Chapter 29
twenty-nine
Padraig
A Few Days Later
My son cries so much, I almost don’t register it anymore.
The sound is constant. Either high-pitched and piercing. Or whimpering and pathetically ragged. His agony scrapes the inside of my skull, disappears before I can catch my breath then repeats.
Rafferty McLoughlin is two months old with premature lungs, premature nerves, premature everything.
His entire mind and body is tender and forming.
He shrieks when the light shifts. Howls when I change his diaper.
Whimpers when I rock him too slow or speak too loud or touch him with a shirt that’s too scratchy.
I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone more in my life.
You’ll often find me standing over his bassinet like a guard. Not a soldier, not a father.
Something in between. Something less heroic. Less sure.
Even when he’s sleeping, my body braces for it.
Before he was born, Paula came in from North Carolina and temporarily moved into the guest room. With all of Rafferty’s health issues, she’s taken charge of our household, which is currently Mara’s condo in Valley Village.
Everything about Mara’s mom feels deliberate. Silk robes. Lipstick, even before sunrise. Hair always perfectly coiffed. She doesn’t do sweatpants or chipped nail polish or vulnerability in front of strangers.
She was a news anchor once, too. Long before Mara followed in her footsteps. She’s a big believer in keeping up appearances. I know this because she tells me how important it is about seven hundred times per day.
Rafferty makes a sound. Not a full wail…
I hold my breath. My hand grips the bassinet frame, fingers curled where the wood’s been worn smooth from use.
We didn’t buy it new. This crib’s been in Mara’s family since the nineties.
Paula refinished the edges, stitched new lining—powder blue with silver stars—and shipped it to us.
I hadn’t known how much Mara cared about tradition until she was put on bedrest and we had to postpone the European tour so I could stay with her.
Rafferty’s eyelids flutter. He makes a tiny noise again, like a hiccup with a chaser of phlegm.
I slip one arm under his swaddle and lift him before it can turn into a scream. He’s smaller than he should be. His whole head fits in the cradle of my palm, skin a perfect, pink-tinted map of veins and warmth and newness.
Walking him slowly over to the glider Paula ordered with rush shipping, I sit down and tuck him against my chest. He settles fast, which is a miracle. He smells like lanolin and baby soap. Breath coming out, thankfully, in little puffs. Before too long my shirt dampens at the collar.
I don’t mind. I’d sit here for hours. The depth of love I have for my son is something I never knew was possible.
“You’re a natural.” Paula’s quiet voice cuts through the tranquility like a blade.
I don’t jump. Don’t speak. She knows the drill.
Do. Not. Wake. The. Baby.
She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, designer glasses perched at the edge of her nose. “You should get some rest. I’ll take him.”
I glance down. Miraculously, he’s sound asleep. My whole body revolts at the thought of letting him go.
“Nah, I’m good.”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
Paula disappears without another word. The kettle clicks on less than a minute later, followed by the telltale clink of ceramic.
Even now, late into the evening, she makes herself useful.
She brings order to this place, from rearranging the fridge to restocking the pantry.
Last week, she located a bag of baby clothes I forgot we bought.
Even if I wish she didn’t have to be here, Paula is the only reason I can function right now.
Out of the two of us, she knows how to reach Mara when I can’t.
Encourages her to get out of bed when the fog won’t lift.
Rubs her back when she won’t eat, won’t speak, and won’t acknowledge Rafferty.
When I need to shower or use the bathroom, she takes over without complaint even when he screams himself red.
Without her, I’d be failing both of them.
I know Paula judges me. Every time her gaze lands on me, I brace.
Not because she’s cruel. She’s not. She’s measured. Deliberate. Always observing, never accusing. Paula never says it out loud, but her agenda is obvious. Bridal magazines are left open on the kitchen island, turned to pages filled with rings and white lace and words like healing and forever.
In her mind, Mara’s not getting better because I haven’t done the right thing. She assumes a proposal is the missing piece. Paula believes marriage would fix everything including her debilitating postpartum depression.
The thing is, I wasn’t planning on asking Mara to marry me before Rafferty was born. Doing it now would be disingenuous.
An engagement won’t pull her from bed or fill her mind with maternal instinct. It won’t make Rafferty cry less or help me stop feeling like I’m flailing in a life I’m not sure I’m meant to lead.
Besides, while I love Mara as a person, she’s not my person.
It’s best to stay quiet and focus on my son. Kiss his soft forehead and sing old Irish lullabies I barely remember while the rest of my family is two-thousand miles away in Seattle looking after my da, who had a stroke not too long ago.
My place is here in Los Angeles, witnessing the woman I’ve tried to love disappear into shadows.
Tonight, at least, Mara’s sound asleep in our master bedroom. Finally. After four straight nights of barely making it through pumping without bawling uncontrollably, she took two sleeping pills and went under like she hadn’t slept in years.
None of what’s happening to her now is her fault. I’ve read every article I could find. Postpartum depression’s worse with prematurity. The NICU stay didn’t help. Compounded by the stitches from giving birth naturally. Hormones. The fucking fear. We almost lost him before we met him.
So, I can’t be angry and I’m not angry.
I’m something else.
Something more restrained.
Guilty.
God, the guilt I carry for not being the man who can give her what she wants.
Mara’s smile used to be as bright as the sun. I’ve never met anyone who can make people feel more at ease. She quit her career to be with me and it wasn’t enough. Right before I planned to end it, she got pregnant.
Now we have a premature baby and she flinches at her own reflection.
Yeah, I’m a real fuckin’ prize.
Deciding to check on her, I carry Rafferty in, expecting the usual scenario. Shades drawn, air stale, Mara half-buried under quilts with her eyes closed, sleeping or pretending to sleep.
Instead, she’s upright with her thin arms wrapped around her knees. Hair loose. Staring at the pale light from the lamp on the nightstand like she’s forgotten what day it is.
“Mara?”
“Hi.” She doesn’t look at me or him. “It’s okay. Come here.”
I settle on the edge of the bed, sleeping Rafferty is pressed to my chest.
Her fingers twist the blanket until the fabric groans. “I need to tell you something.”
My pulse kicks, but I nod. “Sure.”
“I was finally able to sleep, and when I woke up, had some clarity.” Her voice stays flat. “The thing is, ever since I got pregnant, my brain won’t stop. It’s been worse since he was born. It’s not just the hormones. or the fact everything hurts. Not really.”
She glances over, and her eyes are wide and wet. “It’s all-consuming guilt.”
Wait, what?
I stay quiet. Let her speak.
“I did something I never thought I would. Something I hate myself for. And it’s eating me alive.
” The blanket bunches tighter in her fists.
She breathes in once. Then out. “I overheard you. Last year on tour. You didn’t know I was outside the stairwell.
You were talking to Liam. You told him you didn’t see a future with me. ”
My throat tightens, because I distinctly remember the conversation. It happened after Mara was so angry I couldn’t walk the streets of Paris with her, she refused to come to our show.
“I felt it, even before. You pulling away,” she continues. “The way you kissed me started changing. We didn’t have sex very much. So I made a choice.”
She pauses. Then—
“I had my IUD taken out.”
All the air leaves the room.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you. I thought if I got pregnant, maybe… I don’t know. Maybe we’d make sense again. Maybe you’d remember how much fun we had together. Maybe you’d stay.”
Rafferty shifts, letting out a quiet, warbling sigh. I rub his back slowly. Hold him a little tighter.
“I know what an awful person I am,” she says.
“I lied. I manipulated you. Justified it in my own mind and became someone I don’t recognize.
And now I’m stuck inside this body, this head, this haze.
You’re a father because I forced your hand.
” Her voice catches. “I don’t want to be the reason you feel trapped here. I need to free you.”
The silence between us grows heavier. I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it.
I want to say I’m fine. Tell her none of it matters. Promise her all is forgiven.
I don’t.
Because it’s not fine. And pretending it is would break something between us neither of us could ever fix.
I look at Rafferty’s face, his mouth slack in a dream I hope is peaceful. None of this is his fault. He didn’t ask to be born into uncertainty. He deserves better than a father stuck in his own head. And a mother who’s guilt won’t let her heal to be there for him.
Somehow, in this moment, I understand with perfect clarity Mara didn’t do this out of malice. She’s not cruel. She’s not careless.
She was desperate.
I’ve breadcrumbed her for fucking years. Gave her pieces of myself but never the whole. I let her believe in a future when I didn’t have the guts to tell her otherwise. I reassured her because I couldn’t bear to be alone.
I fucked her and thought of someone else.
So no. I don’t condone what she did. I’m no better, so there’s no room to judge. There’s no point. We’re in this now.
“I’m not happy you lied,” I murmur quietly. “It’s not something I can pretend is okay.”
Her breath catches. She nods, barely.
“What you overheard was really how I felt,” I admit. “I’m not able to give you forever on a romantic level.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look away.
“But, Rafferty’s here. He’s our son. And he’s perfect.” I choke back the tears.
She bites her lip and presses a hand over her stomach, like her body remembers carrying him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I add. “Not while you’re healing. Not while we’re figuring this out.”
My fingers graze the soft skin of Rafferty’s back. He shifts, lets out a squeaky sigh.
“We’ll find a way forward. For him.”
Her chin trembles, but she holds it together.
I lean in, press my lips to her temple.
“He’s going to know love,” I whisper. “Even if we’re working out what our relationship looks like.”
I mean it.
Somehow, despite this news, everything suddenly makes sense.
For better or worse, we’re a family.