She stared at me for a minute. I thought she was going to get angry at me, but she just tilted her head and smiled. “You know, you’re smarter than you look.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be angry or flattered by that, so I just said, “I’ve been told I look a lot like you.”
This time when she laughed it sounded like a real laugh and then she started crying. “Maybe not so much right now,” she said. She was right; we don’t look that much alike anymore. The funny thing is that with her roots grown out, the dark circles under her eyes, and the couple of pounds she’s put on, she looks like the old me—the me before I met Laurel. It’s like we’ve switched places.
I moved closer to her on the couch and touched her arm. “Hey,” I said, “you’ve got so much going for you. You could go anywhere. You have enough money.”
“It’s protected even from me,” she said. “If I tried to leave, Stan would have me declared incompetent.”
That didn’t sound at all like Stan, but I knew it was better not to argue with her. “Then get a job,” I said. “If I had your credentials I’d apply for one of those fancy archival positions. I saw these . . .” I handed her the folder of job ads. She paged through them listlessly then let the folder slide into the gap between the cushions. “Don’t you see? It would be a way out. You could start over. Find yourself again.”
“What do you mean find myself?” she asked suspiciously.
I realized I couldn’t say I’d been reading about people with BPD or she’d know that Stan had told me, and that would just make her more paranoid. “I’ve been reading . . . about women with postpartum depression. Like us. Sometimes we can feel like we’ve lost touch with who we are . . . it can feel like we’ve lost ourselves.”
She turned her head and looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since I’d come in, her eyes traveling up from my new Tod’s loafers to the New Religion jeans and boho Anthropologie top and Kate Spade diaper bag (with all the right pockets) to my artfully tousled and highlighted hair.
“Look at you,” she said. “You’re the one who’s lost yourself. Why don’t you apply for one of these jobs if they sound so great?”
“I don’t have the credentials,” I said, determined not to be hurt by her words. “You do.”
“Then use mine,” Laurel said. “You’ve taken everything else that was mine. Why not take my name too?”
I knew it was just her sickness talking, but still it stung to hear her put it like that. She’d encouraged me to go to her hairdresser and buy the diaper bag with all the right pockets and dress like her. But with her looking at me like that I saw how pathetic I was, how ridiculous it made me look. Like some kind of wannabe.
“Okay,” I said, getting up. “Call me if you want to talk. If not for your own sake, then for Chloë’s.”
She laughed again, but it was that strangled sound that really wasn’t a laugh at all. “Maybe she’d be better off without me. Maybe I should walk into the Hudson with rocks in my pockets like Virginia Woolf.”
It sounded so much like my own voice—the one that had urged me to kill myself—that for a moment I was sure it was my bad voice talking, not Laurel. But then I looked down at Laurel and realized that her head must be full of those bad voices.
“Laurel,” I said, “you wouldn’t . . . you’re not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?”
She looked up at me, startled, her blurry eyes focusing for the first time since I’d come in. “What would make you say something like that?” she asked in a hoarse voice I didn’t recognize.
“It’s just that Stan said . . .”
“What?” she snapped when I hesitated. “What did Stan say?”
I realized I’d made a mistake. If I told her that Stan told me about her suicide attempt she’d feel betrayed, but if I didn’t—and she does hurt herself—I’d never forgive myself. The second option seemed worse. “He said you tried to kill yourself. It’s nothing to feel ashamed about; I did it too, just after Chloe was born. I just felt so overwhelmed and tired. I just wanted to sleep. I don’t even think I meant to. Maybe you didn’t mean to either.” I could hear myself babbling and knew I was about to start crying, so I shut up.
Laurel stared up at me, her mouth literally hanging open. “Did you tell anyone about this?” she asked finally. “About my so-called suicide attempt?”
“Only Peter,” I said. “And he was so sympathetic. He urged me to come over—”
“Get out,” she said, so quietly that at first I thought I must have misheard her. Then she got louder. “GET OUT!!!”
I was so surprised I jumped. Then I grabbed the folder off the couch and ran to the door. I was crying so hard I couldn’t see. I had to put down my bag and the folder to wipe my eyes. Simone brought Chloe and held her out to me. For a moment I just couldn’t take her. Laurel’s words were ringing in my head. Maybe she’d be better off without me. Maybe she’d be better off without me. It felt like the words had gotten stuck in my head and I couldn’t hold Chloe until I had shaken them off.
“Leave it!” I said out loud.
Simone stared at me like I was crazy. Like I’d been talking about Chloe. I didn’t know how to explain so I just grabbed Chloe and my diaper bag and walked to my car. I cried all the way home, Laurel’s words going through my head over and over again. Maybe she’d be better
