“Well, Annie likes her,” he had said.
Annie likes everyone, except her own mother, Chelsea had thought, but she let it drop. The farther their car had traveled from the house and the baby, the lighter she had begun to feel.
The spell was lifting. The short break was giving her room to breathe.
The waiter arrived with their appetizers—roasted-pepper tapas and crab cakes—and the cloak of doom lifted as they turned their attention to the food. Chelsea loved the tapas—sweet and just a hint of hot.
“I wish we could make roasted peppers at home.” She spooned a dollop of minced peppers onto a small disk of bread. “But you really need a gas stove to do it right.”
“I wonder what it would cost to bring in a gas line.”
“Mmm . . . and we could bring it over to the fireplace, so we’d have a fire at the touch of a button. Better for the environment, too.”
Leo swallowed, studying her. “Uh-oh. The wheels are turning.”
“Did someone say kitchen renovation?”
Leo swiped a napkin over his mouth. “We don’t have the money for that right now.”
“But if we could bring the gas line in cheaply . . . I wonder how much of that I could do myself? I mean, of course I wouldn’t mess around without a plumber on the big stuff. But I could patch the walls, inside and out. There’s a lot I could do. And it would increase the value of the house. . . .”
Chelsea saw herself standing at a gas stove in their kitchen, holding a pepper over the burner until its skin bubbled brown as the aroma suffused the air. Gas was the only way to cook.
“It would be good for me to have a project. Something I could write up for the magazine.” She craved her old life. She would do anything just to get a piece of it back.
When she’d left her job, she planned to write in her spare time—while the baby was napping. So far, there hadn’t been any spare time. Well, not really. When Annabelle took the rare nap, Chelsea fell into bed, too exhausted to think straight.
But it didn’t have to be that way. Tomorrow, when Annie dozed off, she would open her laptop and start researching the cost of a gas line.
“It would be great if we could swing it,” Leo said. “I just don’t want to give you any more pressure than you already have.”
“But that would be a fun job.” And she definitely felt up to it. Tonight she felt pretty and independent again.
Alive.
Later, while they were eating their entrees, Leo reached his fork over to give her a taste of the lobster with vodka sauce, and a drop of creamy sauce fell to her chest. It missed her sweater, plopping on bare skin just above her cleavage.
Seeing that no one was looking, Leo wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, stuck out his tongue, and swooped down to lick it off.
The gesture was more comic than sensual, and they both shook with suppressed laughter.
“Tasty,” Leo said triumphantly. “Let’s see the chef try to top that one.”
“I guess I’m one of today’s specials,” she teased, noticing how broad his shoulders looked in his flannel shirt. Such a soft flannel. If she pressed her face to it, she might never again lift her head.
Chelsea took a leisurely breath, relaxed by the warm air and red wine she’d sipped from a beautiful round glass. Sitting here, caught by his smoky brown eyes, she remembered why she had fallen in love with him. Silly and serious, proud and humble, Leo possessed the contradictions that fascinated her every day. She smiled.
“Now that’s the Chelsea I know. When was the last time I saw that smile?”
“When there was just the two of us and I could sleep through the night.”
“Ah, sleep. Such a beautiful thing.” He swirled the red wine in the fat glass. “You haven’t been getting enough. I’m sorry, honey.”
She shook her head. “Sleep is just one part of it. I miss our old life. The quiet. The freedom to do what we wanted whenever we wanted. Even the stupid things, like the luxury of a quick shower and then flying out the door without a diaper bag or a million instructions to the sitter.”
“Yeah. You really get the brunt of it, having Annie all the time.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss work. I miss having a cubicle to go to. The whole office scene with people to talk to. I want to commiserate with the other staff about the bad coffee and the weather. Chat about kids and in-laws and movies and TV shows. Buy bad candy bars for fundraisers and take people to lunch for their birthdays.”
“Please . . . I had to buy two chocolate bars last week for Mitch’s kid. They’re still sitting in my desk drawer.” He scratched the center of his forehead, where the creases formed when he worried. Annie had those creases, too, though Chelsea wondered what she could be worrying about. “But it will get better,” Leo promised.
“I don’t want better. I want my old life back.”
Without Annie.
She couldn’t say it, but the unspeakable words buzzed in her subconscious.
Without Annie.
She longed for her life before the baby. She wanted to turn back time and get a major do over.
“Wow.” Leo looked down at the table. “I can’t imagine life without Annabelle anymore. The house would feel weird without her. You don’t think about it before you have a kid, but they just fill every minute. When you’re not doing something for them, you’re watching the stuff they do or trying to interpret their squeaks.”
As Leo described the things Annabelle did that fascinated him, she ran her thumb over her water glass and tried to find the same enthusiasm in her soul. She wanted to love her baby. But when she searched inside . . . there was nothing but pain and resentment.
“But here’s the thing. I know we’re in different places right now.” He took a sip of wine, swallowed, those worry lines creasing his forehead. “I talked to Emma while you were getting ready—just for a minute—and she told me that Volmer wasn’t so helpful. She mentioned your breakdown on the ride home.”
Chelsea winced. “Let’s not ruin our night out.”
“Just give me a minute and we’ll get off it. I just have to say this.” He covered her hand with his. “Honey, you’re suffering. I see that. The depression and the visions . . .”
She pressed her fingertips to her temples, as if she could hold on to her composure as guilt blew over her. Of course, she had told Leo about the bad visions. . . .
He would have been an idiot not to notice when she hid away the kitchen knives because she imagined them flipping through the air and landing on Annie, slicing clean through her body. And the stretch of days when she refused to use the oven because she kept imagining how Annie’s little body would fit inside.
“What you’re going through, it’s more than anyone should have to bear.”
Her throat was getting tight. She didn’t want to do this here . . . not now. She didn’t want to think of that growing mountain of insurance statements and doctors’ bills in the corner of the living room.
“All I’m saying is, I think you should go to this appointment with Emma’s doctor. Even if we have to pay, it’s worth the money to get you better. Screw the insurance. We’ll dip into our savings if we need to. Okay?”
“Our savings?” Her hands dropped away as she faced him. “You would use our savings on a doctor?”
“Of course. Whatever it takes . . . whatever you need, honey.”
His compassion made Chelsea want to cry. He was so sweet. She had married a good guy.
“What if Dr. Volmer’s little pink pills help?” she asked.
“He’s not really addressing the problem. He wouldn’t even order a blood screening.”
She swallowed back the knot in her throat, taking a swig of wine for good measure. “I’ll try Emma’s doctor. I hate to blow our savings, but Emma said she would help.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
With Leo beside her, promising his help, hope seemed as real and solid as his hand on hers. Maybe he was right.
&nb
sp; As their entrees were served, she dreamed of mornings spent on the kitchen project and afternoons spent writing about it. She could imagine the momentary buzz of success when she stood beside a plumber, turning a switch to spark the flame of a new gas stove. She could see better times and happiness ahead.
The only problem was that she could not see Annabelle in that picture.
Their magical night ended all too soon. A trip to the ladies’ room revealed that the pads in the cups of Chelsea’s bra were damp; she would have to either feed the baby or pump soon. Disappointment was a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. She didn’t have an ounce of freedom.
“No dessert for us,” she told Leo when she returned to the table.
“No problem. I’ll get the check.” He was good-natured about things. Sometimes she wished he would join in her anger at the futility of trying to have a life of her own.
But not Leo. He talked about Annabelle’s cute habits as they drove home. He was worried about missing her when he went away on his business trip next week.
“Maybe you should cancel your trip,” she said as dark anxiety came seeping back into her thoughts. “I don’t know how I’m going to handle nights without you.” Sometimes the only break in her day was handing off the baby to him when he got home from work.
“I can’t. This is the convention that gives us our biggest sales boost.”
“This is the Boston trip?” She knew it was huge for him, but it worried her to be alone with the baby right now.
“Let’s see if Mrs. Rosekind is available to come over a few nights,” he suggested. “She would be a big help to you, right?”
“We can’t afford her.”
“We’re dipping into our savings.”
“Not for a sitter.” Especially at forty bucks an hour. She had balked the first time the woman at the agency had mentioned the price on the phone. “We represent licensed nurses with experience caring for infants and children,” the woman had told her. “Sometimes you have to pay extra for peace of mind.” And after they’d come home from a dinner and found their teenage sitter making out on the couch with a goth boy introduced as “Krispy,” Leo had decided they needed to pay for peace of mind.
“The trip is more than a week away,” Leo said as he pulled into the driveway. “Your medicine should kick in by then. Maybe you’ll feel ready to handle Annie-bananee when the time comes.”
Chelsea’s hand squeezed the armrest. Better to pinch the hell out of the car than lash out at her husband. “We’ll see.”
Their little house looked quaint, the yellow squares of light from its windows shining cheerfully against the indigo sky. It was a cute house. So why did dread tug at Chelsea as she plodded up the steps? Her breasts ached and she suspected that milk had soaked through to her sweater. She had to get inside and pump or feed the baby, but every step was difficult.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of bleach and the fixtures over the sink gleamed.
“I think she scrubbed the floor.” Leo nodded, impressed.
Chelsea wanted to point out that the woman was here to watch their baby, but it seemed like a lame argument when she’d left the house sparkling.
The living room smelled of lemon wax. The sofa cushions were plumped. The magazines were fanned out on the coffee table, like in a doctor’s office. Mrs. Rosekind sat in the Scandinavian rocker that Chelsea had restored. The lamplight turned her hair to pale gold. For a woman in her forties, Mrs. Rosekind had young skin, but the washed-out shade of her hair always reminded Chelsea of a schoolmarm. She was a little thick through the middle, but she wore it well, with strong cheekbones and cheerful animal-print scrubs, the kind that pediatric nurses wore. The nurse was reading a copy of Parents Magazine, which Chelsea hadn’t been able to focus on since before the baby was born.
She glanced up, the line of her bifocals evident in the light. “How was your dinner?”
“Nice,” Chelsea and Leo said in unison.
Chelsea wanted to escape upstairs and pump, but she didn’t want to seem rude.
“Did she cry?” Leo asked.
“For a little bit.” She rose and smoothed down her smock.
“I was hoping she wouldn’t give you a hard time,” Leo said.
“All babies cry, Mr. Green. But she took the bottle right away, and after some fussing she went to sleep.”
“She really fights sleep at night,” Chelsea said.
Mrs. Rosekind nodded sympathetically. “Little Annabelle might have a touch of colic.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Leo said. “Sometimes when she cries at night, it sounds like she’s in dire pain.”
“I hope she wasn’t that bad for you. I know a baby like Annabelle must be more challenging than a good baby.”
The nurse turned a stoic face to Chelsea. “Oh, they’re all good babies, Ms. Maynard. Some of them just need more care than others.”
“Well, sure.” Chelsea fiddled with the button of her jacket, feeling awkward. Of course Annabelle was a good baby. She was just stuck with a bad mother.
Leo paid the nurse, asking her if she could help out the following week when he would be out of town for business.
“Oh, no. I have a full-time job Monday to Friday, and my weekends get booked up weeks in advance. My husband would divorce me if I start working a second job during the week. But I do enjoy the little ones, and Annabelle is precious. She reminds me of my daughter when she was a baby.”
Leo beamed. “Underneath all that fussing, Annie does have a great little personality.”
“She’s a sweet little thing,” Mrs. Rosekind said. “And don’t worry. I never mind the crying.”
I hate the crying, Chelsea thought as she escaped up the stairs. She wished that she could say that in front of the nurse. I hate it all . . . the whole mother thing. And you’re so good at it. You’d be a better mother for my baby. Why don’t you take her home for a few days . . . weeks . . . months?
Just take her.
Chapter 8
“You put dee lime in dee coconut, drink it all up,” Leo chanted as Annie looked up at him with those amazing blue eyes that had won his heart from the moment she was born.
The delivery room docs had insisted that she couldn’t see him because of those drops they always put into babies’ eyes, but from the way she stared up at him, stern as a lawyer cross-examining a suspect on the stand, he knew the doctors were wrong. Annie could see him, and she wanted some answers. She wanted to know who the hell he was, what the hell she was doing here in this brightly lit room that seriously lacked décor—her mother’s daughter—and why was everyone fussing over the lady on the other side of the curtain?
“You got a lot of questions for a little bundle with a button nose,” he’d told her. The surgical nurses had put him in a chair at the side of the room and told him to stay put with her. So, seeing all the questions in those eyes, he’d rattled off the answers.
“I’m your dad, Leo Green. You’re in an operating room. Sorry, kid, but with a C-section you didn’t score the birthing suite. And all those people in blue scrubs and hats and booties and masks are working on your mom. You’ll get to meet her soon, and I’m pretty sure you’re gonna love her. I know I do.”
Leo had talked with his daughter from the start. He gave a play-by-play on each diaper change. He asked her what she wanted to wear. Whenever he gave her a bottle, he sang to her. And though she didn’t talk back yet, the look in her eyes was enough of an answer. She liked his rap.
This particular Saturday morning, it was the coconut song.
“Put a little burp in the coconut, then you’ll feel better,” he sang as he flipped her little body to burp her on his knee. He’d seen the position in one of Chelsea’s baby books and Annie seemed to dig it.
A belch popped out, and he turned her upright in his arms. “That was a good one, Lady Baldy. Care for some more elixir of life?” He turned on the British accent as he offered her the bottle once again.
She started sucki
ng again, less enthusiastically but that was okay, since she was almost done. This time he sang “Born to Run,” singing to fill in the guitar licks. Thank God Annie-bananee was a good eater. With everything that was going on with Chelsea, he didn’t know how he’d manage a picky baby.
And to Chelsea’s credit, she had stayed on top of the feeding thing. Even though she was exhausted she had kept breast-feeding because she knew it was healthier for Annie and cheaper for them. She pumped milk a few times during the day so that he could do the nighttime feedings by bottle. And weekend feedings like this.
Yeah, Chelsea was trying, but after a week on the medication, he didn’t see any signs that she was getting better. Granted, she hadn’t had another crisis in the car, but she still wasn’t the old Chelsea. She was listless and teary and lacking in energy. And with the Boston convention starting Monday, he worried about leaving Annabee alone with her.
The crisis in the car still worried him. In the past, Chelsea’s freak-outs had involved harmless fantasies, like imagining Annie flying into the wall or thinking how her little body would fit into the oven. Sick ideas, yeah, but she had never thought to act on any of those visions.
Until last week in the car.
And the car—that was like a soaring rocket. A serious threat to his wife and daughter.
Annie had dozed off. He took the bottle away, and her lips still smacked at the air. Her eyes were closed, but her pale brows lifted in a hopeful expression, and then relaxed as she settled into a deeper sleep. Nothing else in his day gave him the same contentment as taking care of her. But now he felt like he was letting her down, going off to Boston and leaving her alone with Chelsea. And Chelsea didn’t seem to trust herself. Last night she had begged him to bag out of the convention.
He had half a mind to call his boss and cancel the trip, but in the long run it would hurt his commissions and his chance for promotion. Boston was the plum conference. If he bowed out, he’d be cutting into his income. His family’s income.
But he couldn’t take the chance of Chelsea having another crisis . . . the chance of either his wife or baby being injured or worse.
All She Ever Wanted Page 6