Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  “Sorry to hear about your uncle,” Detective Ramos says. “Seems like a lot of people were there.”

  It was a hell of a funeral. Uncle Cal’s legacy stayed intact thanks to my basically bribing Max with Stefano’s financial records to keep the Council out of court. And I still owe him a favor.

  In the end, Cynthia got the grant, the last before the Council was put out to pasture. Uncle Cal pushed Jack to take it over, but he refused, preferring to pay his dues with a mayor he believes in.

  Detective Ramos fiddles with his coffee cup, and I know he reached out to me for more than dropping off the knife.

  “I want to apologize. We used you,” he says. “Jack told me about the doll and that you weren’t well. But you were still turning things up. Working the case better than us half the time.”

  “It got me through a tough period,” I say. “I’m grateful.”

  He doesn’t look convinced, so I change the topic.

  “Are your son’s days and nights confused?” I ask, trying to assure him I’m okay.

  “The doc says it’ll straighten out, but . . . it’s hard.”

  I know five different techniques, but since he doesn’t ask, I don’t offer. “He’s gaining weight now?”

  Detective Ramos clears his throat, a slight flush appearing across his forehead and down his cheeks. “Yes. God. Thank you for that too.”

  “I was happy to do it,” I say, squeezing his hand quickly. I donated my three months of breast milk to their new baby boy. Whenever the tears start, a bit fewer each day, I think of how the milk I made for my own daughter was able to be used for another life. To help another struggling family.

  Detective Ramos’s phone buzzes, and he sits up straight. “Another murder,” he says with a rapid blink. “East Side, again, if you can believe it. I gotta head out.”

  “Sure,” I say. He reaches for his wallet, but I shake my head. “Thank you. Really. You don’t know how much—”

  He clears his throat, not quite meeting my gaze. “I do know, Devon. I really do.”

  After taking our cups over to the sink behind the counter, I wash them and tell Cynthia I’ll be back soon.

  I get in my car, glancing in the rearview mirror at where Ester’s car seat used to be. Where I’d watch her, and it was as real as my own face gazing back.

  I leave Chip’s new location near the capitol and slowly drive to my neighborhood. I pass Cole Avenue, where there’s a SALE PENDING sign in front of Alec and Misha’s house. Alec hasn’t returned my texts and didn’t answer the door the few times I went by.

  Jack didn’t tell him about Ester or the lack of her. Alec never took the time to see me. To wonder at why my young child wasn’t moving much, even when I thought I heard her crying.

  I don’t know if he told Misha about the baby with Belina, but it certainly came out in the trial. I’m not even sure if they’re staying together or if they should. I miss Alec, but it’s a longing for a friendship that’s gone.

  More than Alec, though, it’s Misha who I keep hoping to see every time a blonde ponytail swishes by. I want her to still be in the right clothes with the big ring and fancy stroller, pushing a happy Emmett to story time. The wisteria still climbing, still blooming.

  I park at Swan Point Cemetery and step into the cooling July evening air. I stop at the dogwood tree where I first saw Belina. I pick several blossoms, hold them to my lips, and then head to her grave.

  As I walk along the pathway, I take deep, grateful breaths that the silence is broken only by the soft murmur of leaves and cicadas. The voice returned with my delusion of Ester. A voice I hadn’t heard since I was a girl.

  The voice has stayed silent, but I have not.

  I’m back in therapy, talking about what I remember and what I don’t. My therapist says I had postpartum psychosis. That my childhood trauma created in me the ability to see Ester as real. The voice telling me terrible things, the blackouts, my fixation on Belina’s death, the hallucination of Ester, these were all symptoms of psychosis.

  I’m able to understand my diagnosis. But I do not think of Ester as a symptom. Not when it’s so easy to picture her perfect face. To close my eyes and see Jack’s black hair. My green eyes. Feel the weight of her wrapped against my chest. I don’t want that to disappear too.

  I started taking medication. I joined a pregnancy and infant loss support group. Jack has held my hand at every meeting, and I have held his.

  Arriving at Belina’s grave, I sprinkle the petals on top of the large white stone. I run my fingers over the letters of her name, then the words Beloved Daughter. The grass is growing where there was fresh dirt through the winter, tended with both water and Ricky’s blood.

  I press my palm to the top of her tombstone; it’s as close as I can get to looking Belina in the eyes. To let her finally see how much she meant to me. These men who used her didn’t escape justice. I showed her I cared, even if it’s in death, even if I’m partly to blame.

  The graves are not side by side, but it’s a short, pretty walk until I see the three words: Ester Belina Burges. Jack and I had a memorial for her a few weeks after we buried Uncle Cal. Jack read an E. E. Cummings poem. I was able only to weep.

  I will cry for my daughter my whole life. She will always be mine, and as the poem Jack read said, she is carried in my heart. That’s the terror and beauty of love.

  Sitting in the grass, I lean against Ester’s grave. I tell her about Belina. Tell her about how she was a part of bringing justice. That it wouldn’t have happened without her.

  There is so much pain among the four of us: two babies with lives unlived and two mothers, the life taken too soon and the life unable to be lived in its true form.

  I hum one of Gillian’s sea shanty songs to Ester as my fingers run over my slightly swollen stomach. Against my daughter’s grave, I stare up at the thick canopy of trees. The light appears to throb through the green leaves above us, like the tiny heartbeat beneath my fingers.

  Author’s Note

  Postpartum depression is estimated to affect one in seven families, mothers and fathers alike. Postpartum psychosis, in which a person may hear voices, self-harm, or harm others, is rarer but is a very serious medical condition. If you or someone you love is suffering from any range of issues, you can learn more at www.postpartum.net, and please contact your health-care provider. There’s no reason to suffer in silence and solitude. It is not your fault, and you are not to blame.

  Acknowledgments

  The first thank-you is to my parents, Mike and Carla Lillie, who taught me to read, encouraged me to write, and raised me in a home that valued storytelling. Thank you to my brother, Nathan, for cheering me on. And to my husband, Zach, and our wonderful families, who have been so supportive through the years.

  Thank you to my fantastic agent, Victoria Sanders, and her amazing team at Victoria Sanders and Associates (waves at Bernadette and Jessica). A lifetime of gratitude goes to my editor extraordinaire, Jessica Tribble, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer. I’m so lucky to be among your talented and well-cared-for authors.

  My publishing journey took thirteen years, and fortunately, none of them was spent alone.

  Thank you to Romance Writers of America, the Washington, DC, chapter in particular, where I joined my first writers group (Circle of Trust). There’s also ITW/Thrillerfest, Backspace, Grubstreet, Manuscript Academy’s Mid-May group, and Providence’s What Cheer Writers Club—all have been instrumental in getting me over hurdles and blocks aplenty.

  And then there was Pitch Wars. Thank you to the creator of this remarkable mentorship program, Brenda Drake, and to my Pitch Wars mentor, Sarah Henning, for your confidence in my voice. To my co-mentee, Kellye Garrett, you are the ultimate trifecta: great writer, great friend, and great writer-friend. My 2014 Pitch Wars alumni, you’ve been so generous with your enthusiasm, candor, GIFs, and many reality checks of this business.

  I am so grateful to friends who have read (and reread) my writing and supported
me along the way, especially Kristen Ricciardelli, Cyndi Parr, Addison McQuigg, Mayrose Wegmann, Christina Lien, John Marchant, Cat Richert, Justin and Mackenzie Oberst, and Chris and Natalie Mulligan.

  Thank you to Shaterri Casteel, my dear friend and marketing support. Thank you to developmental editors who were my all-star openers and closers, Heather Lazare and Charlotte Herscher. Gratitude for the beta reader brilliance and friendship from Mary Keliikoa, Jaime Hendricks, J. R. Yates, Nina Ramos, and Meagan Blair.

  The heart of this story was created during my postpartum year with my son. I made it through that time in one frazzled piece largely because of the Rhode Island New Moms Group and my magnificent mom friends: Jess, Katy, Kristen, Lauren, and Sue, we made it!

  Finally, I’d like to share these lines in remembrance of Matthew Oberst from his novel: She was standing on the moon. The same moon he wished he’d seen the night he died . . . She sang sweetly—clear and pure. The song was a lullaby. She cradled him and rocked him softly back into sleep.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2018 Brittanny Taylor

  Vanessa Lillie is originally from Miami, Oklahoma, where she spent a lot of her childhood investigating local ghost stories at the public library. After college, she worked in Washington, DC, until moving to Providence, Rhode Island, which she calls home with her husband and dinosaur-aficionado son. Smitten with the smallest state, she enjoys organizing book events and literary happenings around town. Sign up for her newsletter at www.vanessalillie.com.