30. April

30

APRIL

I spend all night being cradled by those arms. I've never been held tighter in my life. Until now, no one's ever been afraid of losing me.

No one except Matvey.

But maybe that's not entirely fair. I do have people who care about me. And lately, all I've done is force them to walk on eggshells.

That needs to change.

Promise me. Never again.

When morning comes, I make good on that promise.

I call Dr. Allan and tell her what happened. I try not to focus on how anxious I've clearly made her—if I start feeling guilty now, there's no telling where my thoughts might lead me. Instead, I ask for one thing: a referral for a therapist.

I don't know if the process is usually so quick, but within the next twenty minutes, I'm being contacted by someone. In another hour, she's at the penthouse.

"Hello, April. I'm Dr. Knox. We spoke earlier on the phone."

She offers me her hand. I shake it. "Thanks for arranging this so fast. I really appreciate it."

"Nonsense. We're a bit like Batman, us therapists: if we didn't go where we're needed, then no one would need us at all." She winks for good measure, then lets me lead her into the living room.

Her sense of humor immediately puts me at ease, which is a miracle in and of itself. I was already picturing myself shaking through this whole ordeal. Like a Chihuahua at the vet or something.

When Matvey emerges from the bedroom, she shakes his hand, too. "Hello. Dr. Laurel Knox. I'm gonna be having a chat with your girlfriend. Would you mind letting us have the place for the next hour or so?"

I can practically see Matvey's hackles rising. "I'm not leaving her."

"I understand your concern. But I assure you, she'll be perfectly safe with me."

I can see he's about to start arguing again, so I step between them. "Matvey." I tug on his sleeve. "It's fine. Please, trust me."

A beat goes by. Two. "I don't like the thought of not being here for you."

"You are," I reassure him. "In fact, you're going to be helping me out by taking May on a stroll. How's that sound?"

"Like I'm being micromanaged."

"But is it working?" I crack a smile and hope it's a convincing one.

After a couple more seconds, Matvey finally relents. "Fine. But I'm leaving Grisha at the door."

"Okay."

"And I'm putting that thing on security detail."

I follow his line of sight to an unimpressed Mr. Buttons. "I don't think he'll mind."

Within a few minutes, they're out the door. "If there's anything?—"

"I'll call you," I promise. "Now, go. It's a pity to stay cooped inside with such nice weather."

Matvey ignores my transparent attempt at bossing him around. Instead, he locks eyes with the doctor behind me. "Are you good at what you do?"

She smiles. "One of the best."

He gives her a tight nod. "See that you are."

Then he's out.

"I'm so sorry," I apologize to Dr. Knox. "He didn't mean anything by that; it's just?—"

"How he is?" she laughs. "Don't worry, April, I'm used to being growled at by partners. Now, shall we?"

We sit down at the table, across from each other. "Not gonna make me lie down?" I joke.

"If you'd prefer that. But I get the sense that you've been doing a lot of that lately, haven't you?"

I think back to the blur of the past week: sleep, sleep, sleep. Short, fitful rests, and an eternity of staring at the ceiling to get them. "Yeah. I'm kind of over it."

"Thought so. How about we just have a chat then?"

I smile. It feels like the first genuine one in a long time. "I'll make tea."

Then, with a warm cup between my hands, I take a deep breath and do what I promised to do.

I tell her everything.

By the time I'm done, Dr. Knox has filled five pages of her notebook. "So?" I press. "Am I going crazy?"

She shrugs. "No more than the average person, believe me. That said, I do think I have an inkling of what's going on."

"As in, a diagnosis?"

"It's a bit early for that."

I slump. "Oh."

"Now, don't go getting all disappointed on me. These things take time."

"I just…" I force my frustration back down. "I don't want to be a burden. Or worse, a danger."

"A danger to whom?"

"Myself. My…" I breathe in sharply. "My b-baby."

Dr. Knox pushes her notebook aside. "Do you know what postpartum depression is, April?"

I blink. "I thought it was too early for a diagnosis."

"It is. But I did say I had an inkling." She crosses her legs and takes a sip of her now-cold tea. "So? Ever heard of it?"

"I… Yeah. My mom, she—she went through that. Not with Charlie, but…"

"With you," she fills in.

"Yeah. With me."

Another rapid scribble. "Tell me what you're thinking right now."

"What?"

"Just now, what were you thinking?"

"I guess…" I twist my hands in my lap. "‘Figures.'"

"‘Figures'?"

"Yeah. Like, sounds about right. That she'd get sick with me and not with him."

"So we're blaming ourselves then?"

I frown. "Kind of? Does it count as blaming yourself if it's the truth?"

"Do you blame your baby?"

"What?"

"For your postpartum. Do you blame your baby?"

It's a bombshell, one that I don't even know where to begin to unpack. A part of me suspects that that's the point—to get my rawest, most honest reaction—but I still find myself getting angry. "Of course not! I could never… Oh."

"That's right. ‘ Oh.' "

Damn. She wasn't lying about being good, was she? "So, um. Postpartum. That's what I have?"

"I think it played a part—but honestly? I don't think it's the heart of it."

"How could it not be?" I ask. "I was fine before, and now, I…"

But were you? asks the little voice inside me. Were you fine?

Dr. Knox seems to be thinking the same. "Let's go a different way," she suggests. "Let's focus on last night for now."

That's when I realize something else. "People with postpartum, they hurt their babies, don't they? Or at least try to? So am I…?"

Am I a danger to my daughter?

For a second, Dr. Knox seems to be deep in thought. Then, without preambles, she asks, "When you climbed over that railing, did you take your baby with you?"

"No!" I yelp. "I—I'd never—" I stop dead in my tracks. "Never" doesn't apply here. After all, didn't I do something I thought I'd never do just last night? However hurtful, the question is fair. "No," I settle on, quieter. "No, I didn't."

"Did you think about taking your baby with you?"

I shake my head again. "No. I wasn't thinking of her at all. Not like that, at least. Just that… she'd be better off without me."

She gives me a warm, understanding smile. "Then you're not a danger to your baby."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "I'm not?"

"You're not."

"But then… how can I have postpartum?"

"Well, let's see." She starts flipping through her notes. "You said you felt alienated from her. ‘Like you couldn't relate to her at all.' Is that correct?"

"… Yes."

"That's textbook postpartum depression for you."

"But why didn't I have it before?" I ask. "The first couple of months, I—I was fine."

Again, that voice: Were you, though?

This time, Dr. Knox takes a little longer to answer. "Sometimes, when we're in fast-paced situations, our mind takes a backseat. Instinct takes over. The more stressed we are, the more it holds us up, like a sort of survival mode. Think of a marionette on strings. Back at the motel, you didn't really have time to stop, did you?"

"I guess…?"

"Think of it like this: these past few years, what day of the week did you most often get sick?"

I don't even have to think about it. "Saturday. The weekend."

"Right, the weekend. Because that's when you could finally catch a break. So when you came back to the penthouse…"

"I wasn't in survival mode anymore," I fill in, stunned. "That's why it hit now? Because it couldn't hit before?"

"In part, yes," Dr. Knox says. "But I think your postpartum's the least of it. If it had been a severe case, survival mode wouldn't have mattered. You'd have gotten sick, period. Instead, you went through a depressive episode two months after giving birth, with only marginal symptoms of postpartum. They contributed, but they weren't the cause."

"So…?"

"So there was a trigger. And I think you know what that was."

Dominic. The thought bubbles up before I can stop it. That house. Those people.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Knox nods. "That's right. The visit to your father's house. That's when it all really started crashing down, right?"

"But that's got nothing to do with the baby," I protest.

"I agree. Because this isn't about your baby, April—it's about you ."

It's like the world has shifted under my feet. Suddenly, I'm knocked off-balance. "Me?"

"Yes. How you feel about yourself." The doctor uncrosses her legs, leaning closer on the table. "I'm going to ask you a question now, April, and I want you to answer honestly. Okay?"

"Okay."

"When did you first start thinking about going away?"

"I…" I mumble out. "You mean suicide?"

"No. I mean disappearing."

I frown. "Like a fantasy?"

"Yes. Exactly like a fantasy."

I force myself to go back in time. To years I'd rather forget. "When I was a kid, I used to imagine it. Just… not being there anymore. It was before Maia took me in."

"And after?"

A stab of guilt pierces me. "Afterwards, sometimes, I'd still feel it. An urge to just… leave. To not be…"

"A burden?"

I nod. "Yeah."

Finally, she snaps her notebook shut. "Here's what I think. You've been holding up against tremendous stress your entire life. You grew up in not one, not two, but three avoidant households. Living with your grandmother was your respite, but even that didn't last. Eventually, you were thrown back into it. Honestly, I wish you'd come to me years ago."

I blink back tears. "So it's too late? I'm fucked up now?"

"Not at all! I'm sorry—that didn't come out right. I just meant that you've been needing this for a long, long time."

Therapy. For some reason, it never crossed my mind. I thought the bad times were in the past. I handled that, so of course I could handle whatever else came along—right?

Apparently, wrong. So, so wrong.

"So I'm not a danger to my family?" I croak through unshed tears.

"Goodness, no. If anything, it's your old family that's a danger to you."

The relief almost crushes me. "I'm not a bad mother?"

"In my experience, bad mothers tend to think they're God's gift to their children. Instead, you're questioning yourself. That alone makes you a better mom than most."

It's pointless to try and hold back tears now. The dam's broken. "What now?" I rasp.

"Now, we make an appointment for next week. You're carrying a lot of guilt, April, and we need to work on that. Specifically, on how you see yourself. Because I can guarantee you, it's a hundred times worse than what others see in you."

I give her a wobbly nod. "Okay."

"Okay," she smiles. "Then let's make that appointment."

We figure out a schedule for the next couple of months. "Any homework for next time?" I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

To my surprise, Dr. Knox says yes. "One: keep bonding with your baby. You had a great relationship before all this—try to get it back. If she's as empathetic as you say, it's possible she might have picked up on your distress long before you did, and that's why she's been behaving oddly. Make her understand you're on your way to recovery."

"Okay," I whisper.

"Two: keep an eye on that boyfriend of yours. I understand he's trying to do better, but he's got a history of toxic behaviors. If any of that pops up again, call him out. Okay?"

"I will."

A smile. "Three: focus on positive, constructive activities. You're a designer and a seamstress, right? So go wild. Create for the sake of creating."

That catches me off-guard. "I… Okay. I'll do that."

"Good. Then I'll see you next week. Take care of yourself, April. We can't care for those around us unless we do that first."

After she's gone, it takes me a full ten minutes to process everything that's just happened. I feel drained, but in a strangely good way, like after the gym.

Still, it was a lot.

Once I've got my bearings, I text Matvey that it's okay to come back. No doubt, Grisha's already done it, but it's about more than that.

It's about trust.

Then, while I wait for Matvey to come home, my gaze falls to the covered Daphne dress.

Create. Doctor's orders.

I pull off the drape and get to work.