Chapter 44
For the first couple of weeks under Ana’s watchful care, nothing happens.
Wyatt and I talk about Poppy’s ring, and I tell him the truth about why it’s important for me to keep. He understands (I miss her too, Tilly), and simply asks that I don’t wear it outside the house. I tell him I won’t, and I mean it.
I follow the rules. I work some (a couple of hours a day), I rest, I go to my MotherHelper meetups with Kat, where I learn about upcoming events, including a new meditation class specifically for the third trimester, and a baby-clothing exchange.
New Year’s Eve is fun. Maeve and Jenn are in California visiting family for the holiday, so we have Kat, Nick, and the kids over to celebrate. We go to bed too late, after playing board games, sipping bubbly things, and enjoying the hopefulness and excitement that a new calendar year brings.
Everything is on track—no blips in the system. I’ve had no hallucinations, and no further sightings of my mother. Maybe it was all those nuts, and a simple zinc sensitivity, after all?
But then I lose time again.
It’s midday, and I’m in my studio. Ana left an hour ago; my vitals and blood work are “spot on.” Wyatt’s at work and Clementine’s back at school after the holiday break.
Shelby’s at the vet for Stanley’s checkup.
Suddenly, I come to on the stool in front of the painting.
I’m woozy and dreamy, like I’ve awoken from a deep sleep.
I’m holding something in my right hand—my nail clippers.
Then I notice the blood. There’s a throbbing in my left-hand fingertips, as though I’ve caught them in a slamming drawer. At first I don’t understand what’s happened, even though it should be obvious.
Nail clippers. Throbbing fingertips. Dried blood in semicircles under what’s left of my nails. I’ve cut them to the quick; I have no recollection of doing so.
Tiny crescents of nails form a small pile in my lap—translucent white against the black fabric of my dress.
A jolt moves through me. I hold my hands in front of me, the fingernails on my right still intact.
They are decently long, and I keep them filed into an oval shape.
On my left, there’s no white remaining at the tips.
Instead, only the semicircles of dried blood at the top of the nail bed. The throbbing in that hand increases.
My eyes shift to the canvas under my still-outstretched hands, scanning its surface for…
what, I’m unsure. Up close now—the slight smoky odor making its way through the mask—I squint and scan, landing on a speck of something that rests in a textured swirl of black paint.
Something that wasn’t there when I last worked on this area.
Is that…?
I lean closer again.
A fingernail clipping?
I touch the tiny, nearly translucent crescent and it transfers to my fingertip.
Inspecting it with my magnifier glasses I see that indeed it’s the top of a fingernail—from a thumbnail, I guess, due to the shape and thickness.
As I look at my thumb, it all falls into place. The nail clippers drop from my hand.