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T he world does not make sense to Flora. She has many questions about what is real and what is not. But she cannot ask these questions of anyone but herself, for every moment of her life is now a test. Every moment is an opportunity to misstep. She is being watched. Her father and Esther are here to "lend helping hands." Her own husband is examining her for weakness and inconsistencies.

Flora cannot lose Iris. She will not. So she writes herself a new story. And since the best lies revolve around truth, Flora orbits the altered facts around a very real catalyst: sleep deprivation. She tells her family about the benign things like misplacing crackers and forgetting the coffee cup under the spout. Details to illustrate a sympathetic narrative: Flora was just a tired mom doing her best. And when she finally took a moment for herself, the warm bathwater lulled her into such a deep sleep that she didn't hear her baby crying.

But within the private confines of her own mind, Flora tries desperately to puzzle together the blurry facts. Her mother showing up—that was, what? A hallucination? A fever dream? If so, where did reality end and the dream begin? The singing activity cube and plastic pig—were those real?

And the one thing Flora can't even bring herself to ponder is what actually happened in that bathroom. Was there really a struggle in the tub to save Iris's life? And if there was, whose hands were actually dunking her child's tiny face beneath the water's surface?

There must not have been a struggle. It must have all been in Flora's head. She must be sick. Which is comforting, really, because sick people get better. Sick people can be treated. They can be helped.

Still, doubt creeps and seeps like a steady leak in the drywall.

Flora showers in the guest bathroom because she is afraid of the other. She stands, unmoving, under the water.

Zephie

Zephie would know

It's true. Her childhood friend witnessed everything. But as hard as Flora tries to summon her, Zephie does not come. She hasn't seen her since everything that happened in the bathroom.

Flora brings her hands to the shower wall and leans her weight against them. Her shoulder is less tender now, the swelling subsided, thanks to some pain medication her dad found in the back of a drawer.

As she leans forward, the water hits her back directly, and Flora moans in relief as it trickles down her legs and onto the tile floor beneath. When she again lifts her gaze, her fingers catch her attention. The nails are dirty, grime built up underneath. She squints and brings them closer to her eyes for inspection.

that's not dirt

that's blood

She remembers scratching at her mother's face, the fragile skin tearing in response. And here it is now: that same blood under her nails. But how is it possible?

She grabs a small nailbrush from the caddy hanging over the showerhead and scrubs. Her left hand works through the dull pain still coursing from that shoulder and moves the hard bristles back and forth with fervor. Back and forth and back and forth until she can no longer feel her fingertips. Until her own blood rises to the surface and breaks through the skin's barrier, mixing with the dried blood already there. Mixing so that Flora can no longer tell the difference between her own blood and that of her mother. It's easier this way, when there is no definition, when there is no barrier between what is real and what might not exist at all.

After her shower, Flora goes downstairs to join the others for dinner. The electricity has returned; Connor worked his magic on the breaker box, and Flora is relieved but simultaneously gutted. If she had just known how to troubleshoot the problem herself, she wouldn't have needed to go all that time without power. She could still be pumping instead of giving Iris formula, which Connor picked up at the store when he realized they had no milk.

Michael and Esther serve up homemade lasagna and arugula salad. Connor spends most of the meal sharing what stories he can from his deployment, and Flora is relieved to have the spotlight on someone else. Especially because, as she sits at the kitchen table, she is plagued by visions of peeling dead skin from her mother's feet.

was that even real

She considers inspecting the trash for remnants of burnt flesh.

"… if you want us to," Esther says.

Everyone is looking at Flora.

"Hmm?" she asks.

Her dad wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. "Esther was just offering our services," he says. "We can stay a couple days."

"I told them how my dad's knee surgery got pushed up," Connor says to Flora. "So since they can't come for a while, your dad offered."

Flora doesn't want the extra pairs of eyes on her. She needs time and space to investigate, to figure out the truth of the last week. But she also can't afford to raise any alarm bells. She knows it will seem suspicious if she denies them. So she plasters on a smile and nods.

"That would be wonderful," she says.

"It must have been so hard for you," Esther says.

Flora realizes this must be the moment they are going to acknowledge and dissect the reason they are here.

"The sleep deprivation," Esther continues. "You know, there's a reason they use it as a torture tactic!" Everyone murmurs agreement in chuckles and mm-hmms. "I definitely had the baby blues," she adds.

"That's a thing?" Connor asks. "Like, officially?"

"Oh, yes," Esther says, "many women get them in the early weeks after birth."

They continue to talk, but Flora stares at her fingertips, which are bright red from the scrubbing. She hides them in the folds of her shirt and runs her tongue over her teeth, fuzzy with plaque. She feels like the child at a parent-teacher conference, where the conversation is, in theory, about her but is actually about everyone else's opinions of her.

It strikes her then that this is all that matters now: everyone else's opinions of her. Because if a seed of doubt grows within them that she is not a fit mother, they will intervene. They will take Iris away.

Her mother was right. She was right all along.

baby blues

term

1. feelings of sadness in the few days/weeks after having a baby; symptoms include mood swings, crying spells, anxiety, and difficulty sleeping

2. a cutesy term for yet another way a woman's body will try to rob her of the joy of her child's earliest days