“I didn’t know. My husband made the appointment for me. My sister usually watches her, but she’s back at work now.”
“Mm-mm-mm.” Translation: You’re in trouble. When the woman rose and emerged from the reception cubicle, Chelsea stepped back.
Was she going to chase them out?
Instead, the woman cut around her and leaned over the stroller to coo for Annabelle. Light flashed on the silver nameplate on her shirt, making it look like a piece of jewelry.
Val . . . Chelsea’s senses swam with the gentle scent of her perfume, a delicious mix that reminded her of baby powder and flowers. Without the cover of the desk, Val’s teal blouse no longer concealed her shape, the soft, doughy body of a Care Bear.
She wished Val would take care of her. A big, soft, plush hug would be so nice right now. Chelsea bit her bottom lip, missing her mother.
“You’ll have to take her in,” Val said without looking up from Annie. “But he’s not going to like it.”
“Okay. Sorry.” Chelsea adjusted her oversized sweater, which tended to bunch at her puffy waist. How did other overweight people like Val manage to look so together—so sharp? In that moment she would have given anything to have Val’s life. A pretty blouse that matched her eyes. A quiet cubby to spend the day in. Lunch with friends. She probably had time to read books and soak in the tub with those amazing scents.
“Oh, look at you!” Val fussed. “Such a beautiful baby, and you know it, too! Yes, you do.”
Chelsea didn’t think Annabelle was so beautiful, with her flaky cradle cap and chubby jowls. Why did people always say that?
“And with your pink little booties I can tell you’re a girl. What’s her name?”
“Annabelle.”
“A name almost as pretty as you.”
Annabelle’s eyes opened wide in response to Val.
“Oh, aren’t you yummy?” Val shot Chelsea a look. “Do you mind if I hold her? It’s been so long since I had a little one.”
Chelsea nodded and stood back as the woman lifted her baby in her capable arms. Sometimes it reassured her to see other people give her baby the love she couldn’t find in her own heart. She imagined Annabelle’s senses coming alive to the sweet perfume, her fears and muscles easing in the nest of warm, capable arms.
“You are cute as a button,” Val cooed. “But you don’t belong in this big doctor’s office. Mommy needs to get a sitter.”
“But it’s just an office visit,” Chelsea said. “A consultation. I’m not due for an exam.”
Val shrugged. “He doesn’t want the babies in here. Next time, you really need to leave her with a sitter.”
One more expense that wasn’t in their budget. Since Chelsea had left her job at the magazine, they were living on one salary and there was no room for any extras now.
“Who’s the cutest baby here?” Val cajoled. “Who is? Who is?”
Annabelle’s eyes lit with interest as she pressed a little fist to a chubby cheek. They seemed to like each other, Annabelle and Val. And Chelsea was the outsider, watching them through binoculars. Why was she a million miles away from her own baby?
The door behind them opened and a nurse appeared, chart in hand. “Chelsea Maynard?”
“That’s me.” Chelsea’s back ached as she took Annabelle from the woman and leaned down to place her in the stroller.
“Don’t forget to buckle her in,” Val said. “We don’t want any mishaps.”
Like the baby slipping out, her head thumping as it hit the floor.
No, that wouldn’t happen . . . but she might bump it on the wheel.
Or if she fell out in the parking lot, the impact on the concrete might draw blood.
Chelsea closed her eyes against the horrible images that flooded her mind. Why did she let herself go there? Such sick, horrifying scenarios of the terrible things that could happen.
“Let me help.” The nurse reached down and clicked the clasp on Annie’s seat belt. More a means of moving Chelsea along than an act of kindness, but Chelsea nodded gratefully, then pushed the stroller inside.
The office was a tired room that aspired to be a paneled library in an English manor house. Only here, the paneling was the prefab kind and the built-in shelving was no more than kitchen cabinets with a walnut stain. Chelsea assessed the quickest and cheapest way to make the room over as Dr. Volmer went over her chart, grunting out a few questions now and then.
A coat of paint could open this room up and give it a more modern look. A buttery yellow, or a more neutral pearl gray. Silver mist. Were there decent walls under the paneling? Chelsea’s fingers itched to pry one loose and take a peek. If necessary, the paneling could be painted. . . .
She hadn’t expected that she would miss her job at the magazine, but it was hard to back away from an occupation when you knew you were so damned good at it. Granted, she had plenty of projects of her own waiting back at the house, and the managing editor was hoping she would freelance for the magazine, either by editing or turning one of her projects into a “how to” feature. But that wasn’t like basking in the social glow at the office each day. She missed the adult conversation and the design challenge. There was a certain adrenaline rush in taking on a new space, triaging the worst elements, and making it better in less time than some people took to decide on vacation plans.
“Your weight could be a little lower,” the doctor said, jarring her from her reverie. “Are you getting exercise?”
“I do some walking. Not enough.”
“You need exercise.”
“I know, but the weather’s been crummy, and the C-section really knocked me off my feet for a while.” The surgery had been complicated, traumatic, with some repair necessary to her uterus. The ordeal had sucked all the joy out of Annabelle’s birth. For hours Chelsea had been splayed open on the table, shivering in alarm as the surgeons had worked behind the drape. She still hated thinking about it.
“Get yourself moving,” he ordered. From his gray complexion and slight paunch, she doubted that he was pumping iron at the gym, but she didn’t argue. “It will help you feel better.”
“I’ll get walking again.” She would go with Emma, whose doctor had been on her about exercise, too. She was pregnant with her first baby.
Dr. Volmer closed the chart and started cleaning his glasses with a tissue. “Then I’m satisfied with your progress. You’re good to go.”
Her confidence slid down to the floor. “Wait . . .” How had she lost control of the appointment? “I came in because I’m having some problems. Didn’t the nurse tell you?”
“Mmm.” He put his glasses back on and opened the folder. “So tell me why you’re here.”
“I need an antidepressant.” She noticed his scowl as she said the words. “I—I just feel really bad all the time.”
“You came for drugs?” His magnified eyes were huge behind the wall of his glasses. “I’m not one of those doctors who will send you home with a handful of prescriptions when all you really need is rest and fresh air.” His annoyance was abrasive; he didn’t even pretend to be patient.
She wanted to ask him how she was supposed to get rest when she had to feed Annabelle every three hours. How did other mothers do it? She wanted to ask them, to shout a question out to the new mothers of the world, a plea for them to share their answers, reveal their secrets. Other mothers were competent. They managed to feed their babies, to coo and snuggle with them. Chelsea so desperately wanted that for herself, and for Annabelle.
“What about a blood test?” she asked. “Isn’t there some kind of screening you can do?”
“To tell me that your hormones are off balance? We already know that. You’ve just got a case of the baby blues,” Dr. Volmer said. “That’s normal.”
“But it’s more than that. There’s something really wrong with me. I’m not happy about anything anymore, and I feel so . . . I go from being numb inside to feeling broken.”
“The baby blues,” he repeated.
No, no, it’s so much more than that. Can’t you hear what I’m saying? I’m slipping into a dark hole. I don’t feel anything for my baby. I can’t remember the woman I used to be.
And I’m so worried that something is going to happen to Annie . . . if I drop her, if she flies out of the car in a crash. If I drop her down the stairs . . .
She closed her eyes against the rhythmic thumping of her baby down the stairs—the rolling, falling bundle of skin and bones. All in her head, of course, and she couldn’t tell Dr. Volmer about that. She couldn’t let him see that she was a terrible person inside.
She could handle this. She would handle this. On her own.
“The hormones will even out eventually. I could give you an antidepressant, but you know anything you take will go through to the baby while you’re nursing.”
She nodded, not wanting to face him because that would make her cry. Everything made her cry these days. “I don’t want to do anything to hurt my baby.” Her voice was tight, her throat dry and scratchy. “But isn’t there something? My sister said there are some medications that can be prescribed to nursing mothers.”
“Your sister . . . is she a doctor?”
She opened her eyes. “No.”
He grunted. “Diagnosing you over the Internet, I take it?”
It was true, but why did he make her feel bad for asking? “I came here because I can’t take this anymore. I can’t go on feeling this way.” She brought her burning eyes to his hateful face. “I need your help.”
“Well.” He frowned, and she looked down as a tear ran down her cheek. “If it’s that bad I’ll write you a prescription for something that won’t harm the baby. But it takes a while to work. You probably won’t notice it taking effect for a week or so.” He took a pad out of a drawer and scribbled something on it. “There. Is that what you wanted?”
Chelsea clutched the prescription as if it were a lifeline. “What about therapy?” Emma had told her to ask about it.
“That’s only in the worst cases, and I don’t think it’s warranted here. The baby blues go away on their own. . . .” The doctor’s voice was fuzzy, as if coming from the other side of a wall.
A massive wall.
Chelsea was walled in. Imprisoned with her baby. And talking about things changing in a few weeks or a few years was like the promise of a parole hearing in thirty years. It was too far away to be real.
“Of course, if it’s really bad, I can recommend a therapist.” He flipped through her file and rubbed his jaw. “I can’t tell if your insurance would cover that. You’d have to call and find out. Chances are you’d have to pay out of pocket.”
Their health care insurance was another issue. It wasn’t long after Chelsea’s discharge from the hospital that unresolved claims from Sounder Health Care had begun flooding in—all of them with a series of complicated footnotes implying problems.
No . . . she couldn’t face trying to get one more approval from Sounder Health Care and they certainly couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket.
She would tough it out without therapy.
I can do this, she told herself.
“Honey, with your determination, I believe you can do anything.” That was what Mom used to tell her. When Chelsea announced that she was going to run for class president, find a job as an editor, or restore their little house one tile at a time, her mother always gave her the green light. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
Mom would have understood. She would have driven up from Florida, parked her suitcase in the guest room, and sent Dad grocery shopping while she fussed over Annabelle and cooked up a storm. Chelsea had seen Mom take over at her older sister’s house every time Melanie had a new baby. For Mom, it had been a labor of love, and people were always happy to submit to Judith Maynard’s loving authority.
Mom should be here . . . but she wasn’t. They had lost her just days before Annabelle was born . . . so close to Chelsea’s due date that she hadn’t been allowed to fly to Florida to attend her own mother’s funeral. Sometimes anger flared when Chelsea thought about it. Resentment that she couldn’t be there to say good-bye and fury with her mother for refusing treatment. They could have had more time together. Mom could have met her granddaughter. . . .
As if on cue, Annabelle let out a little squeak.
Chelsea saw the baby’s lips moving. It would be time to feed her soon. The poor little thing. Did she sense that she was the source of so much pain and contention? A baby needed to feel love and comfort. She needed smiles and happy words . . . not the quavering voice of the person who was supposed to care for her and shape her world.
“Okay, then.” Dr. Volmer closed the file and took off his glasses again in what she now recognized as his “wrap it up” gesture. “I’ll have Val give you a list of therapists in case you want to go that route.” He rose, and Chelsea had no choice but to get to her feet and leave.
He cleared his throat as he seemed to notice Annabelle for the first time. “You got a good baby there. Most of them would be screaming by now.”
Annabelle’s hat was off, and the white flakes of her cradle cap were visible on her scalp. The pediatrician had told them to rub mineral oil into her scalp, but it left her skin flaky and her scalp slick. “A butterball head,” Leo had called her. Her face was turning red as she squirmed. A storm warning. Any minute, the hunger cries would come.
As soon as Volmer opened the door, Chelsea wheeled her good baby out to the reception area, where she searched the faces of the women there, searched for someone to take her baby. Maybe Val could take her home. Maybe some other lactating woman sitting in the waiting room could take her into the bathroom and sit on the toilet to breast-feed her. Surely there was a woman here with the confidence to nurse right out in the open, sitting grandly in a chair, while Chelsea scrambled to her car and drove south on the Interstate . . . south toward Florida and warmer weather.
Annabelle was a good baby, but right now Chelsea wished she could hand her off to someone else while she went off with her happy pills. And she hated herself for it.
All hope of a quick exit faded when Annabelle let loose with her hunger cry. Chelsea paused, panic burning a path up her throat. There was no way she could make it home with a hungry baby screaming in the backseat of the car, but she wasn’t able to breast-feed in public. Neither the waiting room nor the car would work.
The dinky little bathroom would have to do.
Chelsea put the toilet cover down and huddled on the seat with Annie heavy in her arms. The sweet stink of deodorizer reminded her of orange Creamsicles, in a sickening way.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
Annabelle’s whimpers dissolved as she started nursing. Her baby didn’t care that they were trapped in an airless bathroom with cloud wallpaper from the eighties. Annie could find contentment with food and a nap.
Unlike her mother.
Looking down on her baby, Chelsea tried to swallow back the keening wail of loneliness deep in her throat. Annabelle was physically attached to her and comforted by it, but Chelsea felt no comfort in being a provider. She was tapped out, exhausted, and the baby at her breast was draining her of her last ounce of energy.
She reached over to turn on the water.
Maybe that would drown out her sobs.
The ride home loomed before Chelsea. Weariness dimmed her vision as she navigated the parkway, watching the pillars of the guardrail whip past. Her hands gripped the wheel, but the car was hard to steer. The guardrail tugged at the car like a powerful magnet.
One turn of the wheel, and she’d plow into it. She imagined a pillar tearing into the car. Cutting it in half.
Or would the car hit head-on and spin around, slamming into other vehicles swimming along behind it? She saw it all, as if caught in slow motion. Cars pressing into each other, collapsing, wrapping and twirling together like lovers on a dance floor.
The bold confidence rising inside her was the most solid emotion she had felt in weeks.<
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She was going to do it.
One slight turn of the wheel would end her pain.
“I’m losing it.” As she reached for her cell phone in her bag, she realized she was fishing through the diaper bag—the only purse she carried these days. The sweet baby smell reminded her that Annabelle was sleeping in her car seat in the back. If she crashed, something terrible could happen to her baby.
She jerked the wheel in the opposite direction, overcompensating, making the car wobble on the road.
How could I even think of crashing? But as the thought escaped, the barrier seemed to beckon from the side of the road, promising a way out, luring her to finally do something.
Do something.
Stop sitting around and take action.
Her hands shook as she called her sister on speed dial. The bleating ring stretched before her like the broken white line at the center of the highway. When Emma’s message came on, she was about to hang up, but something kept her pressing the phone to her ear. As soon as the beep ended, desperate words spilled out.
“I need help. . . .”
Chapter 3
Emma Wyatt walked away from the lockers, casually paused in front of the mirror, and opened the towel just enough to reveal the swell of her belly. Even in the harsh light of the locker room, the slight curve of her pale stomach was a beautiful sight, like a Michelangelo figure sculpted in marble.
She was really pregnant.
After all the mornings in bed with the basal thermometer, the embarrassing doctors’ appointments for her and for Jake, the trip to the clinic with a little vial of Jake’s swimmers tucked between her breasts to keep it warm . . . now, at last, she could press a hand to her abdomen and make contact with the life growing in the cradle of her hips.
She stepped away from the mirror before one of the other women began to think she was stuck on herself. Though right now, the sense of well-being that cloaked her made her feel immune to anyone’s disapproval. This prenatal swim class was the perfect way to end a busy week, though she did have to rush here as soon as the last parent picked up their kid each Friday afternoon. The forty-five minutes of pool exercise made Emma feel loose and invigorated. For the first time in days, her feet and toes were warm. Life was good and full of promise.
All She Ever Wanted Page 2