13. Daphne
13
“You said there will be guards there?”
Pasha nods, stealing a concerned glance my way. “As always. Did you get another text?”
My phone feels incredibly heavy in my hands. I don’t want to look at it. I already made that mistake this morning while getting ready for Taty’s first check-up appointment.
Now, I’m constantly looking in the rearview mirror, worried that someone is following us.
Someone other than Pasha’s men, that is.
“I can’t figure out how they keep getting my number.” I swallow back the huge lump in my throat that loves to form whenever I’m frustrated. Or terrified. Right now, I’m a little of both. “I swear to you, I haven’t given this one out to anyone but you and your family, my sister, and now, Aubrey.”
“And Aubrey is good people.” Pasha rubs his jaw in thought. “I had her vetted on every front. ” He glances at me again. “Would you feel better if I had her audited again?”
I feel like shit for wanting that. But I feel even worse every time a new text from Conrad or Brittany pops up. “Yes, please.”
“Done.” He reaches for my hand. “Listen to me, Daphne: I’ve got you. You and Tatyanna. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. No one fucks with my family.”
It should calm me. It does—kinda.
But deep in the marrow of my bones, that anxiety lingers. I’m still on edge. Still wondering if Conrad will be just around the corner—any corner—waiting to pounce on me and take what he wants. He’s done it before, and even after losing his career to Pasha’s violent “message,” he still won’t give up.
The worst part is, he has help. I don’t understand it. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how any woman can support the actions of her so-called “fiancé” as he hunts down another woman.
“We’re here.”
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t register Pasha parking us at the clinic until he says something. I’m slow to get out of the car, while he easily goes around and unlatches Taty’s carrier from the back seat.
One thing I’ll never, ever complain about: Pasha carrying that heavy thing. I can do it, but holy crap, is it bulky and awkward and a strain on the arm. He makes it look so easy.
Pasha checks us in at the front desk, then leads us to the elevators to the third-floor office. I follow along, begging my heart rate to chill the hell out.
I’m actually excited for this visit. Tatyanna is officially one week old. I snap a few pictures of her in the carrier for her baby book, then take one of Pasha smiling down at her.
“Chekhov?” a nurse asks as we emerge from the elevator.
“That’s us.” Pasha picks up the carrier and wraps his free arm around my waist to nudge me forward.
We’re all small talk with the doctor, who coos at Taty and praises her healthy appearance, movement, et cetera. But when she weighs Taty, she frowns.
My stomach sinks.
“So far, this is my only point of concern.” Dr. Bradshaw places Taty back in the carrier and makes a few notes on the clipboard. “You said she’s breastfeeding?”
“Exclusively.” My mouth feels dry. “I know how important it is for her to receive natural nutrition. And for the bonding, of course.”
“Of course.” She gestures for us to take a seat and does the same on the exam chair. “How’s that going? Any pain or discomfort?”
Keep yourself together. I already feel my eyes grow hot with tears I really, really do not want to shed. And that stupid lump is back in my throat.
“ I, ah… It’s been…” I sigh. “It’s been challenging. And very painful.”
Dr. Bradshaw has nothing but warmth in her expression as she takes notes. Why do I feel so judged? Like I’m a failure? “I see. As far as her latching goes, how is that? Has she been able to form a secure attachment?”
“Not… No. Not consistently. Sometimes, she doesn’t latch at all.” That lump grows bigger. My mouth gets drier. “I hold her and do the rubbing thing the specialist taught me, and she’ll maybe latch on for a second or two and then just… screams. We’ll try again, she’ll get some again, and then the screaming.”
She hates me. My baby hates me.
Dr. Bradshaw nods and sets her clipboard aside. “I have some good news, and I have some… let’s not call it ‘bad news,’ more just something to be aware of and keep an eye on. Tatyanna is below the normal threshold in terms of weight when it comes to newborns. Now, there is some fluctuation that can occur in the first week or two. But with proper nutrition, she still should be in the fiftieth percentile range. And she isn’t.”
I’m a failure. I failed. I haven’t been a mother for more than a week and I’ve failed my baby.
“The good news is, this is easily remedied. I see no signs of any other causes other than the feeding challenges you shared, so this really is good news. My strong recommendation is—” She stops and looks at me. “I recommend,” she repeats in a much softer and gentler tone, “switching to formula. This way, you can track how much and when Tatyanna eats, and we can keep an eye on her progress together. For you, Daphne, I’d like for you to try using a pump to encourage milk production and flow. Don’t worry; the more you can pump and get your milk to come out, the sooner all this will clear up...”
Her explanation fades as I stare at Taty. She’s so sweet and peaceful, all bundled up and sleeping in her carrier.
Pasha can hold her. This plastic thing can hold her. Hell, the complete stranger with a stethoscope can hold her.
But I can’t. Not without making her scream and cry and fight to get away from me.
I can’t even feed my own baby.
I don’t really notice whatever else the doctor has to say. She leaves for a moment, returning with a plastic bag filled with baby formula, two bottles, a pack of nipples, and an instruction pamphlet.
They discuss something about a feeding schedule and tracker included in the bag. I struggle to focus on anything other than the can of formula my baby has to eat because I’m unable to provide for her.
On our way out, they hand me another bag of supplies. My fingers feel limp as I take it; my stomach twists when I see it’s a breast pump kit.
Because I can’t feed my baby myself.
Not like a real mother.
Not like a good mother.
More like my mother.