I fed Clara a bottle from the breast milk stash in the fridge—obviously, I couldn’t nurse her, after all I’d drunk, though I felt stone-cold sober by that point. My breasts were painful, rigid torpedoes, especially after the hot shower, but I didn’t pump after putting her back in her bassinet—I didn’t deserve the relief it would bring, and I didn’t deserve to sleep well. I never deserved to sleep well again.
July 14
Dear Baby,
My thoughts don’t feel like my own.
My crazy, sleep-deprived brain is taking me to places I don’t want to go.
I think of him all the time—I can’t help it.
Even when you’re sleeping, I can’t. Despite that being the golden rule. Sleep when the baby sleeps! As if it’s that simple. What a bunch of BS.
And when I do sleep, my dreams terrify me. I dream all my teeth have fallen out. Or that my breast milk is poison and it makes you sick. Or that you’re crying but I don’t have arms so I can’t pick you up. Or that you fall down a well like in that movie The Ring. I’ve never even seen a well. But that’s what I dream about.
And sometimes it’s even worse than that.
Sometimes I dream of killing him.
I know how that sounds. But I just wish he weren’t in the world anymore. He could be preying on other women as we speak. And who knows what he’s doing to his wife.
I think of his hand on the back of my head, pushing me. The things he was whispering in my ear, his hot breath against my cheeks. How he walked out and slammed the door afterward, never even acknowledging me.
And when I’m not thinking about that, about him, I’m just thinking about what a crappy mom I am. How I’ll never be good at this. How I don’t deserve you.
How I’ll never sleep again. Unless I die. Then I could get a good long sleep.
I’m trying hard to shake thoughts like that out of my head and remind myself of the one thing that really matters: I love you. I love you. I love you.
Love you forever,
Mommy
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday, October 7
That night, as Tim and I were eating pizza from Arte Café and watching our recorded episode of The Bachelorette after Clara had gone to bed, Vanessa sent around a text with a link to the Montauk house. It was extravagant: six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a pool and jacuzzi, a home theater room, ocean views. Let me know who’s in, she wrote. I really hope we can make this happen. It would be great for all of us. We deserve this! She included some wine emojis for good measure, as if the house itself weren’t tantalizing enough.
I had gotten so caught up with what Kira had told me about Connor that I hadn’t even had a chance to press her on the Montauk trip. But given what she’d told me, I assumed that she wasn’t even considering it. In addition to her very understandable stress about leaving Caleb, it seemed like her inclination might be to distance herself from her association with Isabel, and that meant the moms’ group. I wondered if she might even stop attending our meetings. I hoped not, but I could certainly empathize with doing everything possible to just forget that something like that had ever happened.
So I was shocked when she was the first to respond to Vanessa’s text about Montauk with an enthusiastic I’M IN! Jack was on board, after all. Looks amazing, this will be so much fun. And much needed. Thanks so much, Vanessa!
Against all odds, my conversation with Tim had been just as easy. “I think it’s a great idea, babe! You definitely deserve it. It will force me and the C-monster to become best friends,” he’d said, giving me a big hug. “It’s good timing for me, too, since we wrapped up this presentation today and now we’re just kind of waiting on feedback. I can finish up early tomorrow and take Friday off. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
I was rendered momentarily speechless. My guilt about what I had done at the bar was and would probably always be a lingering weight for me to carry on my shoulders, but never was it heavier than when Tim was so helpful, so sweet, so eager to do anything to make me happy. Maybe that’s why I’d been so short with him these last few weeks, over such small things: it was easier to be mad at him about stupid stuff than angry at myself about something monumental. Of course I had thought about telling him—so many times—but I wasn’t sure which was worse, telling him or not telling him. I already knew that I was a terrible person—making sure he knew it, too, felt more cruel than altruistic. If I’d only be doing it to seek forgiveness, to relieve myself of the guilt, then I shouldn’t do it. I didn’t deserve to feel better about it. And I certainly didn’t deserve to be absolved.