He slammed the door going out and it woke up Chloë. The sound of her crying felt like sandpaper rubbing at the inside of my eyeballs. I went in and picked her up but she just screamed louder. What kind of baby screams more when her mother picks her up? It’s like she doesn’t recognize me. I jostled her up and down, the way I’d seen Daphne do with her Chloe but she just screamed harder. It felt like she was screaming inside my head, like the sound had gotten inside and was scraping out my brains like a serrated spoon scooping melon out of its rind. I thought that if it went on any longer I wouldn’t have any brain left, so I gave her a shake—just a little one—and screamed, “Stop it!”
And she did! But just for a second. Her eyes got really wide and surprised. And then she started crying again only it sounded different, weaker and thinner. Like I had broken something inside of her. Which made me cry. That’s how Simone found us when she came in: sitting on the nursery floor, both of us crying.
SIMONE SAID I needed to go out and take care of myself, so I made appointments for mani-pedis at the spa for me and Daphne. I thought it would make me feel better, doing something for someone else, but as my mother used to say, No good deed goes unpunished. I was telling Daphne about how much Chloë’s been crying and that I’m afraid something is wrong with her. I said she had rolled off the bed because I was too embarrassed to admit I’d shaken her, but Daphne looked at me funny as if she knew I was lying. Then she gave me this really patronizing look and told me I ought to have Chloë checked out. Which was practically like saying I’m a horrible mother and I’ve ruined my baby’s life.
Daphne’s just like all the other mothers at the support group with their whining about how sensitive they are. They’re all just looking for someone to pat them on the head and tell them that whatever they do is normal and that their baby is the smartest, prettiest, best-behaved baby in the world. I’m glad that Peter said that Daphne and I don’t need to go to the group anymore (not that I need his permission!). But at least now I don’t have to see backstabbing Daphne anymore. Stan didn’t even argue when I told him I wasn’t going to keep going. He said that maybe hearing all those women talking about their problems wasn’t good for me, that I’ve always been “suggestible.” Then he finally agreed to take Chloë to a specialist in the city.
So, we went to this fancy suite in Sutton Place, all neutral grays with modern abstract statues of mothers and children and fertility goddesses—that sort of crap. Stan told me that the doctor wanted to talk to me while he took Chloë for some tests, so I told the doctor everything I’ve noticed about Chloë’s behavior and my theory that she got something from Daphne’s Chloe. He started writing down a lot of notes and asking me questions about Daphne, like what we talked about, and whether I started acting differently after we became friends, and did I often compare myself to other mothers? It was only when he asked if I hadn’t done the same thing in college with my roommate that I realized we weren’t there for Chloë; we were there for me. This was my psych evaluation to determine if Stan should still be my mental-health and financial conservator.
I was so mad that I started yelling at him that I’d been brought in on false pretenses and what kind of doctor went along with that kind of ruse? and he just sat there, cool as a cucumber, writing down everything I said and asking questions like did I often think people were plotting against me? Did I sometimes think I was someone else? Had I been experiencing any blackouts? Lost time?
“Like the forty-five minutes I’ve just spent in here?” I asked.
Needless to say, I didn’t score high on the psych evaluation and Stan’s conservatorship has been renewed. When I accused Stan of tricking me he said I’d asked for a psychiatric evaluation.
I was so upset that I had to take two Valiums when we got home. Then of course Stan gave me a lecture about taking too many pills and not taking care of myself. He even made up this vitamin drink that tastes like shit but I’ve been drinking it just to shut him up.
That was yesterday. Today Daphne came over and I tried to explain to her what I was up against but she’s so naïve that she compared the conservatorship to her officious husband getting her to sign a power of attorney. Like they’re the same thing! Then she started acting condescending to me again, pulling that passive-aggressive bullshit, pretending to be concerned for me but really implying that I’m nuts and can’t take care of myself or Chloë.
So I asked her to leave.
But when she left I realized how alone I am. There’s really no one I can turn to. When Mommy and Daddy died, they didn’t even have anyone to leave me to, except their stodgy old lawyer, Ronald “Call me JB” Jones-Barrett, who doles out my allowance and pays the bills for boarding school, college, and mental hospitals. Even then they didn’t trust me to take care of my own money.
It’s bad enough that it’s all in trust, but at least I had control over my own allowance before Stan got the conservatorship. If I die, Stan will have complete control of the money because he’s Chloë’s guardian.
Unless I do something about that.
So I just called
