A Hope for Emily

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” He glares at me, caught between exhausted frustration and a terrible hurt. “Of course I know that. But at some point, at some point, you have to make a decision. You have to. And I don’t expect you to understand, because you’ve never been where I am.” And there it is, the trump card people play when they have run out of arguments. You have not had my experience. You are not allowed to speak into my situation. No matter what. No matter why.

I take a deep breath. I almost say words I know I will regret. James’ expression is implacable, his bottle of beer raised halfway to his lips. There is a look on his face, a slightly smug look, although perhaps that’s unfair, as if he knows he’s finally got the upper hand. I can’t refute anything he’s said, because I haven’t walked that damned mile in his shoes.

Except I have, and he doesn’t know it. No one knows it. I know what James is going through, at least in the broad strokes, if not the particulars. I know, because I’ve been where he’s been. The situation might have been very different, but the choice was the same.

But I’ve never told James any of that, and I know I can’t tell him now, even though part of me is tempted.

I have been where you are, James, I want to say. I understand perfectly, even if you don’t think I do.

But that’s not even true, not really, and now is hardly the time to say it anyway. We’re not playing some twisted game of one-upmanship here. So I will it all back, and I take a deep breath as I square my shoulders.

“Think about it, please,” I say, and then I walk out of the kitchen and go into our bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me.

Alone in the room, I let out a shuddering sound that comes close to a sob. I pace the room as memories float like bubbles coming to the surface of my mind, fragile and translucent, ready to pop.

After a few moments of restless walking, I sit on the edge of our bed, trying to compose myself, trying not to let those bubbles pop, because what then? A few minutes pass, or maybe it’s a few hours. Time feels like honey, slow-moving and viscous.

The apartment is quiet, the room so dark that I can only see the shapes of furniture—the chair in the corner, the bureau, the wardrobe. I listen, straining to hear, but all is silent. I wonder if James has left the apartment. Left me, even.

Then I rise from the bed, and, before I’ve even acknowledged to myself what I’m doing, I open the big oak wardrobe James and I share, and then go to the bottom of my side, rooting behind several shoe boxes and a clutch of discarded wire hangers I haven’t yet thrown out.

It takes a few moments, but I finally find what I’m looking for, tucked deep in the dark recesses of the wardrobe, underneath the forgotten flotsam and jetsam of my old clothes and shoes. It is wrapped in a silk scarf I never wear; it’s a little enamelled box, small enough to hold in the palm of my hand. There’s very little in it—just two photos. I haven’t opened this box in sixteen years, although it’s come with me wherever I’ve gone. From college in Pomona to my first internship in New York, to the dark and cramped apartment I rented in West Roxbury, and then later to the first apartment I bought in Charlestown, and now here. This box is part of me.

I sit on the bed, the box in my hand, afraid to open it. Afraid to look. To remember.

But already I remember, already this whole issue with Rachel, with Emily, with me, is making me remember, and it’s turning my insides into a froth of feeling, a churned-up mess of regret and fear and grief.

And even though James wants me to, even though I think I should, even though it might cost me my marriage… I know I’m not going to let this go.

*

Dear Bean,

* * *

You are six months old today. Half a year! It seems impossible to me. It’s gone by so fast, and yet I confess, Bean, some days are very slow. This motherhood thing can be tough. I wouldn’t change it for anything, I promise you that, but some days feel as if they go on forever.

* * *

It always irritates me when people ask, ‘is she a good baby?’ I want to ask them what they mean, and if anyone would ever answer no to that question. How can there be such a thing as a bad baby? Of course there can’t, and you aren’t.

* * *

Now if the question does she sleep ten hours a night without a peep? Well, Bean, the answer to that would be no. It took you four months before you slept more than two hours at a time, and two months on from that it’s not much better. Sometimes you go four or five hours, and it feels like a miracle. One time, only once, you slept for seven hours and I woke up with a start, instantly alert and panicked that something must have happened to you.

* * *

I crept into your room and peeked into your crib and there you were, lying on your back in a pale pink sleepsuit, one hand flung palm up by your face. I looked down at you sleeping so peacefully, your little rosebud lips pursed, your cheeks so pink and round, and I almost wanted to wake you up for a cuddle, because you were just too delectable for words.

* * *

I didn’t, of course, because no new mother wakes up a sleeping baby ever. But sometimes I look back on that moment, when the moonlight streamed through the window and you were an armful of joy, and I think, why didn’t I wake you up? Why didn’t I?

* * *

Love, Mama

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