When You Were Mine

“And then she can be discharged?”

“Hopefully, depending on the assessment.”

I stared at him, his bland face, his ruffled hair. He was trim and attractive, like he’d walked off the set of Grey’s Anatomy. I couldn’t quite believe he was a real doctor, that I was really here. “May I see her?” I asked after a moment where we’d simply stared at each other.

“Of course.”

A slight, young Asian woman was sitting by Emma’s bed as I came into the room. Startled, she rose when I opened the door. I stared at her blankly.

“I’m Sasha,” she said.

“Oh, of course.” I nodded, still feeling as if I was catching up, as if there was a three-second lag to every thought. “Thank you for…” I paused, took a breath. “Calling 911.”

Sasha nodded hurriedly, already sidling to the door. “I’ll leave you alone…”

“Did you know Emma was… depressed?” I asked, my tone a bit too urgent, and she shrugged unhappily, one hand on the doorknob.

“Sort of? She seemed stressed. But everyone does. It’s practically like a competition.” She nodded towards my daughter lying so still in the hospital bed. “I didn’t know she was like this. Thinking about it seriously. I mean… everyone talks about it.”

“About killing themselves?” My words were laced with pointed disbelief.

“Joking, like. Because of the stress. It’s just how it is.”

I shook my head, and Sasha opened the door.

“You’ll want to be alone,” she said, and then she was gone.

I sank into the chair next to Emma’s bed. Even in sleep she didn’t look peaceful. Her arms were pale and scrawny, against the hospital sheet, and as I looked closer, I saw hatching marks on the inner side of her elbow—self-harm marks. Lots of them.

I let out a shuddering sigh and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel strong enough for this, and yet I had to be.

I spent the night in that chair, half-dozing, jerking awake every few minutes to look down at my daughter. In my mind, a montage of bittersweet moments played relentlessly—Emma as a baby, born three weeks premature, yellowed, wrinkled, and tiny. As a toddler, determined to walk, pushing my hands away, the look of almost grim focus on her little face cute and yet perhaps telling. Emma in sixth grade, spending hours on a science fair project, winning second place. We were so proud, but she shoved the whole project—a model of a space station—in the basement and never looked at it again. She won first place the next year. Emma in eighth grade, with her beauty emerging from awkwardness, self-conscious about her braces, going to a father-daughter dance with Nick. The photo of them dancing together is on our living room mantelpiece.

Then, more recent images—Emma in tenth grade, on a ski trip, all rosy cheeks and long, dark hair; the eleventh-grade prom, absolutely gorgeous in a strapless red ballgown, her date, Rory, doting on her arm, even though Emma insisted he was just a friend. Emma the day we dropped her off at Harvard, a poignant mixture of confidence and nerves. She’d worn a bright green corduroy jacket that was her new college look, and she kept adjusting the lapels, unsure if it was really her or not.

When we’d driven away from her dorm, Nick and I had both struggled not to cry. “It’s just that I’m so proud,” he kept saying, and then sniffing.

That was only three months ago, and now she was here, wan and scarred, a ghost of herself. How did this happen? How did I not see?

I looked back at that lamentable parents’ weekend and thought how stupidly self-centered and insecure I was, hurt by Emma’s reticence, not thinking for a moment that it could have been a cry for help. A desperate one.

Morning dawned, bright sunlight streaming through the windows, the sky a hard, bright blue. On the TV at the nurses’ station there were reports about all the ridiculous Black Friday deals—people storming Walmart for a hundred bucks off a flat-screen TV. I felt exhausted and looked worse; a kindly nurse gave me a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste, which was just about enough to make me feel mostly human. Emma didn’t stir.

The doctor came, checked her vitals, and went away again. I texted Nick for the third time, to tell him nothing had changed, but I thought Emma was going to be okay. It felt like an empty promise, and yet one I clutched at. What was “okay” in this situation?

I waited and waited, my mind too fogged from fatigue to dwell even on memories. And then, towards lunchtime, finally, my baby girl woke up.

Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, and I leaned forward, my heart pounding. “Emma…”

Another flutter, and another, and then she turned her head to look at me, her dazed gaze sharpening as I came into focus.

“Oh, Emma.” I reached for her hand, my voice full of tears, but Emma drew her hand away from mine. She turned her head so she couldn’t see me, and my heart dropped like a stone in my chest.

Emma is released four days later, on Tuesday, after forty-eight hours of observation and a mental health assessment that I’m not allowed to know about. She has the name of a counselor in Boston and another in West Hartford, and she’s coming home.

In the four endless days that I’ve been in Boston with her, Emma has barely spoken to me. I checked into a hotel, and bought some clothes and toiletries, and basically lived at the hospital, either in her room or the cafeteria. I’ve tried patience, and smiling silence, and keeping conversation simply about the basics, but whatever I do feels wrong. The most innocent question serves only to annoy her. When I asked her if there was anyone she wanted me to contact for her, she snapped, “Just don’t, Mom.”

I did contact Harvard, since she was due back there on Monday, and told them she was taking a leave of absence. They said she had to be back for her finals in mid-December for her s