I didn’t leave that light on, I tell myself as I wade across the room through air that has turned heavy as water. I didn’t carry Chloe into the bathroom. I didn’t run a bath and put her into the tub.
The worst story anyone told in group was told by a mousy little woman named Judith who said she’d heard of a woman (a friend of a friend, as if this were a sort of postpartum urban legend) who was so afraid of hurting her baby that she would sleepwalk at night and move her baby to places where she would be safe. She’d wake up and find her baby under the bed, in the laundry hamper, and, finally, in the car seat in a running car in the garage, where the paramedics found him, dead of carbon monoxide poisoning. She’d been dreaming, Judith told us in a breathy whisper, of taking the baby to the doctor to find out why he kept crying.
When I reach the bathroom, the tile feels wet under my feet but that could be because sweat is pouring off me. Even though I am shaking with cold. I cross to the tub, look down, and there she is. My baby. My perfect, plump, chubby-armed baby lying at the bottom of the bone-dry tub.
Chloe is swaddled in blankets and sleeping peacefully, but when I scoop her up she awakes and cries out as if angry to be taken from her comfy tub-bed. I squeeze her to my chest, rocking her back and forth, not sure who I’m trying to comfort with the motion. “It’s okay,” I tell her as I take us both back to the bedroom. “I’ll never do that again.”
Even, I tell myself, if I have to never sleep again.
Daphne’s Journal, August 7, 20—
Ever since the argument Peter’s been acting as if nothing happened. He’s been really nice, checking with me to see if I need anything when he goes out and offering to watch Chloe for me.
Maybe he feels bad about what he said . . . or maybe he’s just being nice because he’s afraid I’m going to take Chloe from him.
Just like you would be if he tried to take Chloe from you, the Laurel voice, which has taken up permanent residence in my head, points out.
But he won’t do that as long as I stay here and act sane.
Only what if he really thinks I’m a danger to Chloe and decides he has to take her from me for her own safety? Would I be able to stop him? Would I be able to convince anyone that I’m sane? I keep thinking of all the terrible things I admitted in group and to Laurel, all the “intrusive thoughts” I’ve had about dropping Chloe over the banister, drowning her in the bath, leaving her in the car—how would that look to a judge? One of the women in the group who was going through a divorce said that you never knew how a judge would rule in a custody case.
And I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer.
I think I should look again at those job ads. As long as I’m dependent on Peter for everything I’m completely in his control. Not that I’d take a job far away, but if I could find one nearby, start part-time, save up . . . I’m going to look now . . .
WELL! THERE WEREN’T any openings for school librarians nearby, but there was one for an archivist. It’s working for an author who needs someone to archive her private papers. A six-month position in a country estate in the Catskills, room and board provided, which means I could bring Chloe. But here’s the really amazing thing about it. The author is Schuyler Bennett!!! Practically my favorite writer! It feels like a sign!
Only of course I wouldn’t get it. Laurel could, with her credentials. I could show it to her . . .
Or I could apply for her. That would show her that she had options . . .
I DID IT! I even made up a new email account. I came up with ArchAngel, which I thought of because of the name of the software package Laurel showed me once. I had to add a number, so I used Laurel’s birthday. Then I wrote an email to Schuyler Bennett. I had a copy of Laurel’s résumé that she’d given me when I told her once I wanted to polish up my résumé, so it wasn’t hard to talk about my (her) work experience. Then I had to say why I wanted to work with her and that wasn’t hard either. Schuyler Bennett is practically my favorite writer, so I just told her that. When I looked at what I’d written so far I saw how Laurel and I together made the perfect candidate for the job. It’s a shame we can’t do it together. But I can’t imagine Peter going for that. Besides, I’m doing this to show Laurel that she has options.
I thought of just leaving it there and not saying anything about having a baby. Who’s going to hire a single mother with a baby, Laurel had said. But then what was the point of showing Laurel that she could get the job if it wouldn’t work with Chloë? So I added: “On a personal note, I am recently separated and have a six-month-old baby. I realize this might present difficulties but I assure you I will find child care and work twice as hard for this opportunity. Your stories of women persevering through difficult times have been an inspiration to me.”
I deleted and retyped the last line three times. It sounded a little pleading, which isn’t how Laurel would sound, but then part of Laurel’s problem is that she’s too proud to ask for help. So I retyped it a final time
