Chapter 18
Rachel
Twins. It just had to be twins.
Sitting in my bed, both babies cradled in each arm so they can properly latch onto me for breastfeeding, I’ve never felt less like a person.
I’m a husk, a whispered memory of what it’s like to be human, hidden underneath stretch marks and pelvic pain and sore nipples and the constant, bone-deep fatigue.
Corey is latched on without an issue, but Cayce is struggling again. By now, after six weeks, you’d think the three of us would have mastered this breastfeeding thing.
Apparently not.
He starts fussing, then erupts into cries, and because it’s all too much, I start crying too.
Karan bursts into the room, two bottles of formula in hand. My chest tightens at the sight of them, and I take a breath to stop myself from crying.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Rachel.” Karan sits onto the bed. “Once in a while isn’t going to hurt them. You need to rest. Let me.”
“But nipple confusio—”
“Rachel.” Karan puts the bottles down on the night table and places both hands on my knees, his gaze cutting through me like a knife. “I know how much breastfeeding them means to you. I don’t want to discount that. But, please…”
Now both babies are crying in sync, Corey having unlatched at the sound of his brother’s cries. My hormones are screaming at me to soothe them at any cost.
“Having you this exhausted won’t help them.”
My bottom lip quivers as I look down at my babies. I’ve tried so hard to do everything perfectly. Everything so they could have the best of the best. But maybe Karan is right. How can I be the best mom I can be if I’m constantly melting down?
“A bath would be nice,” I whisper.
Karan smiles in relief, lifting both babies from my arms. “Then go. I’ve got them. Take as long as you need. And then make sure to get some sleep.”
I run myself a bath and step into the tub before it’s full. The sensation is heaven. All the tension in my muscles start to loosen up, and I can finally breathe again.
To keep myself from falling asleep, I grab my phone and start scrolling through social media. The water is hot and soothes my tired bones. Karan is right; I need a nap after this.
As I scroll, I don’t really pay attention to the text and photos I’m moving past.
Not until I see it.
My heart stops. I scroll back up. The photo I just quickly scrolled past will surely show me a couple who only looks like them. It’s not actually them.
But the second I lay eyes on the photo again, I can’t deny the truth. Nor can I stop the icy dread from spreading across my veins.
The photo looks innocent enough. If I’d seen it under any other circumstances, I might have been just fine. But seeing my parents’ smiling faces glaring back at me—a photo shared by a cousin of mine—is all it takes for me to snap.
I scream then. A blood-curling scream that rattles every bone in my body.
They’re not here
They should be here
I’m losing my mind, when will this end
I need my mommy and daddy I need them I NEED THEM NOW
Please, oh God, make it stop, I need help, I need HELP!
“I’ve got you.”
He’s…
Yes, he’s got me in his arms…
I can feel the warmth of him seeping through my skin. He’s here. But he’s drowning, too. I know that, I can sense it when I look in his eyes and see the heavy shadows, and when I notice how pale his skin has gotten.
The words keep pouring out of me on repeat:
“I need help, I need help, I need help…”
And Karan, my husband… I love him even more than before when he finally responds:
“It’s okay, I’m going to get us help.”
I’m calm and dry in my bed, lost in a dreamless sleep, when Martine finally arrives from her long drive down from Val-d’Or. I only awaken to pump my milk so I don’t disrupt my supply, then sink right back into sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I awaken again, Karan’s familiar shape is cocooned around my back. His chest rises and falls steadily against me. So he’s asleep, too.
I smile as I close my eyes. Good. He desperately needed the rest, too.
The past six weeks have been a complete fever dream. For both of us.
No wonder I had a complete meltdown.
When I was little and imagined myself becoming a mom, it was always very clear that I would do so with my parents in the picture. I imagined my mother giving me breastfeeding advice, or my father, rarely a calm man, softly rocking my baby to sleep.
Their actions have robbed us all of that reality. And now, I’m left grieving for people who are still alive… for moments I never got to have, and never will.
Soft music flows from the living room. Martine must have put on a lullaby to soothe the twins. Already, despite the heavy fatigue that still weighs on my frame, a tug at my chest pulls me towards them.
Because they’re mine.
I pull away from Karan, careful not to awaken him, and step out into the hallway. Martine’s happy humming mixes in with the lullaby. But when I arrive in the living room, the vision I had in my head doesn’t align with the sight in front of me.
My babies are propped on their tummy on a soft blanket lying on the floor, their gazes fixed forward. In front of them is a propped up smartphone, the screen blaring out the lullaby along with quick successions of bright images and colours.
Martine is there, too, but she’s sitting on the couch as she hums, her hands busy folding laundry that I haven’t had time to get to.
My throat constricts. Two conflicting waves rise against each other in my mind:
Martine is here to help. Thanks to her being here, both Karan and I got to catch up on some much needed sleep. Earlier, I had nothing left to give to my babies, and without her help, I don’t know what we would have done.
But I’ve read enough research and studies on screen time for babies under two years old to know how bad this is for them. They’re six weeks old, for crying out loud. No matter how much the guilt chokes me up at saying something to Martine when she has given us this help, I can’t let this fly.
Martine sees me standing at the doorway and smiles. “You look a lot better, sweetie.”
“I feel better.” I walk over to my babies and kneel next to them, taking the phone away. “Listen, Martine…”
“That’s been helping them last longer in tummy time,” Martine interrupts. “And get some much needed cleaning done around here. You two are definitely in the thick of it. I’m so glad Karan called me.”
I stand and hand the phone back to her. Her brow furrows as I go back to my twins, who start fussing a little.
“I understand that,” I say as I pick up and cradle both my babies. “And I appreciate all your help. I really do. I’d just like to ask you not to use screens or TVs. Music is fine, but no screens. Not until they’re at least a year old.”
Martine purses her lips. “Karan watched TV when he was a baby, and he turned out just fine. More than fine, if you ask me.”
“I know he turned out fine,” I argue, doing my best to keep my tone friendly. “But there’s still a risk for their development. We know more about the way screens affect young kids now than we did before.”
I hope she can understand I’m not criticizing her parenting choices.
We do the best with the information we have and the resources we’re given.
Unfortunately, that’s not how Martine takes it. At all.
She raises her eyebrows. “So you think I was a bad mom for putting Karan at risk?”
“What? No.” I focus on the sensation of my babies against the bare skin of my arms to help me stay settled down. “I think you did the best you could with the information you had at the time.”
“Whatever.” She stands, pockets her phone, and heads towards the hallway. “I won’t dare to turn on that dangerous screen again.”
With that, she’s gone.
I taste something sour in my mouth. Martine has never, ever taken that tone with me. Never.
But maybe it’s because I’ve never truly disagreed with her before.