He looks down at me with an expression almost like pity. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening anytime soon, darling. I couldn’t take the risk of you hurting yourself—or Chloë. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.”
I believe this last part. “Then who put her in that tub, Stan? Who risked your baby’s life?”
He looks unsure for a moment, then says, “Perhaps you imagined that part. Perhaps poor Daphne’s baby was in her car seat all along. At least, that’s what I’d like to believe of Daphne.”
He turns away. I struggle against the straps holding my arms and legs. “Please,” I say, all bravado evaporating at the thought of being left alone in here, “if you let me out of here I won’t tell anyone I’m Daphne. I—I’ll go away with Chloe—”
“Oh, I don’t think Peter would like that,” Stan says. Then he walks to the door. As he opens it I see Dr. Hancock standing in the hall. Of course he’s been listening—and watching on the hidden cameras, I hope. Did he hear anything to make him suspect I am really Daphne Marist?
“I’m sorry,” Stan says, a tremor in his voice. “She insists she’s Daphne Marist. She even made threats against our child. I—I can’t trust her home with Chloë.”
“No,” Dr. Hancock agrees. “She needs to stay here as long as she thinks she’s Daphne Marist.”
“What about shock treatment? It helped the last time.”
“ECT? It’s a possibility . . .” Their voices grow fainter as they step out of the room. I strain to hear what they’re saying. Are they really considering giving me shock treatment? But whatever they’re saying is drowned out by the sound of someone pushing a cart—the meds trolley, I realize—down the hall. As the sound of the trolley grows closer, though, the two men step back into the doorway to my room, apparently less worried about me overhearing them than that the nurse in the hallway will. I catch Stan saying, “But I’m her conservator. I can give consent.”
“That’s true, but I still need to get two psychiatrists to sign off.”
“Then get them. Anyone looking at her will see she needs help.”
“Most likely, but there are the side effects to consider.”
“Such as?” Stan asks.
“Long-term memory loss, retrograde amnesia.” Dr. Hancock lists these side effects as if they’re of no more concern than the minor effects listed on a bottle of aspirin. “Most patients lose at least several weeks before the procedure, sometimes months.”
“So she might not remember these last few weeks?”
“Yes, it’s likely she’ll lose her most recently formed memories.”
“So she might forget all about Daphne Marist,” Stan asks.
“Yes,” Dr. Hancock says. “That’s one possibility.”
“Then let’s try it,” Stan says, looking back at me. “Let’s hope it gets rid of Daphne Marist for good.”
Laurel’s Journal, July 10, 20—
We had dinner at Daphne’s tonight. I was surprised Stan went along with it, since he didn’t like any of my girlfriends in the city and he’d made all those mouse comments about Daphne. But he said he wanted to “encourage my bonding with other mothers in the support group.” Sheesh. Ever since he was named my conservator when I had that teensy postpartum breakdown he’s had this patronizing attitude toward me. I did a little research today on the Internet and found out that mental-health conservatorships usually expire after one year, but I also found out that I could apply to have it overturned if I can demonstrate that I’m doing better. And clearly I am doing better.
I talked to Stan about ending the conservatorship on the drive over to Daphne and Peter’s. I told him it made me feel infantilized for him to have that power over me. At first he was very defensive. He asked me what choice had he had. He reminded me that I was raving, trying to harm myself and Chloë. I couldn’t really argue with that, because I don’t remember those couple of weeks after Chloë was born at all. When I was hospitalized they gave me shock treatment and it pretty much wiped out my memory for the whole first month of Chloë’s life. I told Stan how angry it made me that I couldn’t remember the first month of our daughter’s life and he told me I was lucky I couldn’t remember it. He said it was a nightmare.
Which made me want to cry but I knew that if I cried he would just tell me I was acting hysterical so I stayed calm and said, “Well, that’s over. It was just a postpartum thing and now I’m better and I’d like to have the conservatorship dissolved.”
He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He just looked straight ahead at the road. Finally he said, “Of course if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do. You do realize, though, that you’ll have to have a psychiatric evaluation. Are you sure you want to go through all that right now?”
I told him I could handle it and he asked if I’d like him to call the lawyer to set things in motion or did I want to do it? I told him I’d call my parents’ old lawyer and Stan said that was fine and squeezed my hand. I felt so relieved!
When we got to Daphne and Peter’s I felt like celebrating. Daphne had gotten all the ingredients for Expats because I told her I used to drink them in Edinburgh, which was really sweet of her. She’s really got a lot more to her than I thought at first. I saw all the books on her shelves and noticed that she’d read all the classics (the Brontës, Dickens, Hardy, all those nineteenth-century books I loved in college) and even though her decorating ideas were pretty plebeian (framed prints of museum posters, Pottery Barn furniture), her house was really cozy. After the Expats she opened a bottle of Prosecco and I made my “Better Prosecco than Prozac” toast, which maybe wasn’t the best choice after
