Julia hadn’t died. Or if she — or I — had never been born.
I often joked that although my parents and I lived in a predominately white, upper-middle-class suburban town, I was essentially raised by default by an African-American woman from Alabama. Virginia was our live-in housekeeper and, truth be told, my primary caregiver, even though that wasn’t part of her job description. While she was hired to keep house and prepare meals, she obviously had had some effect on me from the earliest days. This was evidenced by my first complete sentence: “Lawdhammercy Jesus, I done lost my shoe.” As funny as stories like that were, I could never repeat them because they sounded racist. But that’s precisely how she spoke.
Like Sarah, Virginia had been a stickler for order and routine. She hated when I left my backpack, school books and shoes strewn about the dining room. “Little Miss,” she’d yell upstairs to me once I’d moved on from homework to listening to music or talking on the phone. “Get your boonie down here now,” she’d holler. “You messin’ up things. Immuna be fixin’ dinner and I need that dining room table!” The summer between sophomore and junior years, Margot visited me for a long weekend and Virginia’s harsh manner terrified her. I was so used to it I hardly noticed.
On about my eleventh pass around my room at the Hyatt, my phone pinged with a text from Sarah. “Call me when U can — did some research for U.”
I dialed her immediately.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
I explained Margot’s overreaching request. “It’s just bananas,” I concluded, looking for confirmation about the absurdity of the situation.
“Holy cow. Well, I hate to say it because I know you’re legit freaking out, but taking that baby away from Margot is probably a good idea.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed on my stomach, which was gurgling with acid, with the heel of my hand.
“After we spoke earlier, I told a friend at school drop-off about you going out there to help Margot. She told me that in the worst cases, postpartum depression can morph into postpartum psychosis .”
“Shit.”
“Right? So I read up on it. I don’t mean to be telling tales out of school but my friend also told me about her friend’s sister whose children had to be taken away from her because of it.”
“What happened?”
“It’s almost too terrible to say out loud. But suffice it to say that she hurt her kids — and one almost didn’t recover. And then, I know this is going to freak you out, she slit her own wrists. Her husband found her and she lived. But still.”
I collapsed on the bed, trembling. I’d read all about how postpartum depression can be catastrophic for a baby. And now I learned that it could turn into a life-or-death situation for Margot too. “I’m in over my head.”
“I know. But getting that baby away from Margot and getting Margot into that facility is what’s best for everyone in that family. Including Jean.”
“I don’t even know the first thing about what to bring home with me, other than the baby herself. Margot’s in no shape to tell me either. Her whole freakin’ apartment is in disarray. There’s a pile of baby clothes with tags still on them, newborn gear still in boxes, a half-constructed swing. I don’t what a baby eats or wears or what. Sarah, the baby sleeps on the couch .”
“Jesus.”
I took a few steps into the bathroom and quietly spit into the sink in an attempt to rid the sour taste from my mouth. I lay back on the bed and fanned the neckline of my t-shirt open and closed to dry my perspiration.
“Okay, look,” she said. “That’s the easy part. Grab a handful of onesies, enough diapers to get you home — that could be about fifteen. Ask what brand of formula she’s on. Honestly, that’s all a baby needs. That and some affection.”
“So I’ve heard.” A siren screeched outside the hotel. I cupped my free ear to muffle the harsh
I often joked that although my parents and I lived in a predominately white, upper-middle-class suburban town, I was essentially raised by default by an African-American woman from Alabama. Virginia was our live-in housekeeper and, truth be told, my primary caregiver, even though that wasn’t part of her job description. While she was hired to keep house and prepare meals, she obviously had had some effect on me from the earliest days. This was evidenced by my first complete sentence: “Lawdhammercy Jesus, I done lost my shoe.” As funny as stories like that were, I could never repeat them because they sounded racist. But that’s precisely how she spoke.
Like Sarah, Virginia had been a stickler for order and routine. She hated when I left my backpack, school books and shoes strewn about the dining room. “Little Miss,” she’d yell upstairs to me once I’d moved on from homework to listening to music or talking on the phone. “Get your boonie down here now,” she’d holler. “You messin’ up things. Immuna be fixin’ dinner and I need that dining room table!” The summer between sophomore and junior years, Margot visited me for a long weekend and Virginia’s harsh manner terrified her. I was so used to it I hardly noticed.
On about my eleventh pass around my room at the Hyatt, my phone pinged with a text from Sarah. “Call me when U can — did some research for U.”
I dialed her immediately.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
I explained Margot’s overreaching request. “It’s just bananas,” I concluded, looking for confirmation about the absurdity of the situation.
“Holy cow. Well, I hate to say it because I know you’re legit freaking out, but taking that baby away from Margot is probably a good idea.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed on my stomach, which was gurgling with acid, with the heel of my hand.
“After we spoke earlier, I told a friend at school drop-off about you going out there to help Margot. She told me that in the worst cases, postpartum depression can morph into postpartum psychosis .”
“Shit.”
“Right? So I read up on it. I don’t mean to be telling tales out of school but my friend also told me about her friend’s sister whose children had to be taken away from her because of it.”
“What happened?”
“It’s almost too terrible to say out loud. But suffice it to say that she hurt her kids — and one almost didn’t recover. And then, I know this is going to freak you out, she slit her own wrists. Her husband found her and she lived. But still.”
I collapsed on the bed, trembling. I’d read all about how postpartum depression can be catastrophic for a baby. And now I learned that it could turn into a life-or-death situation for Margot too. “I’m in over my head.”
“I know. But getting that baby away from Margot and getting Margot into that facility is what’s best for everyone in that family. Including Jean.”
“I don’t even know the first thing about what to bring home with me, other than the baby herself. Margot’s in no shape to tell me either. Her whole freakin’ apartment is in disarray. There’s a pile of baby clothes with tags still on them, newborn gear still in boxes, a half-constructed swing. I don’t what a baby eats or wears or what. Sarah, the baby sleeps on the couch .”
“Jesus.”
I took a few steps into the bathroom and quietly spit into the sink in an attempt to rid the sour taste from my mouth. I lay back on the bed and fanned the neckline of my t-shirt open and closed to dry my perspiration.
“Okay, look,” she said. “That’s the easy part. Grab a handful of onesies, enough diapers to get you home — that could be about fifteen. Ask what brand of formula she’s on. Honestly, that’s all a baby needs. That and some affection.”
“So I’ve heard.” A siren screeched outside the hotel. I cupped my free ear to muffle the harsh
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