Page 118 of Keeping the Score

“We can see what’s on it,” she says. “I’ll get your laptop.”

As she does that, I lift out a photo album. I open it to see pictures carefully labeled with names and dates. When Andi sits down again, she peers at it too. “That’s Willa’s mother.”

“Yes.” I flip the page. There are pictures of Willa as a child, a teenager, an adult, some with friends, some alone.

“This will be wonderful for Tilly to have,” Andi says softly.

“Yeah.”

We check out the thumb drive and find more pictures—baby pictures of Tilly, taken with Willa’s phone—in the hospital when she was born, when she was weeks old, then months. And then they stop.

Andi sniffles, then blows her nose into the tissue.

This is fucking torture.

34

ANDI

It’s too much.

My chest burns, anguish squeezing my lungs as I listen to Ford tell me about Tilly’s mother. I’ve never met this woman but I am gutted by what she has gone through. Is still going through. I can’t even imagine the pain she endured today, seeing her baby again and knowing it’s for the last time. I am wrecked for Tilly and how she knew her mother for such a short time, for how she will never see her again. And then looking at the things she saved for Tilly and the pictures and the letter she wrote—clearly Willa wants Tilly to know her.

There’s a book like the one I saw in the store that day, with the missing pieces from Tilly’s first months. And it’s all packed into a pretty storage box with pink flowers on it, like the ones you buy at Michael’s.

It’s all too much.

The tears keep flowing and I can’t stop them. Pressing a hand to my stomach, I rise to my feet.

I look at Tilly’s sweet, round face, her perfect lips, the tiny blue veins on her eyelids. I’m swamped with such afierce, protective love it’s painful. “I’m so sorry, baby.” I swipe ineffectually at my wet face.

I turn to Ford. His eyes are red, his misery evident on his face. “I can’t do this,” I sob.

“I know. It’s so fucked up.”

“I mean, I really can’t do this.”

His eyebrows pull together. “Andi…”

I shake my head, my heart lodged painfully in my throat, making it difficult to squeeze air into my lungs. “It’s too much. I can’t handle it. I have to go.”

His mouth falls open. “Andi?—”

But I’m fleeing, my feet carrying my numb legs across the room. I almost leave without my key, and I pause to scoop it up from the table at the door, then dash out.

I just have to make it to my own apartment. Then I can fall apart. Then I can hate myself and hate this fucking world that allows such horrible things to happen to people who don’t deserve it. Like innocent babies. And mothers.

I slam the door shut behind me, stumble to my bedroom, and plant myself face down on the bed. I let out the sobs that I’ve been trying to hold back, crying until I’m exhausted and limp. I know I’m freaking out. I can’t help it. I was trying to be strong for Tilly but I guess I’m not that strong.

I fall asleep for a while.

I wake up in the dark. My eyes are gritty. I feel like I’ve been run over by a Zamboni.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling to think about everything.

The sick feeling in my stomach is guilt. So much guilt.

I judged Willa so harshly and unfairly. I thought she abandoned her baby. I was angry at her. I thought she didn’t deserve Tilly.

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