The following week, Elizabeth called Adair with a few questions about the benefit. She had been put in charge of tabletop décor: linens, floral arrangements, place cards, and candles. “Do you mind if we meet quickly to go over what I’ve collected?” Elizabeth asked at the end of their conversation. “It will be easier for me to show you.”
“Can you text me photos?” Adair asked.
“I could, but it’s definitely better if you see them in person,” Elizabeth asserted. “I’ll come by when it’s convenient for you, but we have to meet soon. The linen company needs the order by Friday.”
“Okay. But only if you promise to keep a secret,” Adair insisted.
“A secret?” echoed Elizabeth. “I should be able to do that.”
Several moments later, Adair said, “Okay. Are you free tomorrow? Visiting hours are 10:00 a.m. to noon and 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.”
“Visiting hours?” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Where are you?”
“That’s the secret.” Adair paused conspiratorially before continuing. “Sunny Meadows.”
Sunny Meadows was situated in one of Connecticut’s lovely valleys. A river ran through its center, surrounded by buildings that were a mix of 1930s classic residential architecture and newer, tasteful additions. Sunny Meadows was the place for the rich and, occasionally, the famous. Once inside the building’s walls, most of the property felt more “luxury bed-and-breakfast” than “institutional ward,” but it was impossible to hide the fact that it was a mental hospital.
“Sunny Meadows?” Elizabeth blurted out. “The mental institution? But why?”
“I needed a few days to myself,” Adair sighed. “When I’m home, I’m pulled in too many directions, and I need to focus on the benefit. Here I can concentrate on one thing.”
“Jack’s charity event?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “Why don’t you just quit? Your peace of mind is more important than a party.”
“I can’t disappoint Jack,” she said, “and he only trusts me to run the event.”
“Jack is resourceful,” Elizabeth assured. “He’ll figure it out or postpone it for a few weeks.”
“But it has to be hosted during peak foliage season,” Adair insisted. “If we wait, the property will look barren. And, to be honest, this isn’t my first time here. I actually check in here about twice a year. It’s my version of a spa weekend.”
“Oh,” said Elizabeth, thinking of the cost of a stay at Sunny Meadows. “Wouldn’t you rather escape to a nice hotel somewhere?”
“I guess I could, but I like it here,” Adair reasoned. “I’ve been told that there are a number of women in the area who come to Sunny Meadows to rest. They have a special ward for the ‘R&Rs’—that’s what the staff calls us short-term visitors. It’s so peaceful here, and the group therapy is very helpful. Did you know Jack volunteers here? He teaches a weekly class. This is where I first met him.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” said Elizabeth, anger coloring her voice, thinking it a prime place for him to find new students. “I can meet you at Sunny Meadows tomorrow at four. And why don’t you think about additional responsibilities to give me for the event? I knew you were overwhelmed, but I didn’t realize how overwhelmed you felt. I’ll ask the women I work with to help, too.”
* * *
“I’m here to see Adair Burns,” Elizabeth said the following day to the Sunny Meadows receptionist. “My name is Elizabeth Kelly.”
“Is she expecting you?” she asked.
“Yes, we scheduled a visit,” Elizabeth responded.
“Please have a seat, and I’ll contact Mrs. Burns,” she said, adding, “Don’t you just adore Adair? She is such a happy, positive soul.”
“Yes, she is a very kind person,” Elizabeth said, thinking it unusual for the receptionist to comment on one of the patients. If she’s so happy and positive, why is she here? Elizabeth wondered. Why would Adair want to check into this place several times a year? She took in the patients and visitors meandering through the room. I’m completely depressed and I’ve only been here ten minutes.
The attendant led Elizabeth into what was called the Game Room. It was the hospital’s group den and one of the areas outside of the sleeping quarters where guests were allowed for visits. It was a comfortable room with dark wood floors, sea grass wallpaper, woven wood blinds, and generous upholstered furniture. There was a large TV, a pool table, and several card tables with inlaid chessboards. “Mrs. Burns will be in shortly,” said the attendant. “Please help yourself to the refreshments.”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “I will.”
She walked to the refreshment station and perused the seemingly endless variety of expensive, imported teas. She noted eight types of sweetener and four creamer options, a plate of bakery cookies, four sliced fruit breads, and a tray of chocolate truffles. Elizabeth picked an exotic-sounding green tea, placed it in a large Williams-Sonoma mug with steaming water and sat down on an upholstered tweed chair to wait for Adair.
After a few minutes, Adair entered the room looking more serene than she had a few days ago.
“Hi, Elizabeth,” she said, settling down across from her. “Thanks for coming here with the linen samples and other things. I can’t wait to see what you collected. I bet they’re lovely.”
“No big deal,” Elizabeth assured. “You look rested.”
“I’m getting there,” she responded.
“So when did you figure out that this place is more restorative for you than a spa?” Elizabeth asked.
“The first time I came here, I really needed to be here,” she admitted, “and now I come back for shorter stays for a mental tune-up.” She shifted into the chair’s plush cushions before adding, “I guess word of my crack-up never really got out.”
“I didn’t hear about it,” said Elizabeth.
“It was several years ago when my kids were very young,” Adair started explaining, but Elizabeth stopped her.
“You don’t need to go into it with me,” she said, sincerely not wanting to know. “More people should seek help than those who do.”
“Do you ever get overwhelmed by being a parent?” Adair asked.
“Just about every day,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Me, too,” she responded, “and one day it was so bad I…abandoned my kids.”
“Oh… I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth, concealing her astonishment of Adair’s admission. “I know how much you love your kids, so that must have been awful for you.”
“I still feel guilty about it,” she said, “although Hugh has convinced me that they don’t know it happened. Fortunately, they were very young. We were at Stepping Stones Museum when I had a massive panic attack, and I took off, leaving the kids with Sheila. At least I didn’t leave them alone, thank goodness. That night I called Hugh and told him I needed some time. He understood, but he insisted I come and stay here for a period of time after I came back.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Elizabeth, uncrossing her legs and leaning closer to Adair. “I didn’t know. If Hugh told Andrew, then Andrew kept it a secret from me. And I don’t think anyone else knows, either. You know how women love to gossip in Cannondale. In fact, most people say you’re the most dedicated, best mother in town.”
“I certainly try,” she said. “My doctor said I try too hard to be the perfect wife and mom and that’s the root of my problem. That’s what made me snap that day. It was so weird, because nothing major triggered it. The kids were in the Toddler Room playing on the slide and in the pretend kitchen. They were moving in circles, like a cycle: up the stairs, then thirty seconds of opening and slamming shut the oven and refrigerator doors, then down the slide, and then back to the stairs. Again and again and again with a few trips and face-plants in between. I was still breastfeeding Tatum, although that had become really hard to do while trying to take care of the other kids. I knew my milk production was starting to dwindle and, I don’t know, maybe it was that second cup of espresso I don’t normally have, but my mind started reeling.
“All the potential illnesses doctors say children who aren’t breastfed are susceptible to crept into my head: lung infections, allergies, heart disease, and cancer. I pictured Tatum sitting on the sidelines during recess because of allergies. I saw her middle-aged and hairless due to chemo. I saw her old and hooked up to a wheeled breathing machine. Would her little immune system be harmed by my not breastfeeding her for at least a full year? I wondered.
“And then my mind jumped to how unfair I was being to her by not breastfeeding her as long as I did the other three kids. I started to consider buying breast milk, but as I’m sure you know, it’s not a regulated industry. I wondered how I would determine which breast milk provider to trust. Onlythebreast.com has posts from thousands of women hoping to make money by selling breast milk, but God only knows what they put into their bodies.
“I started getting totally grossed out—imagine milk coming from someone whose online profile says ‘Healthy Texas Farm Girl With Abundant Flowing Breasts’ when in fact she’s a meth addict holed up in a desolate one-room motel room in desperate need of some cash. And even if you do find a normal mom who really just wants to share her extra breast milk, I’ve read that a lot of that transported milk arrives contaminated because of issues with storage and shipping.
“The other option is to hire a wet nurse who comes to your home and breastfeeds your kids, but again, you can’t know what they’re ingesting like you do yourself. So I mentally ruled out those options and told myself that I’d go home that night, hook up to a pump, and keep at it until my milk production came back up again. I didn’t know if it would work or not. In my experience, those pumps kind of suck, but the thought calmed me down a bit. Sadly, it didn’t last very long.
“I started to fixate on all the ways I’d already accidently hurt my kids: how I unintentionally didn’t eat as much salmon and spinach when pregnant with Penny as I did with Trevor. How I forgot to test the bath water once and put one of them into a scalding tub. How I used non-BPA-free plastic before I knew the dangers of plastics’ chemicals. The times I got out of the shower and found one of them post-squirm with their head jammed into the corner of the bassinet. Realizing after I pulled into the driveway that I forgot to buckle the car seat into its harness. How I would turn on a Baby Einstein video so I could have a cup of tea in peace even though I know it’s advised that no videos or TV be watched before age two.
“My mind was whirling. My heart was racing. I started to perspire profusely. Sheila asked me what was wrong, and I couldn’t give her an answer—she is such a calm person. I was so embarrassed. I excused myself, and before I realized it, I was walking out of the room. I was hyperventilating, and my legs were on autopilot, bringing me out for air. As I walked by the gift shop, my mind started churning in a totally different direction. It reminded me of all my kids’ toys and art supplies and how disorganized they had become despite my best efforts: blocks, cars, trucks, balls, magnetic tiles, wooden puzzles, dolls, stuffed animals, dress-up costumes, bath toys, crayons, glue, finger paints, and on and on. It all turned into one large, colorful jumble in my head. I could see the pieces scattered in various rooms in our house, thrown into a myriad of toy bins in their bedrooms, playroom, secondary playroom, den, guest room, and the exterior playhouse.
“I thought of the Play-Doh whose tops weren’t put on securely hardening in their plastic containers and how I needed to buy more before the next playdate; the Color Wonder and Dry-Erase and Glow Explosion pads whose coordinating pens had been wrongly organized in the marker bin; their out-of-order bookshelves: David Carter Pop-Ups mixed with Sandra Boynton board books, and Richard Scarry’s with Dr. Seuss; their once-organized-by-type learning videos thrown on the top of the TV cabinet, hastily put up there by me after Trevor pulled them all out of the cabinet and onto the floor.”
“I’m so sorry, Adair,” interrupted Elizabeth. “And I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been struggling for so long. Maybe you need more help at home? How about hiring a personal organizer to come over once a week? Lots of women have them. They help determine what’s no longer needed and tidy up what remains. They even take what you no longer want to donation centers or the dump. Its might help you feel less overwhelmed?”
“I have a personal organizer—Wendy Luce. She’d been there just two weeks before my breakdown and had put everything back in its place, but it was all mixed up again. It only takes one playdate with a few active, curious children to destroy the order. So even with a housekeeper, even with visits from Wendy, I’m not able to keep up.
“I must have looked like a basket case as I stood there hyperventilating, because the Stepping Stones manager, Martha Banks, was approaching me with concern in her eyes. She woke me up in the ‘Tummy & Tumble Time’ area of the age three-and-under section one time—Tristan was five months old, I think, and I was exhausted. I literally fell asleep next to him on a mat. After she woke me and determined that I wasn’t drunk or high, she kindly told me I wasn’t the first tired mom to fall asleep on the floor in the museum. Ever since then, Martha and I say hello and generally have a good laugh together, but on the day of my breakdown, I couldn’t even muster a laugh for her. I left the building and speed-walked to the museum’s community garden. I tried more breathing exercises while staring into its koi pond.
“Then my mind flooded with the kind of questions that always pop up, but usually not in such rapid succession: should we become a gluten-free home? How about vegetarian? Should I buy new, improved car seats for the kids? Did Penny develop a rash from my switching laundry detergent? Is she going to be one of those kids who’s allergic to everything? Should I be preemptive and bring her to an allergist now? What if she’s deathly allergic to something we just don’t know about yet?
“What type of elementary school should we be focused on getting them into: private, public, Catholic, Montessori? Do I have the patience to homeschool? How much is too much time on the computer? Will it be okay if the boys play football, or is it too dangerous of a sport? What about ice hockey?
“How many after-school activities can I sign them up for? One or two a day? There is so much for them to do, to try in childhood. If we don’t try it all, we may never discover their special talent, but how are we going to fit it all in for all four of our kids in just eighteen years? Skiing, skating, paddle-boarding, swimming, sailing, crew, fencing, rock climbing, fly fishing, karate, soccer, tennis, paddle tennis, ballet, tap, ballroom dance, etiquette, theatre class, vocal lessons, piano, violin, electric guitar, chess, art, Spanish, French, Mandarin, cooking, baking, religion, charity work, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Children of the American Revolution…
“When should we first introduce Europe to the kids? Since they’re taking Spanish, maybe we should limit the trips to Spain and South America to encourage their foreign language skills. How old should a child be when she gets her first pair of Uggs? Should she save up for them? Should Santa bring them?
“I Googled it right then and there. I posted to the Cannondale Mom’s Group. I visited the Fairfield County Today: Parent Alert chat room. But then, as a few teenagers flew through the parking lot in a Mercedes convertible, the thought that no mom’s group or chat room can really help me hit home. My darling, albeit accident-prone and unwieldy children will one day become adolescents and want nothing to do with me. That stage will be even more difficult than the just-keep-them-alive early stages or the adjusting to school and sports and peers stages that occur before their tweens. After all I’ve done for them, once they’re adolescents I will experience the ultimate rejection while they rebel and likely put themselves in harm’s way. They will do dumb things like getting into the class clown’s convertible and traveling ninety miles an hour on the highway. I will feel so alone and helpless and terrified during those years.
“Why do we do this? rang through my head. Why do we become parents? So I walked to my car in the Stepping Stones Museum parking lot and drove away. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I left Sheila and the kids without a car. They were stranded at Stepping Stones. I drove straight to The Carlyle and checked in.”
“Oh,” said Elizabeth as she processed the epic rant given by the woman who was considered the most dedicated and loving mother in town. Elizabeth understood what Adair was struggling with. Parenting was hard, but she didn’t think Adair was one of those women who allowed herself to fully understand the complexities of it. Many women in town distracted themselves with things like compulsive shopping and excessive exercise. It was easier for them that way. Adair, on the other hand, totally got motherhood and actually hated many aspects of it, but threw herself into it every day and walked around beaming.
“Parenthood isn’t how I imagined it would be,” Adair continued. “It’s such a big adjustment, and I’m one of those women who always wanted to be a mom. I thought that the more kids you have, then the more love you have in your life, and the more satisfied and happier you will feel. But from the moment I had children, I have felt completely overwhelmed and inadequate every single day. I’ve dreamed of going back to work where I could at least do the job assigned to me; I could accomplish something small and check it off my to-do list forever. I just can’t get it right as a mom. I’m not the mom I wanted myself to be.
“I always fall short of my expectations and, to be honest, the expectations of the other mothers in our town. It’s like one big competition with them. They’re always trying to determine if they fall above or below you with everything: whose kids got into the better preschool? Whose kids know all their colors by eighteen months? Who is a better cook or has a better cook? Who is a better hostess? Who is a member of the better country club? Who is a better tennis player? Who takes the best vacations? Whose husband got a bigger bonus? Who bought a new car? Who is remodeling? Whose property has the best landscaping? Who is adding a pool? Who donated more money to the private school? Who’s doing better than me and who am I doing better than?
“It’s fucking exhausting. And tied into it all are my guilty feelings about how much I really hate planning meals each day, keeping up on the laundry and cleaning and organization, and the playdates and the carpooling and preschool activities and on and on. I’m so tired of trying to be a perfect mom and have a perfect family. I’m so tired of the perfect moms in town. They are so judgmental and condescending. Being a suburban mom in Cannondale is all so overwhelming and boring at the same time. There’s got to be some sort of release from it.”