All She Ever Wanted (4 page)

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Authors: Rosalind Noonan

BOOK: All She Ever Wanted
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Chapter 4
W
hen the sobs had drained out of her, Chelsea lifted her head from the steering wheel and took in the charming little Cape Cod–style house with its dormered windows, gray siding, and bright white trim.
Home.
How had she gotten here?
The stir of cloth nearby startled her. She turned to see Annie strapped into her car seat, kicking against the flannel blanket tucked around her legs.
Did I strap her in?
Did I drive us here?
Of course you did.
Part of her knew that. But there was that dark side, the gaping holes just behind her eyes that sucked in conscious thought and tormented her.
Torment.
Why was everything so difficult? Why was she so miserable?
The house staring back at her had become more of a prison than a home, and she longed for the days when she had reveled in every nook and cranny, seeing opportunity for color and light. Those days when she had imagined the loving moments that would take place under this roof.
Great potential . . . that was what Leo had said when they'd first seen this house a year ago. House hunting with Leo had been fun, but she'd been anxious to find the right match. After looking at dozens of homes, some that were disaster zones and others that they could not afford, she had known this house was the one.
The beveled glass windows winked at her in the winter light. Those windows had taken her breath away when she and Leo had first pulled up. They whispered of the house's charm and grace, its history.
“The trim needs painting,” Leo had said that first day as he parked in the driveway.
“Paint is cheap,” she'd answered cheerfully as she'd popped open the car door, eager to get a closer look.
After weeks of traipsing through sad little houses that left her feeling cold, she could barely believe the charm of the little New Rochelle house. The log burning in the fireplace drew her close. The mantel was made of tacky fake brick, but she could remove that. It would be a project.
The wood floors were worn, but they could be refinished, and she loved the warmth of hardwoods throughout the first floor. The kitchen could use updating, but for now it was functional. Of course, it would require some fixes. Paint and windows. Yard work. Someone had painted over the wallpaper upstairs, and the garage door was hanging by a thread. There was evidence of a mouse in one of the closets. None of that frightened her.
Leo ran his hand down the wood banister, testing it for strength. “Sturdy. I like the looks of it.”
“It has good bones.” Chelsea had noticed a few settling cracks in the plaster, but no signs of water damage or structural defects. “And a good heart. You get the feeling that wonderful things have happened here.”
Although Leo usually didn't like it when Chelsea waxed metaphysical, this time he didn't argue. “I like it,” he said. Three simple words, but coming from him, it was a rave review. “But you're the expert. Managing editor of
Home Handyman
magazine. What say you? Like it, Love it, or Gotta Have It?”
“I love you,” she said, “but this house? I Gotta Have It.”
He nodded. “I knew that. I could tell.”
She scooted up to him, slipping into his arms. “I can see us being very happy here.” Despite some obvious mistakes of the previous homeowners, Chelsea knew this was the right house for them. It was easy to imagine living here a very long time with Leo and their little ones.
Children . . . Walking through this house, it was so easy to see herself as a mother. If a house marked the beginning of their fiscal responsibility, children were the ultimate prize. Chelsea wanted to be a mother one day, and she had always felt fortunate to have found Leo in a sea of Manhattan single men who placed “having kids” as a low priority on their list of life goals.
Leo had chosen to begin their house hunting in New Rochelle, an area not too far from the city that was ranked as one of the best places in the country to raise children. Despite his penchant for making light of things, he was serious when it came to planning for the future. Maybe it was because of his childhood, a reaction to the feeling that no one was fending for him when he was a kid.
“We need to make an offer,” she said.
“You're sure?” he asked her. “I know you like the way things are now. The apartment. Living in Manhattan. It's the center of the universe.”
At the start of their search, she had been reluctant to give up their sublet in the city. They had it good. But now that she'd seen this house . . . well, she could say good-bye to Manhattan Island and never look back if she lived in a house like this.
She pressed her cheek to his chest and sighed as her eyes swept up the old wooden staircase. “Wherever you are—that's the center of my universe.”
“And that is the right answer, for fifty points. Care to move to the bonus round?”
She shook her head. “I just want to move in here.”
Right then and there, Chelsea and Leo made an offer on the house.
While the Realtor went off to do her thing, they decided to explore “downtown” New Rochelle. The burgers at AJ's were delicious, the price suited their budget, and the place reminded Chelsea of a burger joint in the town where she'd spent her childhood in Maryland.
They talked budget and career plans. Leo's sales job was going well, and Chelsea had just completed her third freelance article to supplement her meager income at the magazine.
This is real life,
Chelsea thought as she filched a french fry from her husband's plate. Not jobs, but careers. Not a lease, but a mortgage.
A house and a yard.
Leo talked fast through the meal, devouring his burger with his usual speed. She loved seeing him that way, that spark of excitement in his brown eyes. Animated.
And she felt a sure sense of destiny, strong as the pull of the undertow at Jones Beach. This was nothing like the uncertainty she had waded through when it was time to apply to colleges or choose a major.
This decision felt right.
Leo was signaling for the check when they got the call from the Realtor.
Their offer had been accepted.
She high-fived Leo, and worked out some details with the Realtor. Their online mortgage application was complete and they were preapproved, but there would be an inspection and they needed to decide when to lock in the interest rate. “Big-time decisions,” Chelsea said.
“Really. If we don't watch out, we'll turn into grown-ups,” Leo said.
Chelsea couldn't wait to tell Emma they would be living in New Rochelle, too, and it wasn't too late to call Mom and Dad in Florida to let them know.
She would never forget that day, driving home, wanting him so much. Van Morrison was playing in the car—“Into the Mystic”—as Leo drove them into the dusk, into their future. A light snow had begun to fall while they were eating, and it was sticking to tree branches and traffic signs, covering everything in a sugary white coating.
The snow accumulated quickly, slowing traffic. As they approached their neighborhood, they commiserated about the time it would take to find a parking spot.
But as they turned the corner onto Riverside, there it was—a wide-open, legal expanse on the street.
“Grab it!” she said, and a second later Leo swung the car in.
“In New Rochelle, we'll have our own garage with a driveway,” he said giddily.
“Luxurious.” Neither of them had wanted a car in Manhattan, but Leo needed it for his job.
The snow was crisp and squeaky underfoot. Chelsea hooked her arm onto Leo's and they stood still as mannequins on the quiet street.
“I love snow in the city,” she said. “It makes everything clean and white, and it puts a hush over all the noise.”
He stepped away from her and bent down to grab a handful of snow.
“What are you doing?” She backed away as he packed it into a ball. “Think twice about that. I was the best pitcher on St. Philip Neri's softball team.”
“Yeah. And we all know what a powerhouse they were in the late nineties.”
Laughing, she turned and raced down the street, sliding as she cut around a bus shelter where snow was sticking in a jagged pattern that covered half of the billboard for
Wicked.
Shielding herself with the Plexiglas siding, she squatted to gather some snow to fire back at him. She peeked around the shelter, and a snowball whizzed by, clipping her shoulder.
“Whoa! That was close. Remember, you need me to pay half of that mortgage!”
He tossed the snowball from one hand to another. “Now you're getting personal?”
“Absolutely.” She took advantage of his hesitation and launched a snowball at his chest. He turned, and it struck him squarely in the back.
“Hey!” he called after her as she took off running through the snow.
“You won't get off that easy.”
She was a decent runner, but she was giddy from the chase, slowed by laughter and the soft bed of snow underfoot. Leo caught up to her easily, and they both slowed as they caught sight of the footbridge, where the snow encased the pillars and covered the lamps built into them. A warm light of orange and gold and lemony yellow suffused the entire footpath.
“Look at that.” He squinted, snowflakes catching in his lashes.
It was all so beautiful . . . the wonder on his face, the snowflakes lingering in the air, seemingly suspended under the light of the streetlamp, the glowing bridge ahead of them.
“It's magical.” So warm and bright, a sign of good things to come.
She linked her arm through his and leaned close to Leo. They seemed suspended in time, on a floating island of snow, as they walked down the crystal lane, flanked by trees lifting white arms to the sky.
We could be walking through a poem . . . the center line in a haiku.
It was a poetic, magical beginning to their life together.
“This house is going to be great for us,” Leo said. “After the apartment, it'll be a freakin' castle for the two of us.”
“Maybe three soon.”
His lips stretched wide in that smile that always softened the rough edges of a situation. “You know, maybe we'd better get started on that,” he'd said. “Don't want to waste any time.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
In the back of her mind there was the worry that she might have the same problems conceiving that her sister Emma had endured. But then Emma had always suffered from cramps; she'd always had female issues. Chelsea had a feeling that their journey would be different. They had always made a good team, but they were moving into new territory now, buying a house, leaving the city, starting a family.
As they headed back to the apartment, she leaned into Leo, thinking that snow had never looked so beautiful.
Snow with iridescent city lights pooling upon it, like a water-color tray.
Ice crystals that sparkled silver on the bare trees.
Snowflakes filling the air, whispering excitement . . .
 
Not like the snow fading on their front lawn.
She lifted her head from the steering wheel long enough to glom onto the gray patch melting by the edge of driveway.
This was not the snow she had wanted to share with her daughter. It was faded like everything else, its brilliance tainted by the shadows that seeped from her dark soul. It just wasn't pretty anymore.
Chapter 5
A
s soon as she turned onto Chelsea's street, Emma saw the familiar green Subaru parked in the driveway.
Thank you, God.
As she parked on the street, she noticed a figure in the driver's seat behind windows that were opaque with steam. Chelsea was still in the car. For how long?
Through the misty window she could see the baby carrier in the back. Annabelle squirmed, probably eager to get out.
Chelsea was a mound in the driver's seat, hunched over the steering wheel.
Emma rapped on the window, the glass cold against her knuckles.
Her sister didn't move.
Emma knocked again. “Chelsea, honey, it's me. Are you asleep?”
Again, no response.
If it's locked, I'm calling the police,
she thought. She didn't know how to handle this. Chelsea needed real help, not her ditzy sister who had barely made it through Psych 101.
Her fingers closed around the door handle, and it popped open. From this close, she could see her sister's shoulders trembling. Strands of hair fell over Chelsea's face, and the scrunchie was slipping loose from her ponytail.
“Oh, honey . . . am I glad to see you.” She pressed her hand between Chelsea's shoulder blades and gave her a little rub intended to sooth her. “You had me so scared.”
“I'm going crazy,” Chelsea sobbed into the sleeves of her jacket.
Such a thin blazer, and it was freezing out here. In the twenties. How could Chelsea stand to be out in this cold without her coat?
“I wanted to smash into the barrier. I almost turned the wheel and crashed the car with . . . with my
baby
in the back. I'm losing it. I've lost my mind.”
“You're not crazy.” Emma banged into the steering wheel as she hugged her sister, wishing she could transmit feelings of love and security and hope with her touch. “But you're going through a scary time. Promise me you won't do anything to hurt yourself or Annabelle.”
“What's the point? I'm crazy.” Chelsea's shoulders shook as a sob tore through her.
“Chelsea, you are the most honorable person I know. So if you make this promise, I know you'll keep it.”
“I don't know what I'm doing anymore.”
“Just promise me,” Emma said, trying to rationalize her sister to a place where everyone could be safe for now. “Promise me.”
Chelsea sniffed. “I promise.”
“Okay then.” Emma stroked a hand over her sister's smooth, shiny hair. She noticed a slip of paper on the passenger's seat. A prescription. “Can you walk? Let's get you and Annie inside, where it's warm. I'm freezing my petooty off out here.”
Although Chelsea didn't laugh, she did push away from the steering wheel and slide out of the car. Emma balanced her sister on one arm, struggling as she reached in to extract the keys. Chelsea was dead weight. She was falling apart and it was up to Emma to help her out of this. Mom had warned her that Chelsea would need help.
She guided her sister to the side door, managed to unlock the door with the key on her set, and ushered Chelsea in to the small kitchen. The place wasn't looking its best, with dirty dishes and stacks of mail here and there. Clearly it wasn't up to Chelsea's high standards, which Emma suspected made Chelsea's outlook even darker.
While Chelsea settled into her favorite corner of the sofa, Emma hurried back to the car for Annabelle. It worried her to leave the baby even for a minute, even with the car locked. Such precious cargo!
But Annie was fine, squirming and chirping those sharp little squeaks that probably were a sign of hunger. From her observations, nearly every one of Annie's little disturbances seemed to boil down to cries for her mother's milk.
Emma unstrapped her and lifted her out of the infant seat. “You're getting heavy.”
Annabelle's stern eyes found hers and her face puckered.
“Oh, don't take it personally. You're supposed to be gaining weight. Just like your aunt Emma.” She slammed the car door and moved up the driveway, stepping carefully. By the time they reached the door, Annie's whimpers had accelerated to a crying session.
“Music to my ears,” Emma whispered, holding her close. She was so relieved that Annie and Chelsea were okay.
“It's okay, little one,” Emma cooed as she carried the baby into the living room and placed her gently on the changing table that had been set up behind the couch. Although she couldn't seem to reach Chelsea, this was something she could do . . . loving Annie. She leaned in to one of the baby girl's chubby, sweet cheeks and planted rapid-fire kisses.
“What's the matter, Annie-bananee?” Emma ignored the baby's bleating cries as she stripped off her little terrycloth outfit. “I think you need a diaper change.”
Annabelle raged in response, her face red, her arms shaking.
“Oh, I know, my hands are cold,” Emma said. “Sorry, sweetie.”
Loving the infant squirming on the table, Emma set to changing her diaper. The changing table was chic, a cabinet that blended into the living room décor when the doors were closed. Chelsea had driven out to Long Island to find just the right table. Décor had been important before Annie was born; not so much afterward. Today the cabinet doors were open, with a balled-up diaper and a stray wipe on the floor by Emma's feet. Before Annabelle was born, Chelsea had worked out every little detail of this room so that its design was interlaced with function. Eventually, Chelsea would care about things like design again . . . just not today.
Annabelle had soaked through her onesie, so Emma quickly replaced it with a pink romper with covered feet. “This is such a cute outfit. I love the little baby footie pajamas. I need to get some for these cold winter nights.”
Emma lifted her head to check on Chelsea, nestled into the couch. “So what do you think this cry means? You think she's hungry?”
“She just ate at the doctor's office. How could she be hungry again?” Chelsea pressed her fingertips to her temples and let out a breath. “She never follows the schedule. Whoever thought a baby would pay attention to a feeding schedule? It's all so ludicrous.”
“What do you think?” Emma scooped Annie up and rocked her in a dancing rhythm. “Should I try to put her down for a nap?”
“I don't know. I'll feed her again. Just give her to me.”
She sat beside Chelsea and held the baby toward her. “Here you go, Mom.”
Chelsea turned toward her, her blue eyes flashing with anger and annoyance. Was it because she'd said the word
Mom,
reminding them both of their own mother? Frowning, Chelsea took the baby, resting her on her lap while she unbuttoned her shirt.
Brushing the awkwardness aside, Emma offered Chelsea water or tea, or maybe a snack.
“Some cheese and crackers?”
It seemed inappropriate, offering a snack to someone who'd just been to the edge of hell and back, but Chelsea seemed unfazed. “No.”
Emma bit her lip, studying her sister. Should she press Chelsea to talk about her panic attack? She wanted answers, but she didn't want to batter her poor sister with questions.
“Chels, do you want to talk about it? What happened on the parkway?”
Tears flooded Chelsea's eyes. “There's nothing to talk about. I freaked out. Crashing into the wall suddenly seemed like the right thing to do. I know it sounds crazy.” She swiped at her cheeks with her free hand. “I guess that's it. I'm losing my mind.”
“But you're not.” Emma sat down again, wishing she could hug her sister, spin her around. All the tricks that used to work to calm Chelsea when they were kids were now useless. “Honey, you're upset because you care so much. I know you love Annie, and you're not going to hurt yourself, right? You promised.”
Chelsea nodded.
“So just remember that, for starters. And when your medication starts to take effect, I'm sure you'll start feeling better.”
A red flush suffused Chelsea's cheeks as she collapsed into a sob. “The medication. Yeah, I have to get that filled, but it will take a week, at least. And I'm not allowed to see a therapist. And there was no blood test or screening.”
Emma squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
“Dr. Volmer says it's just the baby blues and I should tough it out. And the insurance won't pay for it.”
“Are you kidding me? There's no toughing it out in your situation. I can't believe that guy.”
Chelsea stared down at the floor. “Dr. Volmer doesn't even like to prescribe medication.”
“Well, I don't like to eat my vegetables, but it doesn't keep me from digging into the broccoli.” Emma was so furious with Dr. Volmer, she wanted to march into his office and demand that he treat her sister properly. “Did you tell him everything that's been happening? That this isn't just a bad mood?”
“I told him enough.” Chelsea's mouth twisted as she tried to hold back tears. “He said stuff like this happens to every new mother. He thinks I'm just a complainer.”
“Which couldn't be farther from the truth.” What kind of a doctor treated a depressed woman this way? “You're one of the strongest people I know. You've been dealing with this practically on your own since Annabelle was born, but honestly, sometimes the most difficult part of any illness is asking for help. You reached out for help, and he turned you away. What kind of a moron doctor can't diagnose postpartum depression?”
“
If
that's what I have,” Chelsea said, her voice hollow and thin. “We don't know for sure.”
“I know for sure. Honey, you've got all the symptoms, and some of the key risk factors, too. Any decent doctor would see you're suffering from postpartum depression.”
“That's just a guess, Emma. You're not a doctor. You're not even a nurse.”
The comment stung, but Emma tried not to show it. Though a few years had passed, she was still sensitive about dropping out of nursing school. Nursing had been a dream of hers, but six months into the intensive program she had realized she didn't have the math tools to make it through the meds and chemistry classes.
“I'm not a nurse,” she said quietly, “but I know how to research a topic, and I've been all over the Internet on this one.” She had combed through some books from the library, too—books she'd passed on to Chelsea—but she didn't want to bicker right now. It wasn't about winning the argument; the important thing was to get Chelsea some help. “This thing that's knocked you over, there's a cure for it. There's a treatment that goes beyond a prescription. And, honey, you need the cure. It's time to do an end run around this Dr. Volmer and get you to a specialist.”
Chelsea shook her head slowly, lowering the baby who had dropped off to sleep.
“Do you want me to take her?” Emma offered.
“Please, take her.” Chelsea handed Annabelle to her, pulled her shirt closed, and curled into the couch. “Take her away. Take her home with you so I don't hurt her. I can't be a good mother to her, but I know you'll take care of her. You'll keep her safe.”
“Oh, honey, don't say that.”
But Chelsea closed her eyes and withdrew into herself, leaving Emma sitting there with the baby in her arms and a terrible feeling of inadequacy.
Chelsea needed help. She had almost run her car off the side of the expressway, and Emma couldn't get her to talk about it. Her arms full of life and beauty, Emma leaned down to kiss the baby's forehead.
Sweet Annabelle . . .
Someday, your mother will be back to normal, and you'll know how much she loves you. Someday, you'll bask in her love.
Hold on, little one. Better days will come.
 
She let Chelsea doze off while she took Annabelle to her crib and settled her on the mattress. “Sweet dreams.”
Back in the living room, Emma picked up two pillows that had fallen to the floor and sat beside her sister. Nestled in the couch, Chelsea rubbed the cuticle of one thumb as if scraping off paint. There was such turmoil in her demeanor, so much raw pain behind her stormy blue eyes.
Emma's heart ached for her.
“About the doctor,” Emma began, trying not to badger. “I think it would be better if you saw someone else . . . a specialist.”
Chelsea shook her head. “Dr. Volmer is my assigned ob-gyn now. And we can't afford to go out of plan. I promised Leo we could make his health insurance work.”
That was so typical of Chelsea: buck up and stick with the plan, even if it was killing you.
“Honey, I'm not going to let you suffer with this just because your lame insurance provider doesn't want to shell out the money. We'll put a little pressure on them and make them pay.”

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