Chapter 5
I ’d written down the information I’d have to take to the negotiating table: my father would need a second infusion in two weeks and then, if he were doing fine, he’d be in maintenance, having to come back twice a year.
Now that I was armed with more of the facts, I’d be able to tell Sinclair that my father’s health might improve enough that I wouldn’t have to come to Winchester twice a month.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t —but I wanted to make the deal as sweet as possible.
My father was being set up in what looked almost like a lounge chair, and a television hung on the wall.
The nurse had already informed him that they probably had any channel he would want to watch.
“You’ll probably get sleepy for much of the treatment, Mr. Miller, but I and Dr. North will constantly monitor you to make sure you’re doing all right. Now,” she said, looking at me for a moment, “it’s up to the two of you, but your daughter doesn’t have to stay back here if she doesn’t want to. You can go run your errands or whatever you’d like. If you give me your cell number, I can keep you updated by text.”
My dad didn’t hesitate.
“Go get yourself a cup of coffee, princess. I’ll be fine.”
“You might even think about grabbing some lunch. Your father probably won’t feel like eating until tonight.
Proving how well he knew how to read me, he added, “Use my card.
”
I gave him a gentle smile.
“Are you sure ? I don’t mind sticking around—”
He patted my hand.
“You got me here. That was the important step.”
The nurse beamed, reassuring me it really was all right for me to go—so I kissed my father on the forehead after giving her my cell number.
After making my way through the waiting room and out into the slowly warming October morning, I looked at dad’s unwieldy truck.
I did not want to drive it again, not until we left the city.
But I spied a café across the street with signs at the top of the windows with the words COFFEE , PASTRIES , SANDWICHES , and SALADS .
It wasn’t until I’d walked through the parking lot from the sleek, modern clinic to the homey older white building that I saw a paper sign taped to the door: Now serving avacado toast!
I couldn’t miss that the person who’d written it had misspelled avocado .
But they didn’t have to be good spellers if they could make good food.
I wasn’t hungry at the moment, although I knew I might be after a while.
We certainly wouldn’t be home until much later in the day—so I appreciated my father’s offer to use his debit card.
For now, though, I planned to just drink a cup or two of coffee…
and I hoped to finish off the journal.
By my second cup of coffee, I was just as rapt in Constance Whittier’s words as I’d ever been.
And this time, when I read about the man she called Gus , Sinclair’s father, I had a face to put with a name.
I knew he would have looked younger back then, but his features would have been the same.
As I continued reading, I began to doubt the postpartum depression followed by suicide diagnosis, however.
I can hardly eat anything anymore without getting an awful stomach ache.
Really, though, it never goes away.
Even though my regular doctor can’t figure it out, Dr.
Pritchett already told him it’s NOT due to the pregnancy.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t throw up so much.
And if I can’t keep any food down, how will the baby get what he needs?
Dr.
Pritchett gave me an injection and told me it’s okay to double up on my prenatal vitamins, just in case they’re not staying down.
After a few entries, I finally figured out that Dr.
Prichett was her OB/GYN doctor—but I never saw a name for her “regular” doctor until a later entry…
possibly because she didn’t seem to have any respect for the guy.
The baby still moves around inside me like everything’s okay, but I’m sure he doesn’t like when I throw up.
I’m sure he feels constricted and just as uncomfortable as I do.
Dr.
Vale referred me back to the hospital for more tests—but I’m done.
I already told him about how I had so many tests when I was little when they were trying to figure out what was wrong with my heart—and I just can’t do it now.
Maybe after the baby’s born.
I figured out that if I don’t eat, the pain decreases.
But I didn’t tell Dr.
Vale that.
I haven’t even said anything about it to Dr.
Pritchett.
I’m pretty sure Gus has been filling Dr.
Vale’s ear during their golf games.
He’s probably telling him the same things he’s told me—that I’m just a hypochondriac desperate for attention.
But would a hypochondriac really go to all the trouble?
Her entries got shorter and shorter and came less frequently as she got closer to Sinclair’s birth—but it was obvious to me she was suffering.
There was one entry just a month before Sinclair’s birth that intrigued me.
I think about Xavier every now and then.
I wonder what he’s doing.
I sometimes suspect Gus chased him off.
I may ask him about it sometime, but I don’t have the strength for it right now.
He always hated that I’d been so close to Xavier, but what had he expected?
I’ve never made many friends as Gus’s wife, so I’ll take them when I can.
I’d even befriend the nannies if they felt comfortable doing it.
Several of her next few entries before Sinclair’s birth were just a couple of lines each, mostly noting if she’d been able to keep any food down.
Finally, Dr.
Pritchett, probably frustrated with the lack of action from Constance’s primary care doctor, had her admitted to the hospital and put on IVs for nourishment.
When Constance returned home, she noted that she felt better than she had in weeks.
Until she ate again.
The server refilled my coffee and asked if I was ready to order lunch.
With my head out of the journal, I noticed that the little café had filled up, assuring me that their food probably was decent.
I ordered a sandwich and then checked my phone, surprised to see that I’d missed a couple of text messages from the nurse.
The first one said, Pre-infusion protocol complete.
Will be administering infusion soon.
He’s doing well so far.
The second one was just as clinical: Infusion begun.
Going slowly at first to make sure patient tolerates treatment.
Looking at the time stamp of the message, I imagined the infusion was almost done or close—but I also knew they’d be monitoring him for a couple of hours.
I returned to the journal while waiting for my food.
Soon, the baby had arrived.
And Constance wrote a long entry not only celebrating his birth but explaining the entire process, marveling that he’d been her easiest birth of the three boys.
Two weeks later she wrote another long entry.
Gus and I had probably the worst argument of our entire marriage.
I finally asked why Xavier hadn’t come by in so long—and Gus flat out asked if we’d been having an affair.
“You forget that our staff sees everything, Connie. And you must think I’m a fool.” It didn’t matter how much I denied it; he simply didn’t believe me.
And it was as if he couldn’t remember making love to me last August when he’d come home from that business trip.
It had been magical, the first time in a long time but I’d been a fool.
We weren’t going back to normal.
Of course, it took me a few days to realize that we weren’t.
All that frustration, all my anger had reached its boiling point now and I finally let it all out.
I threw a vase across the room and told him I knew HE had been having affairs throughout our marriage and I finished with the truth: I had always been faithful to him.
I love Xavier as a friend and miss him terribly, but I would never cheat on Gus.
But Gus refused to believe me and even said Sinclair looked just like Xavier.
That is ridiculous.
If Sinclair looks like anyone, he looks like Augie.
In fact, when I look at Augie’s baby pictures and then look at Sinny, it’s almost impossible to tell the difference.
“If Xavier were Sinclair’s father,” I said, “then his eyes would probably be brown, not blue.”
He said, “Should I be worried about Warren?”
“Now you’re just being stupid. Xavier wasn’t even around when we had Warren.”
So we fought a while about who Warren’s father might be—which was absolutely ridiculous.
Gus had still paid me plenty of attention back in those days, so I wouldn’t have even thought about it.
Finally, I said, “If you’re so convinced you’re not Sinny’s father, do a blood test.”
“SINNY? That’s what you call him?”
“It’s just a nickname—and it’s cute.”
“It’s bad enough that you call me Gus and our oldest Augie. We will not be calling this child Sinny.”
“You don’t call him anything.” And it was true.
He’d only held the baby once or twice, like he couldn’t be bothered.
He stormed off after that—but this isn’t done.
My sandwich finally arrived with a glass of water, but it was only a distraction.
I checked my phone to find I didn’t have any other messages and then ate a potato chip, returning to the journal.
There were several entries, noting that Constance was feeling physically ill again, but her tone grew darker—so I began to suspect the postpartum depression diagnosis might not have been completely wrong.
What was sweet, though, was how she documented everything about Sinclair—his first pediatrician appointment before he was even a week old; his next at one month; his first smile.
It was clear to me that she loved him dearly—and she also wrote about how his older brothers seemed slightly interested but not as much as she’d hoped.
She understood Augie’s hesitation somewhat, considering he hadn’t been there for the first month of Sinclair’s life.
But her health matters were beginning to take center stage.
She finally broke down to see Dr.
Vale again and he ordered a colonoscopy and an x-ray—and she was debating if she wanted to do it.
Here go all the tests again , she’d mused.
One of the last entries recorded another fight she had with Gus.
I am so angry with that man.
He’s back to his usual thing, never around.
He’d promised to take us all to Seattle for a week so we can enjoy a family vacation before Augie goes back to school.
So I asked him about that and it kicked off another argument.
We wound up back to the notion of Xavier and me having an affair and I said it again: “If you really think Sinclair’s not your son, let’s do a test.” But he refused again—which tells me he knows I’m telling the truth—but he can’t be angry with me or stand on higher ground if he finds out I didn’t cheat on him like he did on me.
But that wasn’t all—then he accused me of faking my illness, of “making” myself throw up all the time.
And that was the final straw.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sad or lonely in my whole life.
The entries dwindled to just a few lines here and there.
Several times she mentioned that she only got out of bed because the staff had asked her to.
She missed the tests scheduled for her and said she didn’t know when she’d bother to get them done because she wasn’t eating—and so she felt better in that regard.
One line in particular gave me chills: I don’t feel any pain when I sleep.
I’m to the point where I’d like to sleep my life away.
Had she committed suicide after all?
But it was the second-to-last entry, short and sweet, that convinced me she hadn’t:
Poor little Sinny.
Edna, his nanny, has had to work overtime to take care of him, but he needs to know his mother loves him—so I’m going to do what I have to.
I forced myself to eat a bowl of soup and couldn’t keep it down, so I asked Edna if she would be so kind as to reschedule my missed test appointments.
That woman has been a godsend.
She’s been keeping Sinny in her room at night and taking such good care of him.
I know I don’t have to worry when she has him.
I also talked with Dr.
Pritchett at my follow-up appointment (a week late because I missed the original one) and she referred me to a psychiatrist who can help me with what she thinks is postpartum depression.
At first, I was upset because I thought she was beginning to agree with Dr.
Vale—that this is all in my head—but she put my mind at ease.
“No, Mrs. Whittier. I believe you’re having health problems—but they can affect your mood and if you have postpartum depression on top of that, you’ll need a little extra help.”
She is right.
I’ll do it.
I’ll do it all.
Because even if Gus has no use for me, my boys need me.
Sinny needs me.
I was near tears as I turned the page, reading two short entries that merely documented what her baby had been doing, noting that she’d received a prescription for an antidepressant and that she was hoping her tests would reveal whatever problem was going on with her “digestive system.”
And then they stopped.
I found myself crying for this woman I’d never actually known but who had found a place in my heart just the same.
Two things I knew for certain as I closed the journal: Sinclair’s father was Augustus—and his mother had not killed herself.