched door, it swings open a few inches. “Hello?” I call out loudly, not wanting to walk into a stranger’s home unwelcome.

A tall, extremely thin woman walks out of what I’m assuming is the bathroom. Upon first glance, I can’t take in anything about her other than despair. She looks like the type of person who’s been beaten down by life so long that misery is a constant companion. “A pipe’s busted. I don’t know how to make the water stop.”

I step into the apartment without introducing myself. “Where’s the utility closet?”

She points to the door next to the kitchen.

I walk to the closet, and every step I take is wetter than the last. The carpet is saturated. The main water shut off for the apartment is located in the closet next to the furnace and water heater, just like in our apartment. Thank God for consistency.

When we hear the water stop running, she sighs. It’s the audible release of stress. “Thank Jesus,” she whispers, her eyes downcast.