Chapter 5
It made sense for Kai and me to live together during the pandemic.
We both had front--line jobs—-his with the police force and mine as the receptionist at an ob--gyn’s office—-the only employee without kids at home, which meant that I had less to risk being in a physical office with patients.
But moving in with someone when you’re forty--four is different from moving in with someone when you’re twenty--four.
The sweeping romance gives way to more practical concerns, like the fact that you don’t want all your bras thrown in the dryer and that you can’t meditate when someone else is watching recorded episodes of The Daily Show.
Gradually, Kai and I adjusted the sharp angles of our independence to make room for each other.
By the time people were vaccinated, Kai and I decided that by giving up one of our apartments, we could afford to move to a nicer neighborhood and rent a bigger place.
One Saturday I am painting a mural inspired by Georgia O’Keeffe on our living room wall. It’s lavenders and grays in a hilly landscape of shadows and light. When Kai enters, sweaty from his run, he says, “That looks . . . like the Black Place.”
“Well,” I say, surprised. “Look at you, Mr. Art History.”
Kai laughs. “I grew up near there.”
“But you like it?” I ask Kai. “I could paint over it.”
“Don’t you dare.” He laughs. “Who doesn’t want a wall of purple breasts?”
In response, I take my wet brush and flick it at him.
There’s no paint on it, just water, but he lights up in challenge.
“You’re gonna pay for that.” Kai grins, wolfish.
He lunges, and I squeal, and then we race around the obstacle course of the covered furniture before he catches me in all his sweaty glory and kisses me.
Kai rubs his nose against mine. “I could take you there,” he whispers. “To the Black Place. Home.”
I nod. “I’d like that,” I say.
Sometimes entire days go by when I think of myself as none other than Georgia Gilligan. Sometimes entire days go by when I do not think about the fact that I have a daughter. And then I remember who I am, and where she is, and I hate myself for forgetting.
At the ob--gyn, I’ve become the office manager. Occasionally, during my lunch break, I check Molly’s Instagram. She rarely posts, but when she does, I add each fact to the braid of her life’s details.
Jesse, the blond man who became Instagram--official in 2021.
Snapshots of a mask trampled on an empty street, syringes at a vaccine clinic, a clip from a newscast where she is the spokesperson for the Center for Emergency Preparedness and Response.
A photo of her left hand with a diamond ring on it.
Sometimes I dream of what I would say if I saw her in the street.
Hello—-you don’t know me, but I am your mother. I loved you.
I loved you so much I left you.
Today there is nothing new on Molly’s profile, so I scroll through old pictures until my watch buzzes, signaling that my lunch hour is over. I like working for Dr. Carlsson. I like the pregnant women we see the most, because they come in with so much possibility on their faces.
Sometimes I feel a pang of regret for them, because the reality of having a baby is not what they are expecting. Not just the lack of sleep, the leaking breasts—-but the fact that they haven’t been told the full truth of everything new motherhood can entail.
Our afternoon appointments begin to trickle in: a mother bringing her daughter in for her first gynecological exam, a twelve--week pregnancy check, a potential UTI. I get the women checked in, sort their files so that Dr. Carlsson has the information she needs to treat them.
Then a woman approaches the reception desk. It takes me a moment to place her—-she is painfully thin, with greasy hair and a stained shirt, and is carrying a newborn in a car seat. My mind shuffles through our recent deliveries. “Iris!” I say. “Let me see the baby!”
The last time Iris had been in the office, she’d still been pregnant. I remembered her laughing about how she’d been doing breathing exercises on the floor on her back and got stuck there, like an overturned turtle.
I come around from the desk to crouch down near the baby. “What’s her name?”
Iris blinks at me.
“Her name?” I say again, gently.
“Um,” she says. “Mirabelle.”
“That’s beautiful,” I reply. “And so is she.” I take my seat at the reception desk again. “How are you feeling?”
Iris’s eyes fill with tears. “I mean,” she says, but she doesn’t continue.
Something inside me vibrates like a tuning fork, sensing something familiar. Two weeks ago Iris was brimming with excitement, energy, joy.
“Are you getting enough help at home?” I ask.
“I’m taking care of her,” she hisses.
“Let’s get you checked in,” I say calmly. I turn to my computer to scan the list of appointments, but Iris isn’t there. With a few clicks I pull up her patient file. “I’m afraid your appointment was yesterday.”
“My appointment is Wednesday at one,” she insists. “I have it here.” She digs in a diaper bag for something, seemingly unable to find it.
“Yes,” I agree, “but today is Thursday.”
At that, she looks up at me, bewildered that she has lost an entire day.
That’s when I realize why she seems so familiar. When I glance at her face, I see my own postpartum self in the mirror.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest. “I’ll find out if Dr. Carlsson can squeeze you in.”
In jerky movements, Iris lifts the baby carrier and drags it to the sitting area. The pregnant woman beside her moves a few chairs farther away, as if Iris makes her uncomfortable.
I find the doctor making notes at the nurses’ station. “Can I talk to you?”
She nods. “What’s up?”
“There’s a patient here . . . Iris Dunwood? Gave birth two weeks ago?”
“Oh yeah,” Dr. Carlsson says. “The baby’s Melody . . . Marigold . . .”
“Mirabelle. There’s something off about the mom.”
Dr. Carlsson folds her arms. “How so?”
I describe Iris’s demeanor and how she missed an appointment.
“Lots of new mothers get overwhelmed and—-”
“Don’t do that,” I interrupt, and I think both the doctor and I are equally surprised by my outburst. “Don’t assume this is normal. She deserves better than that.”
“It could be postpartum depression,” Dr. Carlsson says.
I make myself meet her gaze. “It could be postpartum psychosis.”
“You know that’s rare, Georgia—-”
“Rare can still happen.”
In all the years I have been working for Dr. Carlsson, I have never offered a medical opinion—-that would be ridiculous. But instead of getting angry, the doctor looks at me as if for the first time. “Put her in Exam Three,” she says.
A few hours later, after our last patient of the day has been checked in, I am in the back filing when Dr. Carlsson comes in. “I called Iris’s husband and they’re going for a psych evaluation,” she says. “She told me that she’s been hearing voices.”
I let out a long, slow breath.
“How did you know?” she asks.
“Just a feeling,” I reply.
The weight of her gaze presses down. “Well, you might have saved that woman’s life. And Mirabelle’s. I’m so glad you spoke up.”
She raps her knuckles against a filing cabinet and leaves.
My knees shake so hard I sit down. I’m so glad you spoke up.
The difference is that this time, someone listened.
One morning when I open my computer, a window is open with my contacts list, Ximena’s name highlighted. “That’s weird,” I say.
“What’s weird?” Kai asks, coming out of the bedroom in his uniform.
“Did you use my laptop?”
He shakes his head and pours a cup of coffee. “Nope.”
“Ximena’s number was on the screen. But that makes no sense, because I know it by heart.”
“Maybe it’s a virus,” Kai suggests.
“Everything else is working . . .” I watch him pour milk into his to--go coffee mug. “Are you sure you didn’t use it?”
He snaps his fingers. “Last night. I wanted to see when the Braves have their first home game and my phone was charging in the bedroom.” Kai leans down to kiss me. “Have a good one,” he says, and he walks out.
I am still thinking about this the next day when I notice that the little stacked shelves in my jewelry box are out of order. Necklaces on the bottom, then earrings, then rings—-but the last two have been flipped.
I find myself opening the fireproof safe that sits in Kai’s closet. It holds important papers—-passports, birth certificates—-even though mine are forgeries. I try to remember the last time I rifled through these—-were my documents on top of Kai’s or has this changed, too?
This has always been my worst nightmare—-that Kai will start to doubt what I’ve told him about myself, and look into it further.
I need to know what he knows, so that I can spin it somehow.
I am so wound up that my heart is racing and my throat is painfully dry—-when I call in sick to work, it’s not really a lie.
I begin by going through his drawers, tossing aside boxers and socks to see if he’s hiding any documents.
When he comes home midday and finds me surrounded by piles of his clothes, he is baffled. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asks.
“Shouldn’t you?”
He reaches under the bed and picks up his gym bag, unzips it as if to check the contents, and then zips it up again. “I swung by to pick up my gym bag,” Kai says, but it feels like he is hiding something, and now I am desperate to know what’s in that duffel.
He sits down on the bed. “What’s going on, k’aalógii?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Kai asks, as he gestures to the explosion of clothing at his feet.
“I had a migraine,” I lie, “but now I feel better, so I decided to do spring cleaning.”
“All right,” he says dubiously, “but don’t donate anything till I give you the okay. I like the old stuff. It’s comfortable. Familiar.”
He seems to be telling me something cryptic. Is it a warning? A hint?
“Got it. Don’t donate.”
Kai shoves some gym clothes into his bag and heads to the bedroom door, pausing at the threshold. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”
I summon a smile like a spell. “Never better,” I say.