“What’s wrong?”

Gabby

Fade to Black

Walking to the park alone on crowded streets is hard enough for me to do without having an attack. I don’t do crowds well. Walking an unfamiliar route to someone else’s house with their child in tow is a whole new level of anxiety. My hands grip the stroller tight, leaving indents on my fingers, but I’m not letting go for anything. The thought that someone could rip her away from me, and I’d be the cause of ruining Benton’s life, runs through my head the entire time I speed walk back to his place. By the time we make it up the elevator and inside, locking the door behind us, I’m out of breath and on the edge of a breakdown already. Hannah is starving and keeps yelling at me to eat, even signing ‘eat’ by putting her fingertips to her lips. I only know this because I, at one point, thought I’d be teaching my child the same thing.

The maternal feeling and instincts are all still there, hiding in the darkness, but, with Hannah, it all feels natural. She’s low key, and eats what I put in front of her. The fussing stops after she has food in her belly and, shortly after snack time, she’s passed out on my shoulder in the rocking chair. I could lay her down. I should lay her down. But I don’t. I don’t because SIDS is a real thing, and I can’t be the one here if that were to happen. So, instead, I stay curled up on the rocker-recliner with her, scrolling through my phone. I’ve texted Benton a few times, but there’s been no response. If I know hospitals the way I used to, he probably doesn’t have good service in there, but I keep texting. Sending him winks, pictures… anything to help his day go smoother. I’m unsure what’s going on, but it’s already been a few hours with no word.

By the time Hannah wakes up, it’s close to dinnertime. We play for a while, stacking blocks… knocking them down… stacking them again. This goes on for about three minutes, until she’s bored of that game and on to another one. She’s busy, and wants to be independent, but she’s not quite there yet. Cruising along the sofa, she makes her way to the remote and starts chewing on it.

“Gross, Hannah,” I scoff, taking it from her just to hear her start to wail. “Okay, okay… uh… here,” I say, turning it on and finding some sort of happy colored kids show. She stops crying immediately, and is glued to the TV.

Fine with me. I need to make dinner.

After putting Hannah in the waiting Pack-N Play, I head to the kitchen to see what type of dinner I can make us. I should know him better than I do. I should have known someone with a body like his, with abs like his, would be a health freak when it came to eating. It takes me digging to the back of the pantry, but I find a box of spaghetti and a can of sauce that still are good, so I opt for an easy dinner and get to work. Kids love spaghetti, right?

So right.

Hannah squeals when she realizes that she’s going to get to eat soon, and, as soon as she sees the spaghetti, it’s everything I can do to keep her out of her high chair before it’s dinnertime. I never got to this part of motherhood. I was never allowed to get stressed over screaming kids at dinnertime.

And, unfortunately, the alarm going off on my phone right now is reminding me why.

Fuck.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, racing to turn it off. A few hours ago, the noise level in this apartment was bearable, with the soft snores of Hannah sleeping. Add in a hyper girl, cartoons, an oven beeping with garlic bread that’s burning, a phone alarm screaming, and we’ve just probably broken noise records. I can already tell the meds from earlier are starting to wear off, so I’m happy to be getting my evening dose.

Turning the alarm off and grabbing my purse for my backup pills, it’s not until I empty my entire bag out that I realize they aren’t there. The bottle is completely empty. Holy shit, how can that be? Has it been that bad lately that even my back up bottle is empty? When did that even happen?

Oh, God. I can’t be here right now. I took so many meds this morning that, pretty soon, they are all going to crash through my system and I’m not sure what I’ll be like when that happens. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

“Hannah, it’s coming,” I say in a soothing voice to try and calm the screaming kid. I can’t stop now. She’s hungry, I’m hungry, and we both need to eat. I’ll feed her, then figure out what to do about my pills. I’ve never missed a dose, so I can’t miss this one. I’m not stable enough on a consistent regimen; I’d hate to know what I look like when I miss a dose.

Benton texts in the middle of dinner, so I snap a picture of his girl full of spaghetti, messy as can be, and giggle looking at her. She’s going to need a bath tonight. That’ll be good. Clean her up, spend the night snuggling, and take my mind off the fact that I have no pills. Hopefully, he’ll be home soon enough and I’ll be able to get back to my place and get my dose.

When he texts me back, I can feel the stress through the words in his text. I don’t know what he’s going through, I don’t know what happened, but I have to come across as the strong one here. I have to be strong for him and Hannah. He can’t know I’m silently freaking out that I’ll hurt his daughter, or myself, if tonight ends up not going well. I text him back a heart, because something like today can’t even begin to be processed into text messages, then go on my way finishing up dinner and start to get Hannah cleaned.

Bath time with an almost one year old is insane. Water everywhere, toys everywhere, and the screaming when I have to wash her hair is insane. Enough to get my heart racing again for the tenth time this evening. I can tell I’m starting to crash from the overload on meds this morning, and I now feel like maybe that was a bad idea, but I never would have thought I’d end up alone with a one year old for all these hours. I still haven’t heard from Benton about his mom, and I’m starting to worry that something is seriously wrong.

By the time Hannah is finished in the bathtub, she’s a hot wrinkly mess of over-tired and cranky baby. I try everything I can think of to calm her, but the more she screams, the more my heart races. I just want to walk away from her, but I can’t walk away from a crying baby. I just want to let her cry, but I feel like I can’t do that. Each piercing scream that comes out of her little throat starts to sound more and more like his screams the night of the accident. Every blink of my eyes, I see the wreckage, the fire. I see it all, and it’s not long before I can’t take it anymore.

Setting Hannah in her crib, I frantically pace the apartment to try to calm myself. A cool rag to the face, cold water over my arms, deep breaths. Nothing works. She’s still screaming, and I can tell my vision is starting to blur, the panic welling inside of me more and more, setting my entire body off.

This can’t be happening.

Moving for my phone, I call Benton only to get put straight through to voicemail. Trying again with trembling hands, three more times I’m sent to voicemail. He has no reception. I can’t be here alone with her right now. I can’t do this.

“Shit,” I mumble, fumbling with my phone. My hands are shaking more and more, and I’m afraid I’m going to pass out if I can’t get this under control.

So I call the only other person I trust to help me and not judge. Annaliese.

“Gabby?” There’s a ton of noise in the background, and I suddenly feel terrible for bothering them when they are obviously busy. I need her though. This is so scary, and I’m about to completely black out if I don’t calm myself.

“I need you, Ann,” I start to say, then the tears start. I hate admitting I need help. I hate admitting there’s something wrong with me, and that’s why I haven’t. Ever. To anyone. Annaliese doesn’t even know a third of the things I’ve gone through. Shit, why won’t Hannah stop crying?!