I’m suffocating my baby. I feel his arms around my neck, his soft body beneath me. I’m crushing him. No. Not my baby. Too small. Too soft. A stuffed animal. Yarn. Monkey. The monkey . . . No. I don’t want to think about it.
I have to get up. I have to. The kids will be home soon. They’ll need a snack. And then dinner. Maybe there’s something in the freezer. Freezer. Fetus. Frisbee. Femur. Fleeting. Foible. So many F words. Fuck. I never say fuck. I should say it more. I would say it now if I could only make my mouth work.
How can I get up if I can’t even make my mouth work or open my eyes? Why are my lids so heavy?
I remember. Pills. Lovely pills that make me not happy but also not like every inch of my skin is on fire. Why was my skin on fire? It’s not, not now, but it was. Was that yesterday or last week or last month when I was screaming, both inside my head and outside my head and my skin was burning and I felt like I was being disemboweled? Now there’s a word. Disemboweled. Fuck.
I shrink away from these thoughts, these disemboweled, skin-burning, head-screaming thoughts, because I know they will take me to the something-awful place, and I cannot go there. I have to get up and make a snack. I think about the snack, even as my stomach twists (disemboweled) and my head pounds (screaming) and my skin itches until I want to claw it off (burning).
Snack. Rachel, focus. Snack. Peanut butter and crackers for Eden and apples with almond butter for Jonah, not because he has a peanut allergy but because he likes the almond butter. The woman at Trader Joe’s thought that was interesting. That’s what she said. That’s interesting. Almond butter. I think I’m out of almond butter. I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s in a while. But I don’t need almond butter, or do I? I do, for Jonah. Peanut butter for Eden and almond butter for . . .
Jonah.
I sit up suddenly and force my eyes to open. The daylight sears my retinas. Through the spots of white obscuring my vision, I see him, perched on the end of the bed, smiling at me.
Hi, Mommy.
Jonah.
My vision clears. And I remember.
Jonah.
Oh my god oh my god oh my god. JONAH.
I’m screaming again.
FIVE
RUTH
I hear the scream, and the keys slide from my grasp. I curse softly, then drop my carry sacks on the porch and scramble for the keys. The screaming continues. My fingers are shaking. I can’t unlatch the bolt. I stop and take a deep breath, then turn the key and push through the front door, leaving the groceries outside.
The dog is standing at alert at the bottom of the stairs, its long nose pointing to the second floor. It sees me and immediately lowers itself to the floor and bows its head submissively.
I hurry up the stairs two at a time and rush to the master bedroom. The smell of vomit assaults my nose, but I don’t linger on the question. Rachel is on the bed, clutching that damn stuffed monkey to her chest, rocking back and forth and screaming. Tears stream down her cheeks.
“Rachel,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. I move quickly to the side of the bed and reach for her. As soon as she feels my fingertips brush her arm, she lashes out blindly, smacking my wrist hard enough to make me wince.
“Rachel! It’s me Ruth. Rachel!”
I grab for her again, clutching her arms and pressing them tightly against her sides so that she can’t swing them. A deep moan bubbles up from her chest and ends with a blistering wail.
“Jonah!”
She goes limp then, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her to me. Her moans turn to wrenching, full-body sobs, with intermittent cries of her son’s name. We sit that way for what seems like a long while. I don’t allow myself to move or shift, but the stench of the room—the vomit from the trash bin next to the bed, the unwashed, sweat-soaked bedding, the rank odor of grief emanating from my sister—begins to make me nauseous.
“Jonah,” she mewls.
“I know, honey. I know.” When I’m certain she is calm, I ease her back down onto the bed. She stares at the ceiling, then throws her forearm over her eyes. The stuffed animal lies limp at her side. Her lips are cracked and crusted at the corners; her normally rosy, freckled skin is pale, with half-moon bruises under her eyes. Her strawberry-blonde hair is greasy and slick at the scalp and matted at the ends.
“I saw him,” she says. “He was here.”
The pills are talking. I slowly rise from the bed and walk around to the nightstand to inspect the bottle. I can’t tell how many she’s taken today. Guilt gnaws at me. I shouldn’t have left her in charge of her own medication. I shouldn’t have left her alone. But then, someone has to take care of the household. They were out of almost everything. I had to go to the store. The casseroles and premade meals from friends and neighbors are long gone. What was I supposed to do? Let them starve?
I remember the groceries on the porch. “Rachel, I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t go.” Her voice is like a child’s. I know I should feel sorry for her, and I do, but suddenly I’m angry. This is not my sister.
“Rachel,” I say sternly. She flinches, but I continue. “I’m going to bring in the groceries and put them away. Then I’m coming back up here, and you’re going to bathe.”
She shakes her head back and forth.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll carry you if I have to.”
“No, no, no.”
“You stink, Rachel.” I know it’s harsh, but I can’t help myself. If my sister were on the outside of this grief, looking in on someone else, she would do the same thing. “You stink and your room stinks and you can’t live like this.”
She doesn’t say anything. I grab the bottle of pills and tuck it into my pocket, then cross to the window and pull the curtains wide. I slide the window open all the way. Rachel scoots up against the headboard, scans the nightstand, then squints at me.
“Where are my pills, Ruth? I need one.”
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
“I need one. You don’t understand, Ruth. You don’t know what it’s like. I can’t take it, I can’t, I can’t . . . ” She is starting to work herself up again. I go to her and lay a hand on her cheek.
“You have to get through this, honey.”
“I want a pill.”
“After. Your. Bath.”
She glares at me, then gives a slight nod. She grabs the monkey and burrows under the covers, turns away from me onto her side. I release a sigh, then stand and walk to the bedroom door. Just as I step into the hall, I hear her muffled words.
“He was here.”
SIX
SHADOW