by Leigh Lennon
“Grace, you can’t be serious.” It is all I can say.
Gently reaching for my hand, she pulls me out of my little dormitory and says, “Jolie, sweetheart, Emma and I are going to leave you for now to get settled.”
Smiling at this child who for some reason they think will help me face my fears of babies, I find myself shaking uncontrollably. I remember when Ty insisted I hold our baby, like that would take away the panic of her almost killing me. Faced with both this young teen-to-be mother and that of my husband, I find pounding in my ears, reverberating the memories of my failure. Before I can fall to the floor, Grace gently pulls me into a small little room off the hallway where a desk and one chair are all that inhabit the office space.
“Sit down, Emma,” she says, pointing at the chair. I don’t know Grace from Adam, but if I had to guess, I would say she is giving me her best stern but loving voice. “I knew this would be hard for you to accept.”
“YOU MEAN PUTTING ME IN A ROOM WITH A CHILD WHO IS HAVING A CHILD?” I yell.
“Well, yes. I can’t divulge Jolie’s situation with you nor can I share your treatment with her, but, Emma, you have to know we are very strategic in every choice we make for our pledges.” They must think calling us pledges instead of patients make it sound less like a hospital. I guess now that I think about it, it sort of does. Grace only continues. “It is really a way to work on your triggers. We know you are not a threat to others.”
I don’t say a word, but in the tears threatening my eyes, Grace must see something because she continues calmly. “I’m not going to say just because we choose to try something, it will always work. We are human, so in that way, if this doesn’t pan out, we will address a change. But for now, I expect you to be kind to Jolie. You are an adult with a need to be here, but, Emma, remember at the end of the day, you are still an adult.”
These words hit me from years ago. I remember when I was a bitch to Justine’s kids the first time I met them. Justine called me on that, and though I stormed off and didn’t want to admit it, she was right, as Grace is right now. My fear is from my own child who almost killed me; this child is having a child, and that baby won’t kill me.
After Grace gives me a tour of my duties, which include the showers, bathrooms, and dining room cleanup, we come upon a group therapy of other postpartum women with struggles like mine. At first, I stand back, but one of the social workers pulls me into the circle to join them. I hear so much sadness coming from these ladies, but this isn’t me. I’m not sad; I’m fucking mad. Why did the love I know I had for our baby disappear?
Molly, a woman in her late thirties, stands. It’s funny, but some of our freedom means we can wear whatever we want. I didn’t bring very much, so for now, my days will consist of yoga pants and a couple of UCLA t-shirts and tank tops I brought. Thank fuck I brought a weeks’ worth of underwear, though. Anyway, Molly stands in a pair of designer jeans that I know so well with the MM on the lower butt cheek. Her shoes have a small heel, but I still recognize the signature Louboutin look, and her top is snug against her thin frame. Molly starts, “I never wanted kids, but when I got pregnant so late in life, I looked at it as a sign that I was meant to be a mom. I loved Merrick the second I heard his heart beat. But when he was placed in my arms, I felt nothing.”
She looks down at her shoes, the pretty nude probably reflecting a little of herself in them. Then, as if she doesn’t like what is looking back at her, she turns away. “My partner would leave for work, and the second his car was out of the driveway, I would have a panic attack.” Turning around, as though she is ashamed, she continues, “I let him cry all day in his crib until my partner got home. He packed up Merrick and told me to get help or I would never see them again. He left me.” She pushes tears from her cheeks. “And I deserve it all. I don’t know where they are. Why is it that I have put some of the worst monsters away as a district attorney, but as a mom, I’ve lost myself?”
At that moment, I want to run to Tyler, who never left me even when I begged him to. I want to wrap my arms around him and thank him for never giving up on me.
When I return to the room, Jolie is asleep opposite the bed from me. She looks so peaceful and young. She has no idea what’s in store for her.
Jolie stirs while she stretches, and her shirt slides up over her belly, which is not hard to do. I remember when nothing fit and everything was uncomfortable toward the end of my pregnancy. I took it all in stride because I was going to be a mother and that was all that mattered.
I watch the lean and long body of this child as she stretches, and I wonder what her story is and if it is tragic. She really can’t be older than sixteen, if that, but with her long blond hair and what I remember of her when we were introduced, her green eyes reminded me of my sister, Jane. Though this girl is taller than Jane’s petite build, I can’t help but think of all the people I left behind. I instantly ache for Rose, who I never saw before leaving, and wonder how her baby is. Then I realize how in the past six months, I have thought of only myself and wonder if this is a good sign. Can it be said that I have been narcissistic by only thinking of myself? It’s all I can do. It sounds funny, but in my jumbled, messed-up mind, I have only had room for myself. I now have made room for two of my sisters, and then, of course, since I left my husband, I have thought of nothing more than him, too.
In my thoughts of Rose, Jane, and Ty, I look down and see Jolie watching me, now wide-awake. With a slight smile, she says, “Hey, we didn’t get a chance to meet earlier. I’m Jolie.”
It is as if I am hearing my new roommate’s name for the first time since I was against this girl staying with me at first. I love her name instantly because it is so unique. “Jolie, I’m Emma,” is all I say, and I’m not sure why, but with her smile and her age, I want to be nice to this girl. I’m sure this is why Grace paired us together, to remember how I got to be here.
She attempts to get up, and with her protruding belly, she seems stuck. I can’t help but laugh, but she’s not offended. Jolie only says, “I know this is funny, but can you help me?” She’s laughing at herself.
“Sorry, hon. I can remember when I was like that. It was not that long ago when I was asking my husband the same thing.” Having a happy memory of my pregnancy hits me with an odd revelation because I try to suppress them all. My belly knots at the idea I’m revisiting a past with our baby that doesn’t bring me anxiety. I smile at the memory of the time Tyler had to physically pull me from a low chair that I was stuck in at his parents’ house. I think of the baby for a second then place it as far out of my memory as possible. I am still not sure what to do with it.
Her eyes look over my body, and with my clothes on, there’s no evidence I carried a baby inside me. Sure, my belly is a little softer, and it’ll never be flat again. Then, there’s the gigantic scar that sits a little bit higher than a normal C-section line. I’m not sure what they used to cut me open, maybe a box cutter, by the looks of it. The scar is ugly as fuck, and I try to avoid looking at it when I’m in the shower.
“You have a baby?” she asks.
“I do.” In relative terms, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve asked about her. “I’m here for postpartum depression.” However, according to the quacks in three facilities, I have more severe postpartum psychosis.
Looking away, as I’m sure she doesn’t know what to say, she smiles. “I’ve heard this is the best facility for that.”
I only nod as she continues, “I’m not ready to discuss why I’m here. I hope it’s okay.”
I smirk at the statement, and my own blunt honesty, but I’m surprised by this girl’s openness as we’re now standing silently in our room. I break it by saying, “Sure, of course. A month ago, I couldn’t admit I was suffering from postpartum depression. But I want my husband back.”
“What about the baby?” she asks.
“She’s with her dad, but like you, I’m not ready to discuss that part of my treatment yet.”
Jo
lie surprises me with a large smile on her face. “That’s fair.” I find myself watching her as she walks over to her suitcase and begins to unpack.
23
Justine
I walk in the front door, and our beagle, Oscar, greets me, but no Nick. This has been our life; the second I get home, Nick is here to greet me, regardless of what he’s doing. It is one of the many ways he continues to make me feel special, but when he’s nowhere to be seen, our dog and I go search for him. Sure, the dog adores me, but he and Nick are inseparable. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask Oscar, and when his deep brown eyes look up at me, I know he’s not seen my man either.
The door to the back porch is open, and when I hear the sloshing of ice cubes, I know my guy has had a rough day and is drinking his whisky on the rocks. I’m not sure what I expect. He’s been like this since he heard the news of Emma checking herself out of the facility. Walking up behind him and rubbing his back doesn’t startle him. He knew I’d find him. I’d walk to Egypt through the desert for this man. He’s staring out at our backyard with his hands on the railing. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I kiss his ear, and he relaxes into my touch.
“Hey, cowboy. What brings you to the backyard with your drink on the rocks?” He always has it at room temperature unless he’s upset about something. I’m not sure what it is that makes him switch to ice cubes when he’s upset, but I have not yet unraveled that mystery. Since Emma had Aspen, this has been more normal for him as he suffers through watching his daughter struggle as she has.
“Ty heard from Emma.”
Oh, this can’t be good. “Really?”
Rocking on the tips of his toes while twisting his neck as though it is sore, he begins, “Well, actually, Ty heard from the facility where Emma checked herself into.”
He’s not happy about her taking the reins of her treatment, but it sounds like good news to me. “This is good, babe,” I insist, turning him around so I can see his handsome face.
“Yes and no, I guess. It is some hippy-dippy commune retreat. This is just like something Emma would do to be able to make this her own choice. Ty gave me the website information. There seems to be no science behind it; it’s just this retreat that claims individualized care. The facilitator was not even able to tell Ty much more because Emma wants to keep this to herself for now. He claims the success rate is over ninety percent, but they have many programs, not just the more severe postpartum. I don’t know. I just want this to be over for her. I want my Emma back.”
So many things in this world make my husband wonderful. He’s a kind-hearted, sincere, caring, and bend over backward for you kind of man. However, he’s also stubborn, quick to temper, and at times, he’s hardheaded, as he’s being now. He pulls back and sees the expression on my face. He’s now noticing I’ll have a few choice words to say as I can feel my expression sour.
“Well, I can tell you disagree,” he says, breaking my hold on him.
“I do, but I refuse to fight with you about this, cowboy. First off, this is Emma’s choice. Part of her taking ownership of her problems is to be able to have a bit of control. She has no hold over her emotions or hormones right now. They’re still all over the place. Sure, I don’t agree with her checking herself out and worrying us shitless, but it’s okay for her to want a bit of control and to have a say. I agree with you and Ty that she needed something, but she swore to me that she no longer wants to hurt herself. She’d thanked her lucky stars she didn’t succeed with her suicide. Her issue now, as hard as it is to admit, is the lack of love she feels for Aspen. So if she needs this hippy-dippy retreat, as you call it, then it’s what we will support.”
These harsh words make my husband slam his drink down and retreat into the house for a while. I give him space because he needs this as much as he needed a stern talking-to. He’ll find me later, and when he does, he’ll apologize, and I’ll forgive him because our relationship has seen worse. I love him, he loves me, and that’s all that matters.
I’m in the kitchen making tacos, the one meal I can prepare halfway decently. I’m giving my husband space when his cell on the counter near me rings, scaring the shit out of me as I’m cutting tomatoes. It shows up as an Albuquerque number. Answering it right away, I only say, “Hello.”
“Justine?” I hear Emma’s familiar voice.
“Emma, honey, is that you?” I ask, but I know it is. I’m just not sure what to say to her. I miss her, hell yes, but more so, I’m worried about both her and Nick.
“Justine”—she pauses— “I’m honestly glad you answered. I’m not up to talking to my dad yet, but I want him to understand why I did this.”
She knows her dad too well; however, she’s thinking of someone other than herself. I haven’t heard Emma concerned for someone else in a long time, and this gives me hope.
“Justine, are you still there?”
“Yes, honey,” I assure her. “All I want is for you to get well. That is all we want.”
In her silence, I know she must wonder about her dad. “But Dad, he’s not happy about this decision of mine?”
Looking around the kitchen, I make my way to the back deck to give myself some privacy. “All I know, Emma, is for the first time in months, you are taking ownership of your own recovery, and this gives me hope, but hell, honey, it should give you hope, too. You know your dad. He’s the best, but he’s also of one mind, and sometimes, it takes longer for him to get that you’re an adult.”
I hear her crying now. “Thanks, Justine. It means the world to me that you have my back and that you understand.”
“I do, sweetheart. I really do.”
“Can you tell my dad I love him and help Ty as much as you can? I want to get back to him. I really do.” Besides her mentioning Tyler at the airport, this is again another person she’s thinking of.
“I will, sweetheart, and we will continue to help Ty and Aspen. Just worry about your recovery.” As we say our goodbyes, she mentions she’ll be calling her mom next. This is the Emma I know and love—one who makes sure those she cares for are all right.
Turning to walk back into the kitchen on this cold October evening, I see Nick and wonder how much he heard of this conversation. Mad won’t describe the feeling he will express because I didn’t go get him when she called. I casually say, “That was Emma. She wanted me to tell you she loves you.”
His high-pitched voice, the one he uses when he’s set off, tells me he, as I figured, is mad as fuck. “And you didn’t get me?” He follows me as I’m walking back to my tomatoes.
I choose not to engage him but only say, “Remember, cowboy, this isn’t always about you. This is Emma, and she’s taking charge of her recovery on her terms.”
“Cumquat!” He borderline screams, and it is my signal he needs time alone. That, I can give him because all I know is, when I talked to Emma just now, it was the first time in a long time the old Emma made an appearance. Again, it fills me with tremendous hope. I know for a fact Nick will get on board with that.
24
Tyler
As I’m walking in the house with Aspen on my hip after dinner at Mom and Dad’s, exhaustion overtakes me. However, this baby has a routine I started within a couple of months of bringing Aspen home. She gets a bath and then story time. Even at six months, she loves books with bright pictures. Tonight, I find a different book to show her. Grabbing our wedding album, I set Aspen on my lap as I lean against the frame of our bed. I take the book and flip through it, and the second she sees Nick, her body posture changes. Moving forward to see her expression, she recognizes her PopPop, and we continue through the album. She points at me as she’s looking back at my face, as though she’s confused by me being behind her and in front of her. “That is me, sweetie,” I say, and she giggles as though she understands what I mean before I can go any further.
I get to the picture of Emma, and the second I take her all in, my heart swells. She’s everything I ever want. In that wicked smile of hers, I remember our first ni
ght together as husband and wife. Sure, we had made love and had sex often, but when we were together as man and wife, it was different. It wasn’t the paper itself that caused me to feel this way, but the idea that she gave herself to me willingly. And because Emma is Emma, I knew this was her choice to share her life with me forever. Remembering the tenderness as I sank into her, filling her up as though she was made for me alone, I told her, “You belong to me forever.” She only nodded, but the sensation had changed as though saying we do altered our already sensitive nerve endings. The post-marriage orgasms went on forever as though fireworks erupted from both our bodies.
When I pointed at Emma, I didn’t get any reaction from Aspen as I had when I pointed at me or Nick. “Well, Aspen, we will have to rectify this.” I start at the beginning and point at me, “DA-DA,” I say. Then as I get to Nick, I say, “PopPop.” Then at Emma, “This is MA-MA.” Yes, this may need to be our reading material from now on.
25
Emma
Walking into Grace’s almost cheery office is a stark difference from all the clinical settings I have been in the past. I can only smile, acknowledging to myself that I’ve made the right decision coming here.
Whenever I think back to the suicide and how I failed, I have never been happier to have failed at something before. My life still looks bleak—without Tyler a daily part of it, and me and Dad on the outs—but I’m here. This is my start.
Sitting down in the La-Z-Boy, I laugh, thinking of the many uncomfortable chairs I have been in. “This is so comfy,” I squeal.