by Kelly Rimmer
ah’s face to mine, and he blinks too fast, then looks away and
clears his throat. “I don’t really understand what’s going on with
you—I guess I can’t. But I’m scared. Really scared. I want you
to be happy, and I can see that you’re not.”
“I am happy,” I say weakly. I can’t be honest with him. The
only way my husband could possibly respond to “I don’t know
what I’m doing when it comes to our kid” or “Is it possible we
should have listened to mother nature and given up on a child
years ago” would be with platitudes and false reassurances I
can’t handle at the moment. “Okay, yes. I’m struggling a little.”
“A little?” he repeats, giving me a wry look. “Honey, come
on. I have eyes. I can see that you’re in your own world at the
moment, and I know you. That’s not a place you want to stay.
If you switch to formula, I can help more…take some of the
pressure off.”
“I don’t get why everyone is so determined to stop me breast-
feeding. First your mom, now Lisa and you. It’s the only thing
I’m good at these days!”
“The only thing you’re good at?” Hunter blinks at me as if
this statement makes no sense at all, and while I love him for
it, I’m reminded only of how much he loves me, and how that
makes him biased. “You’re amazing at everything. Noah is a con-
tented, healthy, happy baby and I’m at work fifty hours a week.
Our son is incredible and you did that.”
I wonder what he’d say if I told him about the time I left Noah
alone in the house. Or the incident just two days ago when I left
him crying in the attic at Dad’s because I freaked out. Amazing
at everything? Not so much.
“I’m going to think about it,” I say stiffly.
“Okay. That’s all we can ask.”
I don’t miss his use of the pronoun— we. So, it’s me against
“them” now. Hunter and no doubt Ruth are on Team Lisa,
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convinced this is all in my head, all of them failing to see what
should be right in front of their eyes— I’m struggling because I’m
just not up to this task. I try to stop myself from becoming defensive, but I can’t help it. My mood sours so fast it’s like an out-
of-control brushfire, turning a peaceful morning to ashes in
seconds. I push back my chair and stand.
“I’m not going to work today. I thought I’d take you back to
the doctors,” Hunter says quietly.
“I don’t need you to treat me like an invalid. You don’t have
to patronize me.”
At the sharpness in my tone, Hunter’s gaze narrows.
“You can look at it like that, or you can see a husband who
loves you and who’s doing everything he can to support you. Ei-
ther way, I’m not going to work. If you don’t want me to drive
you, I’ll watch Noah while you go alone.”
“Fine,” I say, and I spin on my heel and go back into the bed-
room. I manage to cling to my frustration and avoid Hunter
all morning, until it’s time to go to the clinic for my follow-up
appointment.
And I do leave him and Noah at home. I give them a stilted
goodbye and drive to Lisa’s clinic. As I lower myself into the
upholstered chair opposite her desk, I try to say what I think
she wants to hear.
“I feel back to normal now. It was definitely just sleep de-
privation.”
I’m impressed with my delivery. It sounds fluid and convinc-
ing, and I think I’ve convinced Lisa, too, because she nods slowly
then straightens in her chair.
“So everything’s okay now that you’ve had some rest?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I’m fine now.” Fine, and ready to get
right back to clearing out Dad’s attic to find the rest of those
notes.
“Let me read you something, Beth. I don’t want you to say
anything. I just want you to listen and see how this list lines up
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with your situation. Okay?” I nod, and Lisa selects a heavy text-
book on her desk, then angles it toward her so I can’t see the
page. She slides her reading glasses on and reads, “Sleep distur-
bance. Lack of usual pleasure in activities. Depressed mood. Se-
vere irritability. Unexplained agitation. Withdrawal from usual
social activities and networks. Lack of interest in food. Hints at
feelings of worthlessness and references failures others can’t see.
Apparent inability to concentrate.” She looks at me over her
glasses and says, “What do you think that was?”
“I’m guessing that’s a list of symptoms for postpartum depres-
sion,” I say impatiently. “But we already discussed this, Lisa. I’m
not depressed.”
She sets the book down on her desk and withdraws a piece of
paper, then turns the page toward me. At the top, she’s scrawled
the words Call from Ruth re Bethany Evans. Beneath that, she’s
written Call to Hunter, re Beth.
The symptoms she’s just rattled off to me are the notes she
took in her calls with my sister and husband. My stomach drops.
Lisa’s gaze is fixed on my face.
“Have you had any thoughts of self-harm, Beth?”
“What? No!” Thoughts of running away, sure. Self-harm?
No. The professional in me feels that now would be an excellent
time to mention that my mother may have been a woman who
really did have postpartum depression. However, I don’t men-
tion this to Lisa, mainly because my situation is not the same,
and I cannot let her label me .
“Any thoughts of harming Noah?”
Does leaving him alone in his crib while I left the house count?
“Lisa, this is ridiculous.”
“Can you answer the question?”
“No, of course I haven’t had thoughts of harming Noah!”
“What about your anxieties about his health and welfare? Can
we talk about those? Hunter said you reacted quite violently to
an incident with a teething biscuit yesterday.”
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“Okay,” I groan. “Yes. I overreacted. I was exhausted and
seeing him choke like that was overwhelming.”
“Any intrusive thoughts, Beth?”
Yes. That’s exactly why I can’t sleep. My mind is constantly
engaged in what-ifs and I simply can’t talk myself out of fixating on them. My body is on high alert—and it just won’t turn off
the adrenaline because it’s convinced that danger is imminent.
“I don’t want to stop breastfeeding,” I blurt.
“I was hoping you’d agree to the Prozac, in conjunction with
cognitive behavioral therapy. But if you’re adamant about not
taking the medication, we can try the CBT first.”
How did I get here? How do I get back? What if I can’t get back?
What if
I feel like this forever?
“I don’t want anyone to know,” I whisper. “Lisa, I’m scared
of what my colleagues would think. I extended my leave but I
told them it was just because I loved being at home.”
“You don’t have to tell anyone at your clinic, Beth,” Lisa says
gently. “We’ll find you therapy somewhere else in the city if
you’re really concerned about confidentiality.”
“Honestly, I’m certain I’m already doing everything a thera-
pist would tell me to do.”
“Oh, honey,” Her gaze is gentle. “You know that’s not how
this works. You can’t treat yourself.”
“Can I think about this?”
“I’m going to give you the script today, and the name for a
really fantastic psychologist in Seattle, right near Hunter’s office.
I’m also going to give you a fact sheet about postpartum depres-
sion. I want to see you in a few days, and you have my number
and my on-call number. You can call me anytime—if I’m with
a patient, I’ll call you back as soon as I finish.”
I leave her office for the second time in two days with a stack
of paperwork. I stuff it all into my handbag and start the car.
For a while, I drive around the suburb on autopilot—up and
down tree-lined streets and roads, stopping for a while at one
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lookout over the water, then another. I pass my own house and
Chiara’s house. I stop on her street and think about knocking
on the door and going inside for a coffee with her, but I guess
it turns out that I’m still embarrassed that I made her miss the
recital, and maybe I’m not ready to face her in person yet.
Finally, I concede defeat and go searching for solace. It’s no
surprise that I find myself back at Dad’s place, the safest house
I’ve ever known. The first thing I do when I’m inside is to call
Hunter to let him know where I am. We have a brief, terse con-
versation where he asks what Lisa said, and I act like a petulant
child because I don’t want to talk about it, and I tell him I’ll be
home when I’ve had some time to think.
I desperately want his comfort, and the last thing I actually
want is to push him away, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. Is this what Lisa and Ruth meant by withdrawn? I feel like there’s
an invisible force field around me and everyone who crashes
into it is magically repelled with some force. It’s awfully lonely
in here with all of these secrets, especially when I’m not even
sure why I’m keeping them.
Loneliness is so much worse than sadness, because loneliness, by defi-
nition, cannot be shared.
Cause of death unable to be determined due to body decomposition.
The notes. The notes might have the answers.
I draw in a deep breath and climb the stairs to the attic to
keep sorting through the mess—not because I actually want to,
but because I have no idea what else to do.
It’s just after 6 p.m. when I leave Dad’s house, after another
fruitless afternoon of sorting through trash. As I step out of
the car on our driveway, I catch the scent of fresh bread on the
breeze and my stomach rumbles. Chiara taught Hunter to cook,
and while he’s usually too busy to do much of it, when he does
step into the kitchen, the results are always spectacular.
“Hi,” I say softly when I find him over the stove. He’s sauté-
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ing Brussels sprouts and bacon, and there’s a loaf of bread cooling
on the table. On the countertop foil covers several other plates.
I slip the breastmilk I pumped this afternoon from my handbag
into the fridge, then walk around my husband to peek beneath
the foil. When I find grilled pork loins and buttery potatoes, I
moan in appreciation, feeling a burst of hunger that’s become
alien after weeks of lackluster appetite. “This looks amazing.
Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?” Hunter asks me, but he’s watching
the Brussels sprouts closely.
“I’m okay,” I say. Hunter glances at me, then looks back to
the frying pan. “Where’s Noah?”
“He didn’t sleep long this afternoon. He’s already in bed.”
I creep down the hallway to our room, but the cradle there
is empty, and so I frown and go to check the nursery. Noah is
in the crib, and Hunter has already made up the mattress on the
floor, obviously intending to sleep here, too. I don’t like this at
all, and I quickly head back into the kitchen.
“Why the nursery?” I ask abruptly. Hunter sighs and starts
plating up the food.
“Beth, I don’t want to argue tonight. It’s obvious you need
to rest, and I just want to do what I can to help you. Okay?”
“That doesn’t mean I want you to move out of our bedroom,”
I say, throat aching with the force it takes to hold back my tears.
“How could I possibly know what you want at the moment?”
Hunter shrugs, sliding the Brussels sprouts onto each plate.
“You’re not exactly talking to me. I’m guessing at what might
help because you’re not giving me any guidance whatsoever.”
We sit side by side at the kitchen table and begin to eat in si-
lence.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” I say without even thinking
about it. But once the words are out, I feel better, not worse.
Hunter raises his gaze to mine.
“Okay.”
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I draw in a deep breath, and it takes some effort, but I force
myself to keep speaking.
“I do. I love him so much.”
“I know that, Beth.”
“I really just thought I’d be better at this.”
“You keep saying that… I just don’t understand where it’s
coming from. You’re doing everything right.”
“But it’s so hard,” I whisper, eyes filling with tears. I set my
cutlery down to pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought all of
this would feel natural. I thought I’d have some kind of instinct
about what to do and when, but I just don’t.”
“Why on earth would you think you’d automatically know
how to raise a kid?”
“It seems to be easy for everyone else.”
“You’re a good listener. Did that make you a psychologist?”
“You know it didn’t, Hunter.”
“It took you years of study and clinical practice, right?” When
I nod, Hunter shrugs. “Well, as difficult as I know your job is,
it’s still easier than parenting. Your clients leave your office, and
then it’s up to their parents. With Noah, there’s no line where
our responsibility suddenly ends. When he’s older, his well-be-
ing will be up to him, too, but for now it’s entirely up to us…
up to you, really, for most of the week while I’m
at work. That’s
a lot of pressure. Hell, that’s more pressure than either one of
us has ever felt before.”
“But you’re handling it so well. You’re perfect.”
“Jesus, Beth. My wife has been suffering under my nose and
I didn’t do a thing about it for months. That’s hardly perfect,”
Hunter sighs, running his hand through his hair. “It’s going to
take us time to find our way as parents, and it’s the most impor-
tant thing we’ll ever do. We’re supposed to struggle. We’re sup-
posed to make mistakes.” His lips quirk. “We’re going to mess
him up real good, I promise, and one day you are going to have
to untangle him because that’s your profession. I’ll be on hand
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for when he needs legal advice, but the psychological damage
is all your department.”
I smile weakly at his lame joke, even though he doesn’t re-
ally deserve it.
“Thanks.”
“So you’ve been feeling like you’re not doing a good job.
What else?”
“I think I’m probably wound up, like you said yesterday. I
just can’t relax. So when I lie in bed, it’s like my mind is on
high alert, waiting for something to go wrong. I haven’t been
sleeping.”
“I know, babe.”
“I didn’t recognize it as depression because I haven’t been
sad. I mean, I have been sad, but the sadness I’ve felt has been
understandable because of Dad. There’s…” I suck in a sharp
breath. “There’s a lot going on with Dad, Hunter. It would be
hard for anyone.”
“That’s absolutely true.”
“But it’s hard for me to be subjective about my own state of
mind, like I would be for a client. And I think it is possible that
maybe I haven’t been coping as well as I should have. I real y don’t want anyone to label me, but I do think Lisa is onto something.”
“Good. This is good, Beth. You’re talking to me.”
“You know, when we first started dating, I used to think I
wouldn’t mind at all if there was a way I could let you see into
my thoughts,” I blurt. Hunter chuckles and nods.
“We’re both oversharers, normally.”
“We always had the kind of relationship where we just shared
whatever came into our mind. I had nothing to hide from you,
and I hope… I think you always felt the same.”