upstairs and crawl into her bedâ and the orange prescription bottle in her nightstand.
No. She canât let herself do that.
She pushes her way to a stack of tubs against the wall. Ancient history back hereâmaybe this will be easier to deal with.
The topmost one is full of clothing.
Marin lifts out the first item, a plain old blue T-shirt.
Why would I have saved this?
Then she spots the flaps in the bodice and realizes itâs a nursing top. There are a dozen more; nursing bras, too, and nightgowns, even maternity dresses. She saved them all.
Didnât she realize, after the disastrous circumstances of Annieâs birth, that there would be no more babies? Was she really holding out hope for another child?
She remembers being terrified that Caroline wasnât going to survive her illness; terrified that after bearing three children, she would be left with only one.
Tears fall freely as she sorts through the remnants of early motherhood, remembering the days of morning sickness and labor pains and endless wee-hour feedingsâ¦
With Annie, anyway. Sheâs such an easygoing kid now that Marin rarely remembers what a demanding, fussy, colicky baby sheâd been.
After a few exhausting months, the pediatrician said she didnât need to nurse in the middle of the night. âSheâs not hungry, she just wants attention. Sheâll learn to comfort herself if you let her cry it out.â
Cry it out? Marin was aghast.
Not Garvey, though. Heâd wanted to let her cry it out beginning when she came home from the hospital.
Garvey had his reasons, Marin knows, for resenting Annie from the moment she was born. Noâ¦even before she was born. When prenatal testing confirmed his worst fears, he was faced, for the second time in his life, with an unwanted child. And for the second time, he told Marin they werenât going to keep it. It , like some castoff object and not a person.
Bastard .
Marin had learned the hard way not to let anyone rip her own flesh and blood from her arms. All that talk about what a great gift sheâd bestow upon a perfect strangerâ¦
This time, she ignored it, determined to keep her baby, to raise Annie with enough love to make up for everything.
And I have. Iâve done all thatâ¦
For Annie.
Iâve done for her what I didnât have the strength to do for Jeremy.
If Iâd found the strength to do the same for Jeremy, would he be alive right now?
Marin wipes away her tears, dumps the heap of nursing clothes into a black garbage bag, and ties it shut.
There.
One bittersweet chapter of her past, closed forever.
Â
Driving over to the Long Hill Road Sunoco in midday traffic, Brett found his imagination carrying him to some dark places.
Now, spotting Elsaâs dark blue Volvo sitting at the edge of the gas station parking lot, he exhales for what feels like the first time since he spoke to her back at the office.
He pulls up alongside Elsaâs car. Sitting behind the wheel, she raises a fingertip to her lips and gestures at the backseat.
Seeing Renny curled up back there, small and defenseless, sound asleep, Brett feels sick inside. If Elsa is rightâand sheâs not the one whoâs imagining thingsâthen someone, some monster, in the truest sense of the word, was in Rennyâs room last night as she slept.
God only knows what might have happened if she hadnât woken up and called for help.
It was Elsa who went in there, not you. You rolled over and went back to sleep. How could you?
If anything had happened to his little girlâ¦
But nothing did.
And nothing will.
Because Brett knows, deep down inside, that his wife is sometimes frighteningly fragile; that her imagination can be vivid and powerful; that her mental health history includes episodes of delusionâ¦
But heâd thoughtâhoped, prayedâall that was behind her now.
Brett turns off the car and climbs out. Elsa does the