child’s life. I’m just not.” She stared at me, tears glistening in her eyes. I saw the questions there; I knew what she w as asking.
“You know better than anyone that I didn’t want to ever have children. And I’ll be the first to admit that I fought it every step of the way until the end. But, Charlie, those last few weeks while I was on bed rest, something changed inside of me. There was only her and me, no other distractions, no matter how hard I tried to find some. She was always there, inside of me. I started to long to feel her move; I tried to see if I could feel the outline of her hands or her feet.” I covered my stomach with my hand and spread my fingers, recalling the memory of those flutters I’d felt. “I know this sounds…not like me, but there was one moment, just one, when I swear there was a connection between us. “Her hand had pushed up on my belly and I could see,” my eyes closed as I remembered, “the imprint so clearly, that I knew, the moment I laid my hand on top of hers, that I would do anything to not risk her life.”
I eased back to lean against the couch. “I knew right from the beginning I would need a nanny.” Even if I never told Brian that, it was as if he knew somehow. “Someone to help me with Grace, someone who could see…the signs, you know? Just in case.”
Charlie leaned toward me. The baby monitor on the coffee table crackled and then I heard Grace’s tiny whimpers. When I went to reach for it, Charlie grabbe d my hand.
“Would you know the signs of postpartum psychosis if your nanny wasn’ t around?”
I shook Charlie’s hand off as I stood.
“Of course I would. Trust me, I’ve got my doctor on speed dial. But I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my sister and pulled her close. “Grace is everything I don’t deserve. She’s my little angel, my world. I would do anything to keep her safe. Anything. That’s what being a mother is all about. Keeping our child ren safe.”
I let go and stepped back. Grace’s whimpers stopped and the only sound I heard was the soft cadence of her b reathing.
“You know”—I stared at Charlie—“Mags once told me that’s what our mother did. She was protecting us the only way she knew how. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. She killed herself to keep us safe.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust at the musty smell as I opened the box Charlie had brought for me to look at. I rubbed my fingers on my pants to clean the film of dust that came from the cardboard. Where had she kept this thing? It must have been at the back of a storage locker, long forgot ten about.
I turned the box around and saw more writing: Diane’s Journals/Childhood Items . My hands shook as I pushed the box away from me. Where had she gotten this? I hadn’t seen it in years.
Our talk earlier today all made sense now. Charlie brought this over because she needed reassurance. I could give her that with what was inside this box.
Shortly after we moved in with Aunt Mags, she’d taken us to see a counselor. We didn’t really say much at the time; Charlie literally didn’t say anything at all. Not for six months. She’d been the one to find our mot her first.
God, I hated thinking about that time. I’d worked so hard to forget about it, to lock it away in a tiny box within my mind. Dredging it up now hurt. But inside this box were the answers, for myself and for Charlie.
I pulled the box closer and opened it. The first item on top was an old pink sweater my mom used to wear around the house, a cardigan she’d knitted while she was pregnant with me. I remembered her telling me she used to sing to me while she knitted the sweater, and then when I was older and would wake in the middle of the night from bad dreams, she’d wrap me up in it and rub my back until I fell asl eep again.
Even though I knew any smell that I’d hoped would have lingered from my mom would be gone by now, I rubbed the wool between my fingers and
“You know better than anyone that I didn’t want to ever have children. And I’ll be the first to admit that I fought it every step of the way until the end. But, Charlie, those last few weeks while I was on bed rest, something changed inside of me. There was only her and me, no other distractions, no matter how hard I tried to find some. She was always there, inside of me. I started to long to feel her move; I tried to see if I could feel the outline of her hands or her feet.” I covered my stomach with my hand and spread my fingers, recalling the memory of those flutters I’d felt. “I know this sounds…not like me, but there was one moment, just one, when I swear there was a connection between us. “Her hand had pushed up on my belly and I could see,” my eyes closed as I remembered, “the imprint so clearly, that I knew, the moment I laid my hand on top of hers, that I would do anything to not risk her life.”
I eased back to lean against the couch. “I knew right from the beginning I would need a nanny.” Even if I never told Brian that, it was as if he knew somehow. “Someone to help me with Grace, someone who could see…the signs, you know? Just in case.”
Charlie leaned toward me. The baby monitor on the coffee table crackled and then I heard Grace’s tiny whimpers. When I went to reach for it, Charlie grabbe d my hand.
“Would you know the signs of postpartum psychosis if your nanny wasn’ t around?”
I shook Charlie’s hand off as I stood.
“Of course I would. Trust me, I’ve got my doctor on speed dial. But I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around my sister and pulled her close. “Grace is everything I don’t deserve. She’s my little angel, my world. I would do anything to keep her safe. Anything. That’s what being a mother is all about. Keeping our child ren safe.”
I let go and stepped back. Grace’s whimpers stopped and the only sound I heard was the soft cadence of her b reathing.
“You know”—I stared at Charlie—“Mags once told me that’s what our mother did. She was protecting us the only way she knew how. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. She killed herself to keep us safe.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust at the musty smell as I opened the box Charlie had brought for me to look at. I rubbed my fingers on my pants to clean the film of dust that came from the cardboard. Where had she kept this thing? It must have been at the back of a storage locker, long forgot ten about.
I turned the box around and saw more writing: Diane’s Journals/Childhood Items . My hands shook as I pushed the box away from me. Where had she gotten this? I hadn’t seen it in years.
Our talk earlier today all made sense now. Charlie brought this over because she needed reassurance. I could give her that with what was inside this box.
Shortly after we moved in with Aunt Mags, she’d taken us to see a counselor. We didn’t really say much at the time; Charlie literally didn’t say anything at all. Not for six months. She’d been the one to find our mot her first.
God, I hated thinking about that time. I’d worked so hard to forget about it, to lock it away in a tiny box within my mind. Dredging it up now hurt. But inside this box were the answers, for myself and for Charlie.
I pulled the box closer and opened it. The first item on top was an old pink sweater my mom used to wear around the house, a cardigan she’d knitted while she was pregnant with me. I remembered her telling me she used to sing to me while she knitted the sweater, and then when I was older and would wake in the middle of the night from bad dreams, she’d wrap me up in it and rub my back until I fell asl eep again.
Even though I knew any smell that I’d hoped would have lingered from my mom would be gone by now, I rubbed the wool between my fingers and
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