Page 10 of The Other Mother
Instead I say,"Fine. Eva was good.”
Because that'swhat he wants to hear. That everything is under control, that I'm managing, that the decision to move here and start this new life was the right one.
Dinner isleftover Chinese food that tastes like cardboard and regret. Adam picks at his orange chicken while scrolling through emails on his phone, the blue light casting shadows across his face. He's showered and changed into his weekend uniform of khaki shorts and a polo shirt that makes him look like every other suburban dad in America.
I push lo mein around my plate and work up the courage to bring up the blanket again.
"I've been thinking about that blanket," I say, trying to keep my voice casual.
Adam doesn't look up from his phone. "What blanket?"
"The one with the G. Matthews tag. The pink one."
He glances at me briefly, then back at his screen. "What about it?"
"The stain looked old. Permanent. And the name tag was handwritten, not printed. Someone took time to mark it specifically for a baby whose name started with G."
Adam finally puts his phone down with an exaggerated sigh. "Claire. You're spiraling."
The word hits me like a slap. Spiraling. Like I'm some hysterical woman who can't handle the stress of new motherhood. Like my concerns are symptoms of a disorder instead of legitimate questions about my own child.
"I'm not spiraling. I'm observing."
"You're reading into everything." He takes a drink of beer, his third tonight. "Those support groups are filled with first-time moms who haven't slept in weeks. You're all feeding off each other's anxiety."
I think about Mara's hollow eyes, the certainty in her voice. About the redhead talking about her baby's changing features. About how none of them seemed surprised when I mentioned the clothing changes.
"What if I'm not imagining things?"
Adam laughs, but it sounds forced. Too loud for our quiet dining room with its open floor plan and high ceilings that make every sound echo. "Then talk to your OB. Get something to take the edge off. You're not sleeping, Claire. That's all this is."
He's already reaching for his phone before I can respond, the conversation dismissed as easily as my concerns. He has the doctor’s number and I know that he’s the type to prescribe whatever will make me easier to manage. In Orange County, half my friends were on something. Anxiety medication disguised as self-care, antidepressants passed around like vitamins at book club meetings.
"I don't need medication. I need answers."
But Adam has already opened his email again, his attention span is exhausted when it comes to my problems. Behind him, the kitchen island is littered with baby bottles and burp cloths and the constant detritus of caring for someone who can't care for themselves. The life we moved here to embrace feels more like a trap every day.
Eva starts crying at eleven PM, right when Adam and I are getting ready for bed. Her cries are different tonight. Sharper. More insistent. Like she's in actual pain instead of just expressing the general dissatisfaction that seems to define her existence.
I lift her from the bassinet, and she's warm against my chest. Too warm. Her little body trembles with eachsob, and nothing I do seems to help. I try feeding her, but she refuses. I try rocking her, walking her, changing her diaper. Nothing works.
Adam rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head. "Can you take her to the living room? I have that site meeting at seven."
Of course he does. There's always something. Some meeting or call or project that requires him to be well-rested while I stumble through another sleepless night like a zombie.
I carry Eva to the living room and settle into the glider that's become my second bed. The house is dark except for the small lamp beside the chair, casting everything in amber shadows. Outside, the desert is silent in that absolute way that only exists in places where civilization is still negotiating with wilderness.
Eva cries for three hours straight. I try everything I can think of. I sing lullabies my mother used to sing to me when I was small and afraid of the dark. I tell her stories about the ocean we used to live near, about the sound of waves and seagulls and foghorns that meant safety. I even try reading to her from the novel I've been attempting to write for the past two years. It’s about a woman who keeps noticing small issues in her life, like tags that don’t match, a stroller that’s the wrong color, until she starts to wonder if she’s misremembering her own life.
But nothing works. She cries until she's exhausted,until her face is red and her tiny fists are clenched like she's fighting something I can't see.
Finally, at 3:17 AM according to the clock on the cable box, she stops mid-sob and falls asleep so suddenly it's like someone flipped a switch. I sit frozen in the chair, afraid to move and wake her, afraid to breathe too loudly and start the whole cycle again.
I lower her carefully into the bassinet and collapse onto the couch. The baby monitor sits on the coffee table, its green light glowing softly in the dark. Static hums through the speaker, the familiar white noise that's supposed to be comforting but always sounds vaguely ominous to me.
I close my eyes and try to let the exhaustion pull me under. But just as I'm drifting toward sleep, the static crackles louder.
I open my eyes and stare at the monitor. The sound is different now. Sharper. Like someone adjusting the frequency on an old radio, trying to tune in a clearer signal.
