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Authors: Rosalind Noonan

BOOK: All She Ever Wanted
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She glanced up, the line of her bifocals evident in the light. “How was your dinner?”
“Nice,” Chelsea and Leo said in unison.
Chelsea wanted to escape upstairs and pump, but she didn't want to seem rude.
“Did she cry?” Leo asked.
“For a little bit.” She rose and smoothed down her smock.
“I was hoping she wouldn't give you a hard time,” Leo said.
“All babies cry, Mr. Green. But she took the bottle right away, and after some fussing she went to sleep.”
“She really fights sleep at night,” Chelsea said.
Mrs. Rosekind nodded sympathetically. “Little Annabelle might have a touch of colic.”
“That's what I was thinking,” Leo said. “Sometimes when she cries at night, it sounds like she's in dire pain.”
“I hope she wasn't that bad for you. I know a baby like Annabelle must be more challenging than a good baby.”
The nurse turned a stoic face to Chelsea. “Oh, they're
all
good babies, Ms. Maynard. Some of them just need more care than others.”
“Well, sure.” Chelsea fiddled with the button of her jacket, feeling awkward.
Of course Annabelle was a good baby. She was just stuck with a bad mother.
Leo paid the nurse, asking her if she could help out the following week when he would be out of town for business.
“Oh, no. I have a full-time job Monday to Friday, and my weekends get booked up weeks in advance. My husband would divorce me if I start working a second job during the week. But I do enjoy the little ones, and Annabelle is precious. She reminds me of my daughter when she was a baby.”
Leo beamed. “Underneath all that fussing, Annie does have a great little personality.”
“She's a sweet little thing,” Mrs. Rosekind said. “And don't worry. I never mind the crying.”
I hate the crying,
Chelsea thought as she escaped up the stairs. She wished that she could say that in front of the nurse.
I hate it all . . . the whole mother thing. And you're so good at it. You'd be a better mother for my baby. Why don't you take her home for a few days . . . weeks . . . months?
Just take her.
Chapter 8
“Y
ou put dee lime in dee coconut, drink it all up,” Leo chanted as Annie looked up at him with those amazing blue eyes that had won his heart from the moment she was born.
The delivery room docs had insisted that she couldn't see him because of those drops they always put into babies' eyes, but from the way she stared up at him, stern as a lawyer cross-examining a suspect on the stand, he knew the doctors were wrong. Annie could see him, and she wanted some answers. She wanted to know who the hell he was, what the hell she was doing here in this brightly lit room that seriously lacked décor—her mother's daughter—and why was everyone fussing over the lady on the other side of the curtain?
“You got a lot of questions for a little bundle with a button nose,” he'd told her. The surgical nurses had put him in a chair at the side of the room and told him to stay put with her. So, seeing all the questions in those eyes, he'd rattled off the answers.
“I'm your dad, Leo Green. You're in an operating room. Sorry, kid, but with a C-section you didn't score the birthing suite. And all those people in blue scrubs and hats and booties and masks are working on your mom. You'll get to meet her soon, and I'm pretty sure you're gonna love her. I know I do.”
Leo had talked with his daughter from the start. He gave a play-by-play on each diaper change. He asked her what she wanted to wear. Whenever he gave her a bottle, he sang to her. And though she didn't talk back yet, the look in her eyes was enough of an answer. She liked his rap.
This particular Saturday morning, it was the coconut song.
“Put a little burp in the coconut, then you'll feel better,” he sang as he flipped her little body to burp her on his knee. He'd seen the position in one of Chelsea's baby books and Annie seemed to dig it.
A belch popped out, and he turned her upright in his arms. “That was a good one, Lady Baldy. Care for some more elixir of life?” He turned on the British accent as he offered her the bottle once again.
She started sucking again, less enthusiastically but that was okay, since she was almost done. This time he sang “Born to Run,” singing to fill in the guitar licks. Thank God Annie-bananee was a good eater. With everything that was going on with Chelsea, he didn't know how he'd manage a picky baby.
And to Chelsea's credit, she had stayed on top of the feeding thing. Even though she was exhausted she had kept breast-feeding because she knew it was healthier for Annie and cheaper for them. She pumped milk a few times during the day so that he could do the nighttime feedings by bottle. And weekend feedings like this.
Yeah, Chelsea was trying, but after a week on the medication, he didn't see any signs that she was getting better. Granted, she hadn't had another crisis in the car, but she still wasn't the old Chelsea. She was listless and teary and lacking in energy. And with the Boston convention starting Monday, he worried about leaving Annabee alone with her.
The crisis in the car still worried him. In the past, Chelsea's freak-outs had involved harmless fantasies, like imagining Annie flying into the wall or thinking how her little body would fit into the oven. Sick ideas, yeah, but she had never thought to act on any of those visions.
Until last week in the car.
And the car—that was like a soaring rocket. A serious threat to his wife and daughter.
Annie had dozed off. He took the bottle away, and her lips still smacked at the air. Her eyes were closed, but her pale brows lifted in a hopeful expression, and then relaxed as she settled into a deeper sleep. Nothing else in his day gave him the same contentment as taking care of her. But now he felt like he was letting her down, going off to Boston and leaving her alone with Chelsea. And Chelsea didn't seem to trust herself. Last night she had begged him to bag out of the convention.
He had half a mind to call his boss and cancel the trip, but in the long run it would hurt his commissions and his chance for promotion. Boston was the plum conference. If he bowed out, he'd be cutting into his income. His family's income.
But he couldn't take the chance of Chelsea having another crisis . . . the chance of either his wife or baby being injured or worse.
He wasn't sure what to do.
With Annie napping in her bucket seat on the kitchen counter, he started making breakfast. Most meal preps started with a search for the kitchen knives from wherever Chelsea had hidden them. Today he checked the cabinet where they kept the pots, the high cabinet over the fridge, and the coat closet, where he located the butcher block of knives in the back with a scarf wrapped around the handles. The knife hunt was always a pain in the neck, but he indulged her on it.
He chopped chives and ham to put in the scrambled eggs, and took bagels out of the freezer. His boss, Mark, wouldn't be too happy if he ducked out at the last minute. Shit. Well, it was worth a phone call to Mark's cell today, just to see how hard it would be to send someone else. He glanced at the clock and realized the call could wait. Nobody liked to do business before eight on a Saturday morning.
If he had to go, he needed some plan to keep Annie and Chelsea safe. Maybe Chelsea would agree not to drive the car while he was gone. He could hide the keys to her Subaru.
Yeah, but what if there was an emergency? His wife was a grown woman; he had to trust her with the car keys.
He just had to make sure everything was in order for her. He would clean the house today—thoroughly—and get everything under control so that Chelsea could focus on taking care of Annie while he was gone.
He scraped a block of cheddar against the grater. Yeah, take out your frustrations on a brick of cheese.
Major frustrations . . . and a fair share of anger that he kept tamped down way below the surface.
Leo considered himself to be a flexible guy. He could roll with the punches, but never in a million years had he expected this. To see his wife drained of life and enthusiasm. That she could become such a zombie that he wasn't sure if he could trust her with their baby. . . . That was sick.
With everything prepped for the scramble, he decided to flake a while and give Chelsea some more time to sleep. He switched on the television and paced over to the windows. A fine snow was falling, but it didn't look like anything that would stick. Across the fence, Louise Pickler's yard looked pristine—a bed of smooth white snow with a shiny melted glaze. Their neighbor was still at her winter place in South Carolina.
By contrast their backyard was a haphazard pattern of snow mounds and trampled areas where he had walked Annie around in the snow last weekend. A happy mess, framed by the fence that he and Chelsea had put in themselves. The memory of her boundless energy for the project made him smile. His beautiful wife had gotten right in there, mixing cement and fixing posts. In her baseball cap and overalls, she was a holy terror with a nail gun.
That was the sort of enthusiasm she brought to everything, before the baby.
He missed his wife.
His breath clouded the window and he turned away, looking at the clock and the foods chopped and ready to go. Suddenly, he didn't have the energy to pull it all together.
Besides, the whole world looked better after a nap. He'd crack this nut later.
He placed a receiving blanket over the sleeping Annabee. Stretching out on the couch, he pulled a fleece throw to his chin and closed his eyes.
Chapter 9
L
eo's voice, so animated and full of love, pulled her from sleep. It wasn't a bad way to wake up. Her breasts were thick and sore as she stretched toward the clock.
After ten thirty?
Leo must have given Annie a bottle so that Chelsea could sleep in.
“Don't be a wiggle worm.” Leo's voice came from the nursery next door. “If we get this diaper on, you get to eat.” Leo actually seemed to enjoy changing Annie's diaper.
The floor was cold on her bare feet, prompting Chelsea to move faster. She put on a robe and fished through the cluttered closet floor for her slippers as her husband cajoled the baby. He was pleased that her diaper rash was better, and he touted the fact that they'd been using “good old-fashioned Vaseline.”
With all the books she had studied before the baby was born, all the tips on baby care, she had never thought she'd be too alienated to use the information. But whenever he was here, Leo was the one caring for Annie. Leo did the shopping. Leo did the cooking. If Chelsea didn't produce milk, she could physically bow out of the family triangle. She could be free.
Well, almost. Guilt would follow her like a gray shadow.
Her lips puckered as she struggled to hold back a crying jag. She took a deep breath and pulled the brush through her dark hair. Despite last night's sleep, there were violet circles under her eyes and her face was puffy. This was not a good look for her; depression was sucking her soul away.
Brushing her hair back, Chelsea wondered if her mother had gone through this. If only she could ask her.
“Let's go wake up the
mamasita,
” Leo told Annie.
“She's up,” Chelsea called.
“Hey, sleepyhead. I'm getting Annie changed so that I can take her for a walk in the park when she finishes eating. I figure you could use some downtime.”
“Sounds good.”
“Don't worry,” he told the baby. “We'll bundle you up. I'll zip you into that little pink puffy thing that makes you look like a Christmas goose.”
She envied the easy conversation Leo had with the baby. He connected with her. He loved her.
“Don't you worry about Mommy,” he said. “She gets to see you all the time, but I only get Annabee weekends and nights.”
You would think he was talking to a real person.
Well, Annabelle was real. Just not close to possessing conversation skills yet.
She met them in the hall, where Leo held Annabelle so that she faced out, her little eyes shining as she stared at Chelsea. In Leo's arms, she looked cute and innocent.
“The milk truck has arrived,” Chelsea said, reaching for her.
“I'll carry her down,” Leo offered, turning toward the stairs. “If you want, I can scramble some eggs while you're feeding her. I've got it all ready to go. You hungry?”
“Famished.”
In her usual spot on the couch, Chelsea pulled the baby to her breast. Annie latched on and seemed to snuggle against her.
The emotion that tugged at Chelsea was bittersweet. She didn't mind feeding the baby knowing she'd be taken away for the rest of the morning. Was that normal? Staring down into Annabelle's serious blue eyes, Chelsea knew she had strayed from normal three months ago.
Leo chatted as he cooked. The weather. Annabelle's new Yoda smile. His upcoming trip. He was so darned happy; Chelsea hated to be the spoiler in his day.
“Hey, it's day eight, right?” He had been keeping track of her time on the Nebula. “How are you feeling? Notice any changes?”
“I do. They're not the happy pills I'd like them to be, but I'm thinking more clearly, and things don't seem to be as dark and overwhelming as they were a week ago.”
“That's great!” Leo stabbed the spatula in the air as if it were a trophy. “You're doing great, Chels, and I know it will keep getting better and better.”
Chelsea hoped he was right. She was worried about being on her own with Annie this coming week—a first for them.
When Annabelle finished nursing, Leo produced a plate of steaming eggs, a buttered English muffin, and orange wedges.
“Thanks.” Chelsea didn't know what she would do without him. Leo was the only thing that kept her going.
“You're welcome.” He checked the kitchen drawers, the hook by the stove . . . the drawers of the rolltop desk.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, holding a forkful of eggs in the air.
“Your car keys.” He rolled open the desktop and whistled at the mound of bills. “Hon? These look like they're getting out of control,” he said gently.
Her chest tightened. “I know.”
“Are we behind on our bills?”
“It's all insurance stuff and doctors' bills. It's all their mistakes. They still haven't added Annabelle to our policy, so all her bills keep bouncing back.”
“I see that.” He leafed through the bills.
All this week, she hadn't made a single call to Sounder. “I've been waiting until I feel better, and you know, I think I can face it now. I'll get on it today.”
“Do you want some help sorting this out?”
She put the plate on the coffee table. She would love help, but this was her job. She was supposed to take care of the bills so Leo could focus on work. Clients and commissions. “I can do it. I'll call them today, during their Saturday hours. I just think they secretly try not to pay, thinking that they're going to wear you down. I bet a lot of people just give up trying to get through on the line and pay the damned bills.”
“Could be,” he said absently. “But we need to get this stuff resolved. Some of these bills are two months overdue. We don't want to screw up our credit.”
“You're right. I'll call Sounder today.”
“Thanks, honey. And if you need a hand with it, I'm game. I've got the afternoon to set you up for the next week. I'm going to clean the house and stock up on groceries. You'll be good to go for the week.”
 
After Leo carried Annie out the door, Chelsea went straight to the shower. The hot stream of water was her only waking escape, and she sighed as she stepped in and faced the faucet. Often she sat on the floor and cried, letting the hot water wash away her tears. But today, she didn't need to collapse on the floor.
Was that a sign that she was getting better? She hoped so.
Her hair was still drying when she opened her laptop. Last week, after she had come up with a mission, she had pushed herself to start researching the gas line installation. She wasn't ready to jump into the project, but she could start some research.
As she waited for her laptop to turn on, the ugly pile of bills caught her eye. Leo would be so pleased if she made a dent in it. With a decisive frown, she clicked on the Web site for Sounder Health Care. There had to be some way to reset her password.
She tried logging in under her usual password, but it was invalid. She requested a new password and it sent her a link, but when she tried to use it, she was knocked off the site.
“Grr. This is why I hate you so much!” Fired up, she snatched the phone and called the company's eight-hundred number.
“Thank you for calling Sounder Health Care, where your health needs are our priority,”
said the man on the recorded message.
“I don't think so.” She paced from kitchen to living room.
“Do you know you can pay a premium or settle a claim using our online service?”
the recording asked.
“Actually, you can't, because the Web site won't let me in.” She knew she sounded like a raving lunatic, but it felt good to argue with the dummy voice.
“Your call will be handled in the order that it is received. You are currently caller number seven.”
“Lucky seven. You'd just better answer before you close shop.” On Saturdays the “helpline” was only staffed until one p.m. She wondered if Janet, her “personal rep,” would really be taking her call on a Saturday.
She sat down at the little desk and leafed through the invoices, trying to stack them in order.
One pile was for Annabelle. None of the bills from Annie's pediatrician had been paid because Sounder claimed to have no record of her birth. Chelsea had sent them the birth certificate five times. Five maddening trips to the grocery store to use the photocopy machine.
And then there were Chelsea's bills, rejected for a variety of reasons. Somehow she had been added to the policy as Chelsea Green—Leo's last name—though she had always been Chelsea Maynard. The company refused to pay for the C-section surgeon, saying the procedure wasn't preapproved, though it had been an emergency.
Chelsea nibbled on a cuticle as she waded through the bills. Eventually, the company would pay these; she knew that. The frustrating part was that she had to waste her time and energy taking them to task on every invoice.
After twenty minutes of waiting and pacing, her neck and shoulders ached and she fantasized about the scathing letter of complaint she would write to the president of Sounder.
After nearly thirty minutes, a female voice answered. “This is Janet. . . .”
My personal rep.
“How may I help you?”
“I have a mountain of medical bills that need to be straightened out because your company keeps rejecting all our claims,” Chelsea said, trying to temper her anger. “There's so much paperwork here, I don't even know where to start.”
“Let's start with your name and policy number,” the woman said smoothly.
Chelsea paced impatiently as she recited reams of personal information. Insured's name. Policy numbers and Social Security numbers. Dates of birth and employers. Address, phone, and cell. “Do we really have to go over all this, when I have a stack of claims to straighten out?”
“We need to confirm that you are who you say you are, Mrs. Green.”
“Well, for starters, I'm not Mrs. Green. My name is Chelsea Maynard.”
“Mmm. I see some documentation about a name change here.” A pause, and then Janet added, “I'm not sure who handled this before, but there's a note from the underwriters saying that you need to supply us with a copy of the court order changing your name to Chelsea Maynard.”
“I have always been Chelsea Maynard.”
“Is that your maiden name?”
Maiden name
was such an archaic term. “You people were the ones who insisted on calling me Chelsea Green, just because Green is my husband's last name. It was your mistake and you need to fix it.”
“Where I was raised, a woman changed her name when she got married.” The Sounder representative sounded smug, judgmental. “Are you and Mr. Green legally married?”
Chelsea pressed a hand to her head, trying to keep her comments in check. Yelling at Janet would only slow down the process.
“Next claim . . .” Chelsea picked up the stack of claims for Annabelle and asked if she had been added to their policy yet.
“Annabelle's birth certificate was scanned in, but not processed yet,” Janet said, as if she were proud to have found the information.
“What does that mean?”
“Processing takes two to four weeks.”
“Another four weeks?” Chelsea tossed Annabelle's claims into the air. “She'll be four months old! The kid will be out of diapers by the time you pay a cent for her!”
“That's our procedure.” Janet's voice was deathly calm. “We have to authenticate a document before adding a child to a policy.”
“It's ludicrous!” Tears stung Chelsea's eyes. “Just as insane as refusing to pay for an emergency C-section!”
“If you are referring to a claim, you need to give me the claim number.”
Through her tears, Chelsea read off the number on the printed form.
“It's the coding that's the problem,” Janet explained. “This procedure wasn't coded as an emergency surgery, so we're not contractually obliged to pay for it. Elective surgery requires thirty days approval time.”
Defeated, Chelsea collapsed on the sofa. “I was splayed open on the operating table like a filleted fish,” she said, her voice low and hollow. “My uterus was outside my body. Inside out. And I was awake and shaking and sick when I should have been welcoming my baby into the world.”
A sob rolled from her throat, and for a moment she forgot about the woman on the phone and cried for the woman who felt like she was dying while the object of her dreams, the baby she had carried inside and tried to nurture, was beyond her reach, experiencing the world away from her mother.

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