Chapter 2 Eloise #5
Adam pauses, blue eyes hard as flint. “Loss is loss—-and for a quarter of a century, someone we loved was separated from us due to the events of that September morning. We recognize the trauma this must be causing families of other victims of 9/11 and want to offer our condolences, again, for their permanent losses. I’d also like to remind everyone that there are details that give Eloise’s absence context.
We are working through this new information, and we’d like to ask for privacy as we do so. ”
He doesn’t take questions, simply steps back. I realize that Evie is waiting for him in a tailored dress. Adam takes her hand firmly and they leave the range of the camera.
Molly is not there.
I pull my suitcases from the closet where I’ve temporarily stored them and start shoving my clothes into them. I zip up the first bag, then sink down on the bed. I have no plan, no way of getting out of this building. My gaze falls on the unfinished mosaic.
I made Molly a promise. I can’t leave without speaking to her first, but I will be ready to go as soon as I do. This will all die down, if I disappear again.
I turn on my phone. There are dozens of voicemails and emails from reporters who have managed to find my cell number. And then, rising like cream to the top of this mess, a new text comes in.
Molly: Turn on CBS at 8 PM.
Molly had told me how 60 Minutes had interviewed her after the plane crash in Philly.
How it was supposed to be about emergency preparedness at a time, post--Covid, when employees in public health were under attack; how instead the journalist had turned the piece into a profile of a young woman whose life had been shaped by a terrorist attack—-and who now made a career out of trying to keep people from experiencing similar loss.
“Never again,” Molly had said. “Next time, I’m putting Toby in front of the camera.”
But when I turn on the television that night, and a banner announces a 60 Minutes prime--time special, Molly is sitting across from Adelaide McCann.
She wears black pants and a blazer. Her hair is braided with a red ribbon.
It makes my heart twist. “I grew up as the kid whose mother died on 9/11,” Molly says, her voice steady.
“Every kid I’ve ever met who lost a parent growing up wishes for one more day with them.
Well, against all odds, I got my wish. My mother didn’t die that day. ”
“There’s been backlash from the families of other 9/11 victims, suggesting she’s capitalizing on this in a way that minimizes their own tragedy,” Adelaide says.
“I have a pretty good idea who leaked my mother’s reappearance to the press for personal gain—-but it wasn’t her. She won’t even speak out, like I’m doing, because she’s afraid that it’s going to bring scrutiny down on me.”
Adelaide raises a brow. “So you decided instead to get ahead of that.”
Molly says, “My mother’s side of the story deserves to be told. Why would someone who worked so hard to remain anonymous for twenty--five years suddenly want the spotlight?”
“What about the families of 9/11 victims who are upset?” Adelaide asks.
“I have a friend who lost her dad that day. My loss turned out to be temporary, but hers is permanent, and my heart breaks when I think about that.”
“Do you know why your mother left? Was it deliberate?”
“Yes,” Molly says. “She ran away on 9/11 because she had undiagnosed postpartum psychosis. She was afraid of hurting me.”
“Postpartum psychosis?” Adelaide asks.
“It’s a severe mental health condition that can affect people who’ve given birth—-from days to several weeks after.
It affects their understanding of reality and causes hallucinations and delusions and paranoia.
It’s rare—-around two cases in five hundred births—-but it’s also very dangerous, because people who suffer from it have a much greater chance of hurting themselves, dying by suicide, or harming their babies.
In fact, the only times we ever hear about these cases is when they go undiagnosed and a newborn is killed, and then the postpartum person tries to kill themself .
. . like Andrea Yates or Lindsay Clancy.
These stories are clickbait, because what kind of mother kills her baby?
The answer is, a mentally ill one who has not received treatment. ”
“How is it diagnosed?”
“By default. By doing tests to rule out other causes of psychosis—-infections, electrolyte imbalances, kidney problems, brain tumors. Or the person is given medication for postpartum depression—-
a condition that’s way more common—-but that particular medication makes the psychosis even worse.
Back in 2001, when my mother had me, PPP was hardly talked about.
Even today, diagnosis is difficult, because when postpartum sufferers tell their doctors something just isn’t right, the response often is that they’re making it all up, or that all new parents are tired. ”
“Can postpartum psychosis be managed?”
“Yes, with the right medications, or with electroconvulsive therapy. A person who has PPP can even go on to have more kids. But because the people with PPP are not functioning in reality, it’s up to caregivers or family or others close to them to notice and get treatment for them.
My mother knew none of this in 2001. She was misdiagnosed.
She was given medications that made it worse; her concerns were dismissed by her healthcare providers.
She was hallucinating that she was meant to die, and the only way to save me was to kill me before the Devil claimed me.
On 9/11, she was headed to a psychiatrist’s office, but she never got there.
Instead, she watched the plane hit the building.
” Molly takes a deep breath. “I don’t know why that provided a moment of clarity in her disordered thoughts.
But she made the decision to take herself far away, where she couldn’t hurt me. ”
“What made her return?”
“She was living in Atlanta, under an assumed name. She had gotten treatment for her illness and made a new life for herself. But she was still keeping tabs on us. My dad remarried, I grew up—-and she stayed away because she didn’t want to interrupt a happy life.
And then she found out I was pregnant. By 2025, she had learned a lot more about PPP.
There are certain factors that can predispose a woman to postpartum psychosis—-including a family history.
” Molly shifts. “She was determined to make sure that what happened to her did not happen to me.”
Adelaide smiles. “So you’ve had your baby.”
“Yes.” Molly’s face lights up. “Adie. She’s perfect. But also—-
I was perfect, too. I didn’t have any delusions or violent thoughts.
I felt safe, instead of stressed, because my mother was there watching.
I knew she’d flag strange behavior the minute it happened.
I was able to get uninterrupted sleep because she helped watch Adie.
When I felt overwhelmed, she didn’t write off my emotions.
She talked me through them and helped me understand what was normal and what might be a reason for concern. ”
She looks at Adelaide. “My mother left to protect me,” Molly says, “and that’s the same reason she came back.”
I tug on a sweatshirt, pull up the hood, and put on sunglasses even though it is nine at night, and I will not be fooling anybody if I step outside.
A day has passed since the news broke, but there is still a devout clot of press outside my apartment building.
There’s a bored cop leaning against his car—-some other tenant must have complained.
I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.
For a giddy moment I think that I’ve gotten away with it—-that I will make it to the spot where my car is parked without arousing the suspicions of the crowd. But then a woman steps in front of me and throws the contents of a pail in my face. “Fraud,” she yells, and she dashes off into the night.
It’s dark out, so I can’t tell what it is. Blood? Paint? It drips into my eyes. I’m too shocked to wipe it away.
Suddenly a strong arm locks around my shoulders, and the crowd starts to fall back from us.
“Out of the way,” Jesse says, shoving us forward.
He shepherds me into a police car, closes the door behind me, and then slips into the driver’s seat.
Handing me a towel, he says, “It’s just red dye and corn syrup, but it’s probably going to permanently ruin your clothes. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.”
I blot at the mess, then realize he’s wearing his full dress blue uniform. “Police escort,” he explains. “People take the monkey suit more seriously.”
“Is Molly—-”
“She’s fine,” he says, pulling into the street. “And she’s waiting for you.”
Molly opens the door wearing a tee and sweatpants, and looking as tired as I feel.
Adie is draped over her forearm like a football, and I melt.
By now, she can smile and bat her little fists when she is excited.
When she reaches for me as if she knows who I am, it makes me feel better than I have in forty--eight hours. This—-she—-is what matters.
“What happened?” Molly exclaims, taking in my stained clothing.
“Just some of Providence’s finest exercising their right to protest,” Jesse says, kissing Molly’s cheek. “I gotta get out of this uniform, it’s choking me. Georgia, I’ll get you something to wear.” He plucks Adie from Molly’s grasp and disappears into the bedroom.
“I saw the interview,” I say. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I had to,” Molly replies. “Fuck Chad.”
A laugh bubbles up through my tears. “Yeah.”
“Well, you’ve been outed,” she says briskly. “And I set the record straight. So now there’s no reason for you to leave.”
“That’s not true, Molly. It will still follow you around. You won’t be the whiz kid leading a state emergency preparedness department. You’ll be the woman whose mother faked her death on 9/11.” I take a deep breath. “Your life would be easier without me in it.”