Page 29 of The Other Mother
"We've been through this. You had a hard delivery. You've been off since the hospital. I told you I'd support whatever you needed. Therapy, meds, anything. But you have to meet me halfway here."
His voice is calm, measured, but underneath it I hear something else. Something sharp. Not quite fear, not quite anger. Control.
And suddenly I understand that he's not scared forme. He's scared of me. Of what I might do, what I might discover, what I might remember.
"Why would I make up a name?" My voice sounds small in the big room. "Why would I lie about this?"
For a moment, his expression softens. This is the Adam I fell in love with, the one who brought me soup when I had the flu, who held me when I cried about my mother's diagnosis, who promised me that moving here would be a fresh start for our family.
"Because you're exhausted. That's all this is. You're just ... tired."
I nod, because it's easier than fighting. A part of me wants to believe him. And the alternative, that something is very, very wrong, is too terrifying to accept.
But after he walks out, I sit alone in the nursery with the pacifier still clutched in my palm. Eva stirs in her crib, making those soft little sounds that should melt my heart but somehow don't. The desert wind rattles the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls.
I need air. I take the diaper trash out to the curb and step into the heat that never really leaves. The Hendersons’ garage door is half-open, the desert wind nudging it like a lazy wave.
On a wire shelf, I see a gray infant car seat. Heavy. Old-fashioned. The exact shade that flickers in my mind at three a.m.
Two days after discharge I switched to the white Nuna, so was this the loaner I used and promptly forgot?
My breath stutters. Did I ever own that? Or did she?
Sharon said I had a gray one the day we came home. But we only have the white Nuna. I take one step closer, then stop. Suddenly, I’m aware of how exposed I am in the driveway and how loud my heart is beating.
Finally, I walk to my bedroom and hide the pacifier in my sock drawer, buried underneath old but very comfortable underwear I can't bring myself to throw away yet.
I can’t just throw it away.
16
YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME
The support group room of the Desert Springs Wellness Center smells like essential oils. Lavender and eucalyptus can't quite mask the underlying scent of institutional carpet and women who haven't showered in days. The late October heat wave makes everything worse. The air conditioning is broken again, and the room feels like a greenhouse filled with wilting plants.
I showed up late because Eva had a meltdown right as we were leaving the house. She's been doing that more lately, like she can sense my anxiety and feeds off it. By the time I get her settled in her carrier and make it through the parking lot, my shirt is damp with sweat and my hair is sticking to my neck.
Earlier this morning, before the chaos of getting ready, Adam had tried to be sweet. He brought me coffee in bed (the good stuff from the expensive machine heinsisted we needed when we moved here) and sat on the edge of the mattress while I fed Eva.
"You should stay home today," he'd said, running his hand through my unwashed hair. "Skip the group. I can stay home. We could order takeout, watch something mindless on Netflix."
It was tempting. The idea of curling up on our oversized sectional, Eva sleeping on my chest while Adam rubbed my feet the way he used to when I was pregnant. Back when touching me felt natural to him, before I became this fragile thing he had to handle carefully.
"I need to go," I'd told him. "It helps."
He'd nodded, but I caught the relief in his eyes. He wanted me to get better, but he also wanted me to get better quietly, without asking uncomfortable questions or making him late for golf.
After he left for work, I'd tried to write for the first time in weeks. Just a few sentences in the notebook I keep hidden under my side of the bed. It’s not much, observations about motherhood, fragments that might someday become part of a story. But when I read back what I'd written, it didn't sound like me at all. The handwriting was mine, but the voice felt foreign, disconnected.
The baby cries and I feel nothing. I pick her up because that's what mothers do, but inside I'm empty. Like someone hollowed me out and forgot to put anything back.
I'd torn out the page and thrown it away, then fishedit out of the trash and hidden it with the pacifier in my sock drawer. Evidence of something, though I wasn't sure what.
The familiar circle of mismatched chairs is already full except for one seat. My stomach drops when I see who's sitting next to the empty chair.
Mara.
She’s wearing the same clothes she had on at the grocery store—faded jeans and a plain t-shirt that hangs loose on her thin frame. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail that looks like it hasn't been washed in days. She's staring at her hands, not acknowledging anyone else in the room.
