The Love That Split the World(92)

I start to scream—the me in the recording—bloodcurdling shrieks.

Suddenly, I’m not just hearing the sound anymore. I’m making it. The me in the room. I’m seeing it. I’m feeling it.

All of it.

I’m not in the office. I’m in the car, strapped into my car seat, as we smash headlong into something and spin sideways, flipping, my stomach looping inside me like we’re on a roller coaster. We hit the ground, the windows shattering on impact. Glass everywhere. Pain. The dark of night. Thunder screeches overhead, but I barely hear it. Silence drapes itself over the whole world, muffling my ears, the sound of my own voice, screaming, “Mommy, Mommy!” as the creek water and rain rush into the car.

“STOP IT,” comes another voice.

Not from my memory. It’s Alice’s voice, and I snap back into the office, mind reeling.

“Wake her up,” Alice is saying from the voice recorder. “Right now, Frederick.”

The recorder turns off as it reaches the end. I look up from the hunk of plastic shaking wildly in my hands to Alice, whose face is ghostly. “My dreams.”

She nods. “They’re not dreams,” she says. “It’s a memory.”

“She fell asleep,” I whimper. “She fell asleep at the wheel, and we wrecked.” Alice’s features remain stony as the memory keeps replaying in my mind, fragmented and dark, cold and wet, panic overtaking me. It shouldn’t be so scary—it was a long time ago. I shouldn’t feel this way, like nothing can make me safe. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I can’t remember how to breathe. I keep inhaling but the air won’t make it to my lungs. My chest aches all the way down through my arm.

“Natalie,” Alice says, her voice rough but somehow comforting in its solidity. “Take deep breaths. Focus on your breathing. It’s all going to be okay, I can promise you that. What you’re experiencing right now is temporary.”

I barely hear her. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. Whatever’s wrapping around me, suffocating me, it’s inescapable.

“Natalie,” Alice says more harshly. She grabs my hand in hers. “Hold on to my hand as tight as you can.”

I’m so dizzy, so lightheaded and empty of breath.

“Grip my hand, Natalie.”

I tighten my fingers around her hand.

“Tighter,” Alice says. “As tight as you can, and inhale. Breathe in.”

I obey, fighting the stuttering of my lungs as I fold my hand over Alice’s.

“Good,” she says. “Now relax and let your breath out. Can you do that?”

I can, and after a few more cycles, the dizziness and pain subside. Alice squeezes my hand lightly and gives me a weak smile. “If it’s too much, we could bring in an EMDR therapist,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to keep feeling this.”

I free my hand from hers. My breath still comes heavy, but the crushing feeling has lightened. “Two more weeks,” I say. “That’s all.”

“If you’re sure,” Alice says, sitting back.

I do my best to keep my mind on this crammed office, my eyes on Alice’s face, my heart rate detached from that memory as I ask, “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Who, Grandmother?”

“My mom,” I say. “I’ve had this nightmare my entire life. She knows about it. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

Alice sighs and tilts her head. “Natalie, the one time I ever had sex with a man, when I was nineteen, I got pregnant.”

“I didn’t realize you’re—”

“Definitely gay,” Alice says. “But that’s not the point. The point is, that guy didn’t want to be a dad, and I didn’t want to have him in my life forever, and I was in the middle of undergrad at Stanford, and . . . all signs pointed to abortion. Except that I really wanted to have the baby. I was a lesbian, feminist scientist, but deep down, I knew I’d also always wanted kids. Anyway, I ended up convincing myself I wasn’t ready but by then I was pretty far along. I lined up a family to adopt the baby, and I made excuses not to go home on breaks. When my son was born, I handed him over, and I never told my family he existed.”

I shake my head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the reason I kept it from everyone wasn’t that I thought they’d be disappointed in me. It was because my heart was broken. I know now I was suffering from postpartum depression, but that wasn’t all. I regretted my decision. And I can tell myself that my baby was better off with parents who were adults, who had steady income—he probably was—but there’s no way for me to ever know that for sure.”

Alice takes a shuddering breath, and her voice tightens. “I’ve regretted my decision for thirteen years now. Nothing has ever hurt me like the fear that I’d made the wrong choice for my kid. And sometimes, we don’t talk about things because we don’t want to be comforted. We don’t want anyone to tell us it wasn’t our fault, or that they forgive us, or that we did the best we could. We want to hold on to that pain because we think that’s what we deserve. We worry that if we let it go, we’re dishonoring it. And, when I look at you . . .” She presses her fingertips over her mouth, bobbing her head as she fights back tears.