Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Sunday July 25, 2010

Things have gone from bad to worse. Yesterday, Lyle came to visit with the girls and a tray of hot chocolates. The baby was doing well, and we were talking about being discharged. When I asked to speak to Lyle alone about finding a new nanny, he sent the girls to the waiting room to sit with Charlotte.

Knowing he’d brought her along was like a punch to the gut. We still haven’t gotten to the bottom of how I ended up with anaphylactic shock, yet he’s allowing that woman around my children?

I told him my fears about Charlotte and that I wanted her out of my house. Lyle looked at me like I hadn’t changed from the battered wife who was still in denial and needed saving from Giorgi.

It hurt so badly to be dismissed like that and for Lyle to interpret my distrust for delusion. I ALWAYS knew I needed to leave Giorgi, from the moment I discovered he was in the mafia. The trouble was that I had no one to trust. It took so long for me to accept Lyle’s help because I was convinced he would betray me to my psycho husband.

No amount of platitudes can convince me that Charlotte isn’t a threat, but Lyle refuses to see it. What kind of nanny cozies up to the husband? One who wants him for herself. I was becoming so stressed that Lyle didn’t understand the threat she posed that I told him to leave—him and his poisoned hot chocolate. He looked so wounded when he left that I spent the night tossing and turning.

The next morning, my urine test showed elevated protein levels. My BP also rose. Now I have preeclampsia. I don’t know if it’s due to stress or if there was something in the hot chocolate, but this is the second time Charlotte has been around something I’ve consumed that’s messed with my health.

I can kiss goodbye to going home. This diagnosis means new medication, more tests, and I won’t be discharged until after a c-section. I asked if I could at least have a natural birth, but the ob-gyn explained that this is the safest option for me and the baby.

Lyle isn’t answering his cell. Or the landline. Charlotte is probably pouring poison into his ear and doing God knows what to my girls. I can’t remember the last time I was so isolated, trapped, or frightened.

I worry, both for myself and the baby.

If I had a mother, brother, or siblings, I would call them for help and damn the consequences, but I didn’t stay at a foster home long enough to make any connections. I only have Lyle. Giorgi might be dead, but I can’t contact his mother because I still stabbed the Salentino family in the back.

I keep calling Dr. Forster, but the number keeps going to voicemail. Even my shrink is tired of my paranoia. The only thing I can do is practice meditation, calm my thoughts, and focus on staying healthy for my children.

And of course, accept food or beverages from only the hospital staff.