He looked away and didn’t say anything. I got a terrible feeling in my chest that was so bad that I wondered for a moment if I was having a heart attack. For a minute I was certain Peter was planning to leave me. And what would I do if he did, if he’s had enough of my tears and forgetting things and the house always being a mess and me being fat? How could I manage on my own?
But that was just me freaking out. When he looked back at me his face was softer. “Yes, thank God for that. You’d never manage on your own.”
“I feel terrible for the single mothers in the group,” I told him, feeling relieved.
“I’d never let that happen,” Peter said. He held out his arms and I stepped into them. I could feel how tense he was. The argument had scared him too. He was probably just as afraid of me leaving him as I was of him leaving me.
“I really am doing better,” I murmured into his chest. “It helps to have the group—and Laurel as a friend.”
“I’m glad you’ve found a friend your own age. Maybe we should invite Laurel and her husband to dinner.”
I immediately felt like all the breath had gone out of my chest. Laurel? Here? Meeting Peter? I’m not sure what scared me worse—her seeing where I live because our house is nowhere near as nice as hers or her meeting Peter because, well, I’ve said some things about Peter to her, just venting really, but what if she let something slip and Peter guessed what I’ve told her?
But of course I couldn’t say any of that to Peter. He was trying to make up for the argument. And this would be a way to show that I really was mature enough to handle being a wife and a mother. “I guess,” I said, “but what would I cook? I haven’t made anything more ambitious than mac and cheese in months!”
Peter said he’d get steaks for the grill and we could hire Vanessa to come watch Chloe and help. So what could I say but yes? I texted Laurel to see if she and Stan can make it this weekend. I made it sound really casual and added an emoji of a cocktail glass and a hamburger.
She texted back a yes and three cocktail glasses.
I texted back four and then she sent back five and the blotto smiley face. So I think it will probably all go fine. Peter’s been so sweet since our fight. He even gave Chloe her bath. I could hear him talking to her while I was texting Laurel. I’m really lucky to have a husband who’s so involved. I have nothing to worry about. He’d never be able to bear being parted from Chloe.
Chapter Six
I spend the rest of the afternoon looking for the woman who jumped out of the tower in Dr. Bennett’s journals. I know it’s not really a part of my job, but I can’t help it; I have to know what happened. Billie said that she had been a patient in the early seventies, so I put the earlier journals aside and skimmed through the journals from that time period. I found her in the spring of 1971.
Admitted today, E.S., 19 year old woman, of above-average intelligence, sound constitution, and good family, with puerperal delusions and impulsive behavior. Claims not to have known she was pregnant. Gave birth in college dorm room and abandoned infant in a dumpster, but believes baby has been stolen from her for purposes of medical experimentation. Sedative administered, bed rest and hydro-therapy recommended.
The poor girl. How could she not have known she was pregnant? But I remember that in college there were stories about girls who didn’t realize they were pregnant, who thought they’d just gained the freshman fifteen and then gave birth in the dormitory bathroom. The idea had haunted me through my freshman year when my periods were irregular and I’d put on twenty pounds (I’d never had access to so much food!). But when I got pregnant with Chloe I wondered how anyone could be pregnant and not know it. How deluded would a person have to be?
But then, there were things I’d turned a blind eye to that seemed awfully obvious now.
I comb through the rest of the journal looking for any entries regarding E.S. There’s one at least every week, but they aren’t particularly illuminating. Or hopeful.
E.S. refuses to talk during sessions. Her behavior becoming more erratic: hair-tearing, self-mutilation, weeping. Convinced that baby was taken from her because there was something wrong with it—
I feel a weird tingle in my veins reading this. It sounds so much like the woman who jumped from her NYC apartment—or like the fretting of the mothers in the support group. Her head is shaped funny. He’s not smiling. Is it normal to cry this much? She hasn’t rolled over yet. He’s got a rash. All the baby books with their developmental charts and milestones and what-to-expects made it sound like there was one normal, but babies were as maddeningly different as grown-ups. And what must a newborn baby have looked like to a scared teenager alone in a dorm room? She must have thought she’d given birth to a monster. No wonder she’d abandoned it—and no wonder she was haunted by the specter of what had become of it.
I go back and read through all the notes Dr. Bennett’s made on E.S., trying to glean more of her history, but his notes are curiously opaque. But then, I realize, this journal is meant only for himself. He would have kept a file on E.S. at the hospital. I wonder if I could ask for it.
But why? I hear a voice say in my head. Laurel’s voice. I don’t really have an answer, only that I can’t stop thinking about E.S. and wondering how
