Before the Storm (33 page)

down again on the sofa.

He followed me into the room. “What’s hard about it?”

“I lost track of time and I waited too long,” I said. “Now I

have to decide if I should go away someplace, have the baby,

and let someone adopt it.”

He shook his head. “You need to tell Jamie.”

I let out my breath, dropping my head against the back of

the sofa in resignation. “I know.” I’d known all along, deep in

my heart, I would not go away, not because I felt any special

bond to the baby I was carrying, but because I didn’t have the

energy to figure out where to go.

He sat down at the other end of the sofa.“How do you know

it’s Jamie’s and not mine?” he asked.

“Because,” I said, lifting my head to look at him again,“that’s

the one thing I
have
decided.”

Jamie and Maggie moved back into The Sea Tender when I

was nearly seven months’ pregnant. Jamie was furious with

himself for the broken condom, as though it was his fault. He

should have checked the date, he said, and he shouldn’t have

made love to me when I was still so depressed. He wanted to

take care of me, and he was upset that I hadn’t felt able to tell

him about the pregnancy from the start. I was nervous about

being two weeks farther along than I said I was. I hoped the baby

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came two weeks late and would then seem like it was right on

time.

Maggie was two and a half and talking a blue streak, but I

couldn’t understand most of what she said and Jamie needed

to serve as her interpreter. I tried hard to understand her,

struggling to make sense of the words.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I’d say over and over. “Can you say that

again, please?” And when she’d repeat her statement and I still

didn’t get it, she’d wail in frustration. Jamie, on the other

hand, could listen to her nonsensical-sounding words and

know their meaning almost every time. It was uncanny, as

though the two of them shared a secret language I could not

be part of.

He seemed to know better than to leave me alone with her,

and he hired a nanny to babysit during his work hours at the

real estate office and on Sunday mornings when he was in the

chapel. He gave up the volunteer fire department altogether

so he wouldn’t be called away unexpectedly.

Although I was fully in favor of having the nanny take care

of Maggie, I disliked being in the house when the middle-aged

woman was there. I felt her judging me. I was certain my

strained relationship with my child was obvious to her. Jamie

had told her my doctor wanted me to rest during the last

couple of months of my pregnancy, so that my withdrawal and

constant napping wouldn’t seem odd to her, but I felt in the

way in my own home. So I spent most of my days at Talos. I

napped on Marcus’s sofa, watched TV, and drank the wine

coolers that were forbidden to me at home. I needed them

more than ever, with a craving that I knew had become more

physical than emotional.

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That’s why I was drunk when I went into labor, three weeks

early, a full five weeks before the fictional due date I’d told

Jamie. And that’s why I called Marcus to take me to the

hospital, not wanting Jamie to see me until I was sober.

Andy was only ten hours old when the social worker came

into my room at the hospital. Jamie was in the chair next to

the bed, telling me he wanted to name the baby Andrew after

his father, and I rolled the name around in my mouth even

though I was thinking,
I don’t care what we name him.
What I

really wanted was to go back to sleep.

The social worker, whose name I instantly forgot, was about

thirty, five years older than me. She wore an expression that I

read as ten percent pity and ninety percent condescension as

she sat in a chair near my bed and asked me questions I didn’t

bother to answer. I didn’t care what she thought of me. I closed

my eyes so I didn’t have to see Jamie’s frown as I ignored her.

“Your baby was premature, but even considering his gestational age of about thirty-seven weeks, he’s smaller than he

should be,” she said. “He didn’t grow well inside you.”

My eyes still shut, I tried to figure out if anything she’d said

could make Jamie doubt his paternity, but the words and the

weeks clotted together in my brain and I couldn’t sort them

out.

“The staff called me in because of that, and because you

were inebriated when you arrived.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Jamie said. He’d already chewed me

out for it and I hoped he wasn’t going to start up again.

“You have what we call a dual diagnosis,” the social worker

said.

“What does that mean?” Jamie asked.

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“First, you have a substance-abuse problem.”

I opened my eyes, but only to roll them at her.

“Your blood alcohol level was .09 when you were brought

in,” the social worker said. “The man who brought you…your

brother-in-law? He told the staff you’d been drinking throughout your pregnancy.”

I was angry with Marcus. What right did he have to tell

anyone anything about me?

“Well, I think she
was
drinking early on,” Jamie said naively.

“We were separated. But the last couple of months, I’ve been

home and she hasn’t had anything except I guess last night—”

I saw the light dawn in his eyes. “Have you been drinking over

at Marcus’s during the day?” he asked.

“Just wine coolers,” I said.

“Oh, Laurel.”

I wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or disgust I heard in

his voice.

“The second part of the diagnosis is postpartum depression,” the social worker continued as if I’d said nothing. “I

spoke with the nurse who talked with you, Mr. Lock-

wood—” she nodded at Jamie “—and it seems like that’s

been a problem for your wife since the birth of your last

child.”

Jamie looked at me. “
Finally,
Laurel,” he said. “Finally we

know what’s been wrong with you all this time.”

I knew about postpartum depression, but whatever was

wrong with me was so much worse than that. I’d imagined

running a knife through my child’s heart. Wasn’t that more

than depression?

The social worker gave us a tutorial about hormones and

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brain chemistry. She said, “I think you must have felt pretty

isolated living on Topsail Island after your daughter was born.”

In a flash, I relived the weeks after Maggie’s birth when she

cried constantly and I felt as though I had no one to turn to. I

started to answer, but the words couldn’t get past the knot in my

throat.

“Your brother-in-law said that you barely drank at all before

then,” the social worker said.“I think you felt so bad after your

daughter was born that you started to medicate yourself with

alcohol to take away the pain.”

I wanted a wine cooler right then, more than anything.

“The pediatricians in the neonatal intensive care unit believe

your baby may have problems caused by your drinking.”

I was suddenly alert. “What kind of problems?”

“His small size is probably related to your alcohol consumption,” she said. “His Apgar scores were low. Fortunately, he

doesn’t have the facial deformities we often see in babies with

fetal alcohol problems, but he did have some respiratory

distress that was more than they’d expect in a preemie of his

gestational age. There’s often central nervous system involvement. Possibly intellectual or cognitive impairment. It’s too

soon to know how severely he might be affected or even if he

will
be affected that way at all.”

I froze inside. What had I done? I felt the way I had the day

I’d pulled into the street and cut off Jamie’s motorcycle. I’d

hurt another human being through my actions. I’d hurt my own

baby.

“Jamie, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

He turned his face away from mine, and I knew that he

would not be quick to forgive me this time. I didn’t blame him.

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“Is he…” I tried to picture the baby I’d seen only briefly in

the delivery room. “Is he suffering?” I asked.

“It’s hard to know how much neonates feel,” she said.“What

you need to know at this point, though, is that Andrew’s now

in the custody of Protective Services. When he’s ready to

leave the hospital, he’ll go to a foster home until we can

evaluate your home situation.”

“What?”
Jamie asked. “We can take perfectly good care of

him.” He didn’t look at me. “At least
I
can.”

“Protective Services will make that evaluation,” she said.

“You’ve had a nanny helping with your other child, is that

right?”

Jamie nodded.

“She contacted Protective Services when Laurel went into

labor. She was worried that your home isn’t a safe environment

for an infant.”

“That woman hates me,” I said. I couldn’t even remember

the nanny’s name.

“So her report,” the social worker continued, “on top of a

substance-abuse problem and Andrew’s fragile health means we

have to do what’s best for him, and that’s to place him in foster

care once he’s released from the hospital and the home is evaluated.”

“How do we get him back?” Jamie asked.

“The best chance of getting your baby back is for Laurel to

go into a rehab program. There’s one in Wilmington that’s specifically designed for people like you with dual diagnoses. It’s

expensive, though, so—”

“The money doesn’t matter,” Jamie interrupted her.

I was frightened.“Jamie, please don’t let them lock me up!”

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“It’s completely voluntary, Laurel,” the social worker said.

“But I highly recommend you go if you want a chance to regain

custody of your baby.”

“Please go into rehab.” Sara leaned forward from the chair

next to my hospital bed that evening. She’d come into my

room and told Jamie to take a break. When she sat down next

to me, that was the first thing she said. “Please do it for your

family, if not for yourself.”

“I wish y’all would just leave me alone,” I said. Jamie’d been

pleading with me about the rehab program for the last few

hours and my nerves were brittle. Ready to snap.

Sara sat back in the chair, while I turned my head to look

out the window at a darkening winter sky. She was quiet for

so long, I thought she’d given up. I heard her shift in the chair

and imagined she was getting ready to go, but she was only

leaning forward again.

“I remember this woman,” she said slowly. “I saw her a few

years ago in a little chapel her husband built. Her husband got

up and spoke to the people who were there, and this

woman…well, she looked up at him like he’d hung the moon.

I remember watching her with envy, thinking
I wish I could feel

love like that.
”

I wanted to tell her to shut up, but my mouth wouldn’t

open. I stared through the window at a distant water tower as

she continued.

“The man asked people where they’d felt God that week, and

when no one answered, that woman got to her feet because she

loved her husband so much she didn’t want to see him fail. And

she said how she felt God when she was under the stars the night

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before. She said she was overwhelmed by the beauty of the

world.”

I turned to her then. “You still remember that?”

“Oh, yes,” Sara said. “I admired that woman. Admired her

and envied her.”

“Where—” my voice was tight, a whisper “—where did she

go?”

“She drowned in a bottle of booze,” Sara said bluntly. “Her

husband wants her back. And her children need her back.”

“Maggie doesn’t care,” I said. “She hates me.”

“She’s not even three years old!” Sara’s voice rose.“She’s not

capable of hate, Laurie. She just doesn’t
know
you. She doesn’t

trust you.”

I shook my head. “All I want right now is a drink,” I said.

Sara suddenly grabbed my wrist. I gasped in surprise, trying

to wrench my arm free, but she held it fast. “You’ve become

a selfish, self-absorbed bitch.” She looked hard into my eyes

and I couldn’t seem to turn away from her gaze. “I understand

that your hormones got screwed up,” she said. “I understand

you can’t help the depression. But you can
fix
it, Laurel.You’re

the only one who can.”

It was Sara’s anger more than Jamie’s pleading that propelled me into rehab. I didn’t go to get my baby back—I was

certain he’d be better off without me. But Sara had made me

remember the happy, contented, honorable woman I used to

be. If there was a chance I could reclaim that woman—the

woman who’d drowned—I had to take it.

The rehab facility was in a peaceful, bucolic setting that

belied the intensity of the work taking place inside its four

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