I try to consider every possible explanation that night when I finally give up on sleep.
In her note Grace talks about Dad being unreliable, but the Dad I know has never been unreliable in his life. Maybe her perspective was warped. She was probably seriously depressed. Maybe she had a serious mental illness. A delusional disorder? Manic depression?
It does look like Grace was suicidal when she wrote that note. How does that tie in?
Oh, my God. If the date on the death certificate is correct, she wrote that note just weeks before her death.
I can’t think about that now. I need to think about something calming. Maybe try to visualize those moments when she held me in her arms—
But did she hold me in her arms? How could I remember if I was only eighteen months old when she died?
This is it, Beth. This is the moment when you lose your mind altogether.
When Hunter climbs out of bed for his shower at six, I’m still every bit as awake as I was when I got into that bed eight hours earlier. I don’t think I’ve closed my eyes for more than a minute. I’m so exhausted now that I’m battling tears as I try to get ready to drive Noah to Chiara’s house for the day.
“Beth,” Hunter says, abruptly breaking a lengthy silence as we eat breakfast in the kitchen. I drag my gaze from my untouched toast to his face. His lips are pursed, so I know he’s about to say something I won’t like. “I don’t think you should go to your dad’s place today. Stay here and try to rest.”
I know his suggestion comes from a place of love, but it feels paternalistic and I bristle. I try to take some deep breaths to stop myself from snapping at him, but anger and irritation are fierce beasts, just waiting for a chance to pounce. I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand before I can even say a word, and now Hunter is impatient. “Will you please just listen to me for once? I’m worried about you, Beth. You’re wound up like a spring. Packing up your dad’s house can wait one more day.”
I’m gearing up to push back, even though I know I’m going to make a meal of this and I’ll have to face his hurt and resignation when I do. But Noah, who has been happily sitting in his high chair, chewing on a teething biscuit, makes a gagging sound and then a sickly, constricted cough. Hunter and I both react before I even have time to acknowledge what’s happening. We shoot to our feet and we run, coming to a stop on either side of the baby. My heart is racing and my hands shake violently as I grab the biscuit and dump it onto the tray of the high chair.
My thoughts are a turbulent torrent, instantly bombarding me with worst-case scenarios and the most tragic of outcomes. It’s only when Hunter laughs softly and picks up Noah that I see the stunning disparity in our reactions.
“Silly bubba,” Hunter chuckles, nursing Noah against his cheek and rubbing his back to comfort him. “You can’t put the biscuit all the way down your throat, no matter how delicious it is.”
“He could have died just now,” I cry, staring wide-eyed at my husband.
“What? No, he just got a bit too enthused about the biscuit. He’s fine,” Hunter says, and he brings Noah with him as he walks around the high chair to rub my back. My husband’s lack of panic is as confusing as it is frustrating.
“You’re not taking this seriously enough!” I exclaim, stepping away from him. “He could have choked!”
“On a biscuit? Seems unlikely.” Hunter motions toward the biscuit on the tray table of the high chair. “There’s no way he could have kept that whole thing in his mouth long enough to obstruct his airway. He gave himself a fright, that’s all.”
But I’m staring at the same object, and I see all kinds of possibilities that very much feel like probabilities. He could chew on it for so long that it dissolves, but not all of it dissolves, and what if a hard bit gets stuck in his throat and he can’t dislodge it? How do you even do first aid on a five-month-old baby? Why haven’t we done a first aid course together? What if something happens to him and we don’t know how to help him? What if we’re not paying close enough attention and something bad happens and he’s hurt or he dies?
I only realize I’ve voiced these thoughts aloud when Hunter carefully sets the baby back in his high chair and takes my shoulders in his hands to stare at me intently.
“Beth,” he says gently. “Look at him.” I glance down at the baby. He’s calm but determined, his grubby little fist already reaching for the biscuit. Hunter squeezes my shoulders. “See? He’s totally fine.”
Hunter pulls me against his shoulder and I all but dissolve into him, sobs bursting from my lips as I struggle to dismiss a sudden and intrusive daydream of Noah blue-faced and choking, right there in front of me, while I watch on, helpless. The incident didn’t play out that way. Things weren’t as drastic and terrifying as all of that. But they could have been.
“Babe. You need to sleep,” Hunter says. His brown eyes are fixed on me, his concern palpable. I’m sobbing hard now, even as I shake my head and prepare to argue with him some more. But it turns out that I can’t even find the energy for fighting now, and I let Hunter lead me back to our bed. He arranges my limp limbs against the pillows and covers my body with the blankets. He tugs the blinds closed and quietly, gently, closes the door behind him.
I try to submit to my body’s demands for sleep. I use every trick I know to try—I focus on my breathing; I consciously relax my muscles; I even try to bring back those wonderful memories of Grace, but that fails now, and I try to force my mind to conjure other peaceful scenes—family dinners, a peaceful forest, a calm blue ocean.
But hours later I’m still staring at the ceiling, reliving the sound of my infant choking, over and over again.
Every single time I force myself to think about something else, my mind returns to that biscuit, and all the ways that incident might have ended differently.
When I emerge from my bedroom three hours later, Ruth and Hunter are sitting at the kitchen table. Ruth is halfway through a sandwich, but she sets it down on her plate to pin me with her eyes. Hunter is staring into a steaming cup of coffee. I see guilt in the way he avoids my gaze and I’m immediately wary.
“We have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” Ruth says before I can even ask what’s going on. Adrenaline spikes again, and I scan the room.
“What happened? Where is he?”
“He?” Ruth frowns, then her expression clears as she rises. “Jesus, Beth. Not for Noah. He’s fine. He’s at Chiara’s house. The doctor is for you.”
“What for?” I ask. I look at Hunter, and he picks up the coffee and sips it. Now his gaze is fixed on the dining room table, and suddenly I am conscious of the details I have missed. His eyes are rimmed red. He’s changed out of his suit and he’s wearing jeans and a sweater. His shoulders are slumped and he’s leaning forward on the table as if he can’t hold himself up. I look to Ruth, and my awareness continues to sharpen. Now I see the concern in my sister’s expression, the little crease in the center of her forehead that indicates frustration, the irritating way her heels are tapping...tapping...tapping against the tiles on my kitchen floor. I’m not sure what this intervention is for, but I am sure it’s ridiculous. “I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s hardly cause for a doctor’s visit.”
“Beth...a little insomnia isn’t a problem. But you’ve hardly slept in weeks. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t sleep at all last night, and...” Hunter finally looks at me. As his gaze scans my face, I see his expression fall further. “And you haven’t even slept this morning, have you?”
“I... I slept a little...” I lie. The furnace is on too high and it’s hot in here, too hot, and the air feels thick. I feel trapped by their concern, like they’ve cornered me. I’m not even sure why my sister and my husband are putting me on the spot. “One bad night isn’t a reason to visit a doctor. You two are being ridiculous.”
“Beth, you know I’m worried about you. We both are. Hell, we all are,” Ruth sighs. “Will you please just humor us and come to the clinic?”
“And tell her what? A woman with a five-month-old baby is having disrupted sleep? Tell her a woman whose father is dying is upset? Lisa will laugh at us,” I snap at her as I finally unfreeze. I need to convince them I’m fine. I need to go back to Dad’s house and keep looking for the notes—those notes might somehow explain everything.
I open the cupboard and withdraw a mug, concentrating hard on appearing calm and centered. The problem is that my hands are shaking and clammy, too, so inevitably, the mug slips and shatters against the floor. The sound of it breaking is unbearably loud, and I immediately cover my ears and take a step away, forgetting that my feet are bare, not even registering that there are now shards of shattered ceramic all over the floor.
Pain shoots through my foot and I cry out, then finally, belatedly, burst into confused tears.
Ruth is on me in an instant. Her arms envelop me and she pulls me tight against her. My sister smells safe like Grace and I’m shrouded in the very real scent of vanilla and roses and love. She is shushing in my ear and rubbing my back as she pulls me away from the broken mug and onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I’m vaguely aware of Hunter sweeping up the mess and tending to my feet, but I’m so tired. All of the world feels broken, and maybe I’m broken, too.
Just like Grace. And maybe, eventually, Grace couldn’t take it anymore.
“Will you go to the doctor?” Ruth whispers when my feet are patched up and there’s a cup of tea in my hands.
“Will you back off if I do?” I whisper back.
Ruth nods, and eventually, so do I.