The Cinderella Hour (14 page)

Blaine, Helen, and Snow found a table in the parlor where the
evening’s celebrants could enjoy a buffet. The room wasn’t crowded yet. The
night was young.

“I’m very grateful, Dr. Prescott, that you’re willing to come
on the show.”

“It’s Blaine, Snow, and I’m the one who’s grateful. Any
opportunity I have to share what I know with the people who need to hear it is
an opportunity I appreciate. I happen to agree with the opinion held by an
increasing number of obstetricians that postpartum depression is a
leading—perhaps
the
leading—complication of pregnancy. It’s also the
most underdiagnosed. I’m delighted to have a chance to discuss it with what
will be, for me, an entirely new audience. When Helen called, she told my
assistant you were eager to do it as soon as possible because of a crisis
involving a woman you knew.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Why don’t you tell us about her?”

“Oh. All right. Well, her name is Olivia. She’s a
pediatrician in Atlanta and was a frequent
Cinderella Hour
guest during the
seven years the show was there. On the evening before I was originally
scheduled to leave, we had a final get-together at the station. It was a small
group, staff and a few favorite guests, of whom Olivia topped the list. She was
terrific, in person and on air, always happy to discuss questions people had
about their kids. She was also very open about her own life. After four years
of trying, she became pregnant. She was
so
thrilled. Both she and her
husband, a commercial airline pilot, were.”

Neither Blaine nor Helen said a word while Snow paused for a
breath.

“The baby, a healthy little boy named Rory, was born two
months ago. I sent a baby gift and received a lovely thank-you note in reply.
But I hadn’t seen or spoken to Olivia since three weeks before the birth. She’d
arranged to take six months off from everything but the baby. At least six
months. She’d devoted her professional life to other women’s children. She
couldn’t wait to spend time with her own. She brought Rory with her to the
party that evening.”

“Let me stop you a moment,” Blaine said. “Tell me what was
different about Olivia. The changes that struck you right away.”

“Not much, really. She’d already lost all the weight she had gained
during her pregnancy. Aside from that, she was her usual cheerful, outgoing
self. She wore bright colors, a wardrobe she chose for her patients, and she
was impeccably groomed. So was Rory. She’d even tucked him in the blanket I’d given
her and dressed him in clothing others at the party had sent as gifts. She
asked staff members about their children, as if she was following up on
conversations that had taken place the day before, not months before.”

“How was she holding Rory?”

“She wasn’t. He was in a carrier, which she set on the
conference room table.”

“And when someone wanted to pick him up?”

“Olivia explained how to lift him, to protect his head and
neck.”

“Explained, or showed?”

“Explained.”

“Did Olivia mind having others hold him?”

“Not at all. She seemed relieved he was being held.”

“Okay. Tell us what happened.”

“Well, after about twenty minutes, Olivia said she would be
right back and gestured in the direction of the ladies’ room. For some reason,
I followed her.”

“You were worried.”

“I suppose, although I honestly don’t know why. In any event,
her real destination was the kitchen. Instead of asking if I could help her
find what she was looking for, I just watched. Again, I don’t know why. She
went through all the drawers, removing every knife, even the plastic ones. Once
she had them all, she climbed onto the countertop. There was a space between
the cabinets and the ceiling. She stood on her tiptoes and shoved the knives as
far back into that space as she could reach. Then she climbed back down—and saw
me.”

“And?” Helen asked.

“It didn’t upset her that I was there, and when I asked her
why she had hidden the knives, her answer was matter-of-fact. She didn’t want
to hurt Rory.”

“Oh,”
Helen
whispered. “She’d been hearing voices telling her to kill her son?”

“No. She was depressed, the doctors said, not psychotic.”

“But she told you she hid the knives because she didn’t want
to hurt him.”

The explanation came from Blaine. “Worrying about harming the
baby, either willfully or by accident, can be a prominent feature of postpartum
depression. It can become an obsession for the new mother, intruding into her
every thought. What if she drops the baby? Scalds the baby? Positions him
incorrectly in his crib? Or what if, despite the constant scrubbing she’s compulsively
started to do, the house still isn’t clean enough and he gets an infection and
dies?”

“So Olivia wouldn’t have stabbed her baby?”

“No,” he said. “She would have killed herself first, as
mothers with postpartum depression all too often do. What did you say to her,
Snow?”

“I told her I thought she needed help and that we would help
her find it. Fortunately, she let us.”

“It’s very lucky that you followed her. You may well have
saved her life. And Rory’s.”

“You said Olivia wouldn’t hurt him,” Helen said.

“She wouldn’t have acted out her obsessional fear,” Blaine clarified. “But she might have taken Rory with her when she killed herself. In her
depressed state, it might have seemed the only way she could keep him safe.
There’s a good chance she would have decided to kill herself. She’d have
concluded that she was a worthless mother. She hadn’t bonded with her baby boy
and was consumed with thoughts of causing him harm. She’d made a terrible
mistake, she would believe, by bringing him into such a hopeless world. The
only way to rectify it was to get him to a better place. It’s the splendor of
maternal instinct ravaged by the fog of depression.”

“This is scary,” Helen murmured. “You said she seemed like
the Olivia you had always known?”

“She really did.”

“That’s not uncommon,” Blaine said. “It’s why postpartum
depression can be deadly, and is so frequently unrecognized until tragedy
occurs. The new mother is often her own worst enemy. She doesn’t identify her
feelings as depression. Why would she be depressed? It should be the happiest
time of her life. The only explanation she can find is that there’s something
fundamentally wrong with her that’s preventing her from being the good mother
she had hoped to be. She feels guilt and shame. She hides her emotions beneath
the kind of cheerful facade Olivia did, all the while sinking deeper into
despair.”

“It’s really amazing, Snow, that you sensed something was
wrong.”

“I’m not sure what I sensed, Helen. But Olivia had definitely
been hiding her symptoms. Even her physician friends were stunned to discover
she was depressed.”

“Acknowledging mental illness in a friend or loved one is
difficult,” Blaine said, “whether or not the symptoms are concealed. Perceiving
it can be problematic in itself. Like weight loss in someone you see every day,
the change can be so subtle—so insidious—you don’t notice it the way an
outsider would. And there’s also denial. No one wants a loved one to be
depressed, or a friend to be manic, or a teen to be suicidal. It’s not a stigma
issue so much as a wish for them to be the person you have always known. It’s
the same protective instinct that makes us want to overlook forgetfulness in an
elderly relative—or deny worrisome symptoms in ourselves.”

“Scary,” Helen repeated.

“And,” Blaine said, “good for Snow for taking charge. It
takes courage to intervene.”

“There wasn’t anything courageous about what I did. The
choice was clear. Well, there
wasn’t
a choice. I’ve wondered if Olivia
came to the station hoping we would intervene.”

“If so, it was a survival instinct as powerful as the
maternal one.”

“How is she now?” Helen asked.

“Hospitalized and on antidepressants. According to her
doctors, she’ll be fine. The old Olivia, good as new. Is that really the case?”

“It really is,” Blaine affirmed. “It won’t be long before Olivia
is the happy new mother she deserves to be.”

“Unless her in-laws get their way. They’re already plotting
to prevent her from ever seeing their grandson again.”

“They’ve seen the horror stories on TV, the ones in which the
mother is psychotically depressed and hearing voices—from God or
Satan—commanding her to kill her children.”

“The doctors are doing their best to explain that’s not what Olivia
has. Her husband understands. Her in-laws aren’t listening.”

“The psychosis isn’t treatable?” Helen asked.

“It is. Though not as easily. Unlike postpartum depression,
it’s often an indicator of a major underlying psychiatric disorder. Also,
unlike postpartum depression, psychosis is rare.”

“And postpartum depression is common?”

“Very. Somewhere between ten and twenty percent of postpartum
women.” Blaine looked at Snow. “Let me know if Olivia’s physicians can’t
persuade her in-laws that she poses no risk to her baby. My wife would be
delighted to find her the best family law attorney in Atlanta. I believe you
know my wife, Snow.”

“I do?”

“Vivian Larken.”

Vivian
. . .
who was married to Blaine, not to Luke. “Yes,
of course. Well, I knew her years ago. How is she?”

“She’s terrific, in general. Tonight, I’m afraid, she’s at
home with a flu. A short-lived one, we hope.”

“I hope so, too. Please say hello to her for me.”

“I will.” Blaine cast a glance around the room. “Looks like
hunger is setting in. Before we get interrupted, have you thought about how you
would like to structure the show?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

Blaine
smiled. “As you’ve obviously guessed, I have one. I think we should begin with
your own experience with postpartum depression, what you witnessed because of Olivia.
You would need to change her identity, of course, and alter the circumstances
to protect her privacy. But her story is compelling. If postpartum depression can
happen to Olivia, it can happen to anyone. Equally compelling, in my view, is
your passion in wanting your listeners to be aware of what an important issue
this is. Your personal reason for choosing the topic.”

My passion, Snow mused. My personal reason. It was because of
Olivia, wasn’t it? Yes. Of course. And yet . . .

For some reason I followed her. I honestly don’t know why.

It’s really amazing, Snow, that you sensed something was
wrong
.

“Snow?”

“It is possible to have postpartum depression following a
miscarriage?”

“More than possible,” Blaine answered. “And after elective
terminations, too. In both instances, the depression can be every bit as severe,
every bit as life-threatening, as the depression that follows a term pregnancy.
It’s also more likely to be missed, or
dis
missed, by the woman herself.
Her sadness makes sense to her. She’s lost her baby. Her despair can be
explained. She may be especially hard on herself for not getting over her loss
as quickly as she believes she should.”

“That’s something else to share with our listeners,” Helen said.
“There’s a lot to this, isn’t there?”

“If that’s an invitation to do more than one show, I accept.”

“That’s very generous of you, Blaine. Thank you.”

“I repeat, Snow, thank
you.”

Blaine
stood as he spoke. A colleague was approaching.

Dr. Prescott had mingling to do.

Helen had a husband to tend to.

And Snow had a ghost to confront after all.

In her condominium, not here. Her condominium . . . later.

She hadn’t yet said her hellos to WCHM’s upper management,
and they hadn’t yet made the corporate introductions they wanted to make.

The ghost had been waiting for sixteen years. It could wait a
little longer.

Snow decided she would make one pass of the ballroom. One
attempt to connect with anyone from WCHM.

Then she would flee.

She spotted someone else first, the intensive care physician
whose Wind Chimes Towers condo was across the hall from hers. She had met him
six weeks ago, when she had flown to Chicago to talk with her WCHM team and
find a place to live. The condo was ideal. And her neighbor seemed very nice.

She had seen Thomas Vail a second time, at five this morning.
He had been returning from the hospital just as she had been arriving in
Chicago, and he had helped her unload her car.

The man Snow saw now was unlike the one she had previously
encountered. It was as if he, too, had seen a ghost . . . or had been speaking
to one.

“I’ll leave within the hour,” she overheard him say before he
disconnected the call.

He stared at the cell phone in his palm, as if stunned that
such monumental—and devastating?—news could be received by the nearly
weightless object.

“Thomas?”

“Snow.”

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

He shook his head. “That was a sheriff from a small town
across the state. A man I knew, a man named Daniel, drowned today.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“His body hasn’t been recovered. It may never be. The rescuer
who saved Wendy saw the floodwaters sweep him away.”

Wendy. Who was saved
. “Wendy?”

“Daniel’s four-year-old daughter. And,” Thomas said softly, “now
mine. Daniel named me as her guardian.”

“Because you know Wendy, and Wendy knows you.”

“No. Except in the photographs Daniel sends me at Christmas,
I haven’t seen Wendy since her discharge from Grace Memorial when she was two
months old. I haven’t seen Daniel since then, either. Seen him . . . or spoken
to him.”

“But he named you Wendy’s guardian.”

“Yes.”

“Without letting you know?”

“It was a decision he made today, when he realized he might
not survive.”

“A dying wish.”

“A dying wish.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to honor that wish. Bring her home. Do my best.”

“I’m right across the hall, Thomas. And very willing to do
whatever I can to help.”

Right across the hall, Snow thought as she watched him
disappear, with my own ghosts of my own Wendy—ghosts that
wouldn’t
wait until
she returned to her condo.

Snow knew, now, why she had seen in Olivia what no one else
had. Because, in Olivia, she had seen herself . . . the girl who, following her
miscarriage, had been tormented by obsessional thoughts, what was best for
Wendy, what was right for Wendy, what Wendy would want her to do . . . and who
had tested and retested every decision she made . . . and who, wanting comfort
for her Wendy, had repeatedly folded and unfolded the pink silk gown.

She had lost track of time.

And neither ate nor slept.

But on one thing her confused brain had been crystal clear.
She was a worthless mother. She had failed to keep her baby safe. Wendy had known
it, had sensed how unfit she was. She hadn’t wanted to spend her life with Snow
any more than Luke had.

Snow hadn’t thought—much—about killing herself. It wasn’t
necessary. It might have been had Wendy lived. But Wendy was free from harm. And
Snow’s punishment, for being so worthless, so unworthy, was that she live with
her pain.

“Snow.”

She’d had postpartum depression. She understood that now. She
also knew that, like Olivia, her depression had been without psychosis. She had
not heard voices that weren’t real.

Not then.

But now, sixteen years later, she was hearing an imaginary
voice. The auditory hallucination came from behind her. And it was quite
sophisticated. The voice was Luke’s, but it had aged, as Luke would have aged.

The voice sounded older.

Deeper.

Darker.

“Look at me,” the voice commanded.

It was simply a matter of lifting her head. The voice, no
longer disembodied, was in front of her.

He
was in front her.

Older. More handsome.

And still beloved.

I’m sorry, Luke! I’m so sorry I lost our Wendy.

That was half of the apology Snow had returned to Chicago to make. The true half. The rest of what she had intended to say to him, her
apology for breaking her promise to remain in Quail Ridge until he returned
from L.A., had—on this night—become false.

She wasn’t sorry, now, that she had fled. Luke would have
seen her depression had she waited to say goodbye to him face-to-face. No
matter how she had tried to conceal her despair, Luke would not have missed
it—or denied it.

He would have insisted on finding help for her, just as she
had insisted on finding help for Olivia. He would have taken her to Grace
Memorial, where his own life had been saved. To Dr. Blaine Prescott, perhaps.

She would have received excellent care, from Blaine or
someone else. Luke would have seen to it. She would have become Snow again. Not
the old Snow, of course, the girl she had been before she lost her baby. But
she would have become the new Snow, the mother whose loss lived in a heart that
had found a way to keep beating, far sooner than the two years it had taken her
untreated depression to run its course.

That new Snow, even at fifteen, could have survived without
Luke, as she had survived without him for the past sixteen years. But that
isn’t what would have happened. Luke, feeling as responsible for her
psychiatric ordeal as for the pregnancy itself, would have convinced her to
marry him, convinced her that he
wanted
her to. And, because she loved
him so much, she would have permitted herself to believe him.

Snow looked at the man with whom she might have entered into
a marriage—for him—of duty and regret. The dark green eyes that met hers
revealed nothing of himself, yet wanted every truth from her.

As the truth inside her shifted from apology to gratitude
that she had left Quail Ridge when she did, Snow felt . . . serene.

“Luke. Hello.”

“How the hell are you?”

You swore!
“I’m fine, Luke. How the hell are you?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“That’s good.” Her serenity began to falter. This man might
have been her husband. He would have been faithful to her, would have honored
his wedding vows. He would have wanted sex, needed it, and they would have made
love—often. Would he have found happiness in their lovemaking, an emotional
closeness beyond the simple demands of his desire for release? “I’m glad.”

“Then why do you look so sad?”

“Do I? I’m tired, I guess. I drove all night and spent the
day unpacking. You look tired, too.” Her observation was too intimate. Too
caring. It evoked the distant expression she had known so well. “You’re allowed
to tell me I look sad, but I’m not allowed to say you look tired?”

A faint smile softened the harsh lines of his older, sexier
face. “That’s right.”

“Well, too bad! You look
beyond
tired, Lucas
Kilcannon. You look exhausted.”

Snow didn’t reach out to touch the dark circles beneath his
eyes. But his gaze fell to her hands, as if expecting they might—and as if, for
a moment, wishing they would.

The moment was fleeting.

His features hardened as he appraised the fingers that had a
death grip on her evening bag.

She wore no wedding band.

She had beautiful hands, he thought. They always had been.
Slender and lavender-veined. Her nails were still short, the kind of nails that
wouldn’t leave marks no matter how fierce the passion . . . the kind that hadn’t
left marks on that autumn day in their private meadow, when they had cherished,
not clawed, his scars.

“You should have seen how exhausted I looked in the weeks
after I returned to Quail Ridge from the swim meet in L.A.”

Exhausted and enraged, Snow thought as she met the cold fury
that accompanied his words. “I had to leave, Luke. It was for the best.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Care to explain?”

“There’s nothing
to
explain.”

“Wrong. There’s everything to explain.”

“I had lost the baby,” she said. “Nothing else mattered.
There wasn’t anything more to say.”

“It mattered to me, Snow. You made a promise
to me
.”

“This isn’t the time or place to talk about it.”

“Fine. Tell me a time and place that is.”

“Why?”

“Why do I want you to tell me the reason you broke your
promise? I don’t know. Chalk it up to idle curiosity. Or maybe I’m interested
in the reading you’d done about the kind of husband and father a son of Jared
Kilcannon was likely to be.”

“I didn’t do any reading, Luke. Even if I had, my leaving
wouldn’t have had anything to do with what I’d read. You
can’t
believe
it would have.”

Luke could have permitted himself to believe that was the
reason she left. It would have been easier to believe—less painful to decide
she ran away from him because of a past over which he had no control rather
than a future she didn’t want. But he would have known it wasn’t true.

“You’re right. I don’t believe it. So we’re back to my
curiosity. Name a time and place that would be convenient for you.”

The shake of her head was slight, but eloquent. There would never
be a convenient time.

Because, Luke realized, she was afraid.

He almost relented. He wanted answers. But he wanted
happiness for her even more. Happiness, not fear.

Let her go. Let
it
go.

Except that
it
, her fear, was a fear
of him
.

And that he could not bear.

“Why don’t I name the time and place? We’ll do something
after my appearance on your show. Dinner. Drinks. Whatever you prefer.”

“Your appearance on my show?”

“It will be this week. The auction brochure guaranteed it. I
mailed in my bid. I wasn’t sure I’d make it here tonight. As of twenty minutes
ago, mine’s still the winning bid. If someone else jumps in, I’ll better it. The
topic’s a good one, I think, one your listeners should hear now that winter’s on
the way.”

“What topic?”

“Fire safety.”

“Fire. You’re—”

“A firefighter.”

Years ago, Luke had started swimming again despite his hatred
for every stroke. He’d had no choice. If he wanted to walk, he had to swim. But
to choose to spend his life resurrecting memories of the night in which he had nearly
died . . .

“Why, Luke? I mean, is it okay for you?”

Her fear was forgotten. Her fear for herself. Her worry now
was for him. “It is okay, Snow. Because of Noah.”

“Noah,” she whispered. “Noah.”

“He died two years ago. In his sleep.”

“With you close by?”

Luke’s nod affirmed his presence at Noah’s bedside, and his affection
for the man who had defended him against a skeptical town. “I was living with
Noah when he died. I’ve lived in the home he gave me—and left to me—ever since.”

Luke chose to wage war against flames because of the man he
loved, not the father he loathed.