First I got Daphne to stand up to her husband and get some child care so we’d have some free time together. College student Vanessa is not as thorough as French Simone (which is why I didn’t mind passing her on to Daphne—although I did make Vanessa promise she’d always babysit for me first if we needed her), but she’s energetic and cheap once I explained to Daphne that she could tell Vanessa she could list the job as a child-care internship.
Then, with the money she saved on Vanessa’s fees, I got Daphne to join a decent gym, one where you wouldn’t get a fungal infection in the shower and that served an edible kale salad in the café. We’ve been going three days a week and you should see the change in Daphne! And it’s not because I’m so shallow that I think looks matter more than anything else (although God knows they don’t hurt), but anyone could see that poor squirrelly Daphne just needed to get some endorphins pumping into her system and stop obsessing over her baby 24/7 to feel better about herself. That brute of a husband told her he was “disappointed” that she gained weight during her pregnancy. I suggested she tell him she was disappointed he hadn’t managed to grow a pair during the same time. I mean, what kind of man says that to the woman who’s carried his baby? And what kind of woman puts up with it?
I guess it’s a question of where you’re from. Even though I lost Mommy and Daddy when I was young, I was brought up to think I was someone. Mommy always said that only weak women allowed men to bully them and that if you acted as if you expected people to treat you well, they would.
I remember once we were leaving for the summer on Cape Cod and my nanny was ironing some clothes that needed to be packed and she burnt one of my dresses. Mommy was so angry that she fired her on the spot and I cried because she’d been my nanny since I could remember. But then Mommy explained that burning the dress hadn’t been an accident; it had been “an act of aggression against us” and we couldn’t let people treat us that way. “Besides,” she said, “won’t it be fun for it to just be the two of us together this summer? We don’t need fussy old Nanny with all her rules about bedtimes and meal times during our summer vacation.”
Funny. I haven’t thought about that for a long time. I guess Estrogena was right; writing in this journal is helping me get in touch with my feelings.
Chapter Fifteen
Fortunately, the part of Laurel’s history Dr. Hancock is most interested in is her recent past—since Chloë was born, the postpartum depression, and her friendship with Daphne Marist—and I should, I think, be able to fill him in on all of that. Laurel and I talked endlessly about our pregnancies and childbirths. And the rest—well, I was there, after all.
“I had a difficult pregnancy,” I begin, recalling what Laurel had told me. “I had morning sickness the first trimester and then preeclampsia and had to be on bed rest.”
Dr. Hancock looks down at his notes and nods. I’ve gotten that right. After trying to convince everyone I’m Daphne, I find I’m doing much better pretending to be Laurel. “That must have been hard for you,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree, “because I . . .” We both wanted to put the world in order after it had fallen to pieces. “I like to have control and suddenly I felt like I had none. I have an unstable sense of identity.”
“Oh?” Dr. Hancock looks up, interested. “Why do you say that?”
Because the Internet told you so, Laurel quips in my head. Do you really think that trawling the Internet for a couple of hours and reading about a bunch of pathetic losers who like to broadcast their crazy to the world has given you a handle on me?
“I guess it’s what doctors have told me,” I say, tossing my hair over my shoulder the way Laurel would have.
He smiles indulgently. “Let’s leave your diagnosis to me. You just stick to your own experiences.”
I blush, feeling chastened. Like when Esta told me not to share morbid stories. “Okay,” I say, “but isn’t that part of the problem? I mean, all my life I’ve been told who I am—by my parents, by the men I dated, by doctors. How can I help feeling that my identity is slippery?”
Whoa! Laurel says. Where did that come from?
I go on, ignoring her. “And it was worse during pregnancy—all those books telling me ‘what to expect’ and strangers coming up to me on the street telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Don’t drink that coffee, God forbid I have a glass of wine, even touching me.”
“You felt out of control.”
“Yes! Wouldn’t you? And of course gaining all that weight, my body changing. It felt like I was becoming a different person.” I pause for breath, trying to remember what else Laurel had told me. “Oh—and then they had to induce labor! Like the little bitch didn’t even want to leave!”
Does Dr. Hancock flinch when I say “bitch”? Have I gone too far? But he only keeps writing notes, so I may have imagined it.
“And then suddenly I have this crying, puking, pooping baby—this stranger—to look after and I’m supposed to love her and not care if she throws up all over me or pees on me.” I realize I’m crying. I’d do anything to have Chloe here spitting up on me. How could I have been so ungrateful as to mind?
I thought we were talking about me.
I’m not sure who I’m talking about anymore, but I go on, because my experience here is close enough to Laurel’s to serve. “Having a
