counting the hours until my Fred Astaire arrived and swept me off to cloud nine. Then again, it could have been my concussion-addled brain. But hearing of Molly’s struggles with her sister hooked me, and once more, I was reeled down to earth. I set my fork aside and searched Cassady’s face.
“Is Holly really that bad? I had no idea.”
“The depression has gotten worse in the past couple of weeks. They thought counseling and medication was helping—she ate more, slept better, and she started focusing on the baby again. But then she had an episode this weekend, which set her back.” He cleared his throat and reached for his ice water. “She locked herself in the bathroom, screaming and crying that she wasn’t good for the baby and to get her out of the house. Molly was pleading with her to unlock the door. Derek finally got out his toolkit and took off the hinges. It was bad.”
“So now what?”
“Well, her doctor is adjusting her medication and increasing outpatient therapy. If things don’t improve, the only other course is inpatient therapy.”
“Poor Holly. That’s really sad.” Usually inpatient therapy for postpartum depression meant the person was either suicidal or a danger to their family, from what Molly explained. Doctors didn’t like to split new mothers and their babies if they could help it.
“Cassady, if you and Molly don’t feel up to the caving trip this week, I can find a couple of replacements. Santiago and Hector could shuffle their work schedule around.”
He shook his head. “No, it will be good for Molly to get away for a bit.”
When I returned to the office I picked up the pile of mail on my desk and sifted through it, then hit my phone and email messages.
After hearing of Holly’s mental health struggles, the turmoil with Samuel suddenly seemed not so bad—at least we were on the downhill slope after scaling our pile of problems. Yet, with the eeriness of a fleeting bout of déjà vu, panic palpitated in my chest as I recalled pounding on the door of Samuel’s bedroom in New York, just as Derek had pounded on their locked bathroom and cried for Holly. Cried, pleaded, nauseous with the fear and knowledge that we were powerless to save our spouses from the Stygian thing that had captured their minds. I shook off the dreadful memory and delved into my work.
I found Molly in her office later that afternoon, weeping over her file cabinet as if it contained Saint Helena’s holy relics. I had a hunch her visit with Holly had not gone well.
“There’s no way Holly and Derek can afford these medical bills,” Molly choked out. “And they’ll only let me help them so much.”
“What about my alimony money?” I reminded her. I’d just received another huge check in the mail last week, this time with a sardonic: Mickey, In Memorium in the memo line.
She shook her head. “Derek won’t take it. He’s too stubborn and prideful. I swear he’s in denial.”
“We can try funneling it through a not-for-profit, one that Holly’s center works with. Could they recommend somebody?”
Molly sniffed and blew her nose, dabbing at the mascara running down her cheeks. “I can ask tomorrow afternoon when we take Holly for therapy.”
I soothingly scratched my nails across Molly’s back as her sobbing subsided. “Hey. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your sister better, okay? You and me—right?”
Molly nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Kaye. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I was completely furious with Derek for refusing a financial gift that could help his wife get better. Yes, it’s hard to take charity; anyone with an ounce of pride understands that. But would he do it for Holly? His kids? Or perhaps he was frightened to the point where he’d deny the seriousness of Holly’s illness. If I were in his shoes, I’d have a difficult time accepting it, too. I’d want my old life back, before the tears, the suicide threats, the
“Is Holly really that bad? I had no idea.”
“The depression has gotten worse in the past couple of weeks. They thought counseling and medication was helping—she ate more, slept better, and she started focusing on the baby again. But then she had an episode this weekend, which set her back.” He cleared his throat and reached for his ice water. “She locked herself in the bathroom, screaming and crying that she wasn’t good for the baby and to get her out of the house. Molly was pleading with her to unlock the door. Derek finally got out his toolkit and took off the hinges. It was bad.”
“So now what?”
“Well, her doctor is adjusting her medication and increasing outpatient therapy. If things don’t improve, the only other course is inpatient therapy.”
“Poor Holly. That’s really sad.” Usually inpatient therapy for postpartum depression meant the person was either suicidal or a danger to their family, from what Molly explained. Doctors didn’t like to split new mothers and their babies if they could help it.
“Cassady, if you and Molly don’t feel up to the caving trip this week, I can find a couple of replacements. Santiago and Hector could shuffle their work schedule around.”
He shook his head. “No, it will be good for Molly to get away for a bit.”
When I returned to the office I picked up the pile of mail on my desk and sifted through it, then hit my phone and email messages.
After hearing of Holly’s mental health struggles, the turmoil with Samuel suddenly seemed not so bad—at least we were on the downhill slope after scaling our pile of problems. Yet, with the eeriness of a fleeting bout of déjà vu, panic palpitated in my chest as I recalled pounding on the door of Samuel’s bedroom in New York, just as Derek had pounded on their locked bathroom and cried for Holly. Cried, pleaded, nauseous with the fear and knowledge that we were powerless to save our spouses from the Stygian thing that had captured their minds. I shook off the dreadful memory and delved into my work.
I found Molly in her office later that afternoon, weeping over her file cabinet as if it contained Saint Helena’s holy relics. I had a hunch her visit with Holly had not gone well.
“There’s no way Holly and Derek can afford these medical bills,” Molly choked out. “And they’ll only let me help them so much.”
“What about my alimony money?” I reminded her. I’d just received another huge check in the mail last week, this time with a sardonic: Mickey, In Memorium in the memo line.
She shook her head. “Derek won’t take it. He’s too stubborn and prideful. I swear he’s in denial.”
“We can try funneling it through a not-for-profit, one that Holly’s center works with. Could they recommend somebody?”
Molly sniffed and blew her nose, dabbing at the mascara running down her cheeks. “I can ask tomorrow afternoon when we take Holly for therapy.”
I soothingly scratched my nails across Molly’s back as her sobbing subsided. “Hey. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your sister better, okay? You and me—right?”
Molly nodded and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Kaye. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I was completely furious with Derek for refusing a financial gift that could help his wife get better. Yes, it’s hard to take charity; anyone with an ounce of pride understands that. But would he do it for Holly? His kids? Or perhaps he was frightened to the point where he’d deny the seriousness of Holly’s illness. If I were in his shoes, I’d have a difficult time accepting it, too. I’d want my old life back, before the tears, the suicide threats, the
Similar Books
