People kept saying this, but Sasha had no idea what that meant. There were the stages of grief—denial, anger, depression, bargaining, acceptance—but apparently, they weren’t linear. They weren’t a checklist. The experts said people tended to bounce between the stages, which had already proved true for Sasha. Some mornings, she woke up and told herself that her sister hadn’t died. It was a bad dream. Daphne was still pregnant, delivering any day now. Denial. The next day, she would wake up heavy, weighed down by the awfulness of it all. Depression. Then one day, she was overcome by a tsunami of rage.
She didn’t know what to do with this anger. She could not seem to get past how stupid this was. Yes,stupid. She could think of no better word to describe it. It was stupid that her sister had died. It was stupid that she had wanted this stupid home birth. Daphne would have survived, and the baby would have survived, if she’d gone to the hospital and been monitored appropriately, with skilled physicians at the ready to tend to any problems. Yes, the Black maternal mortality rate in the United States was appalling—more than double the rate for white mothers—but it was still highly likely that Daphne would have been okay. Sasha could not stop thinking about this, imagining this alternate reality with her sister on the maternity ward, the baby in a little bassinet next to her bed.
It didn’t feel right to direct her anger at Jay. He loved Daphne. He’d trusted her judgment. He didn’t know what he didn’t know. He was the embodiment of an obnoxious trope—the bumbling husband, adhering to the “happy wife, happy life” philosophy. She felt terrible for him. He was blaming himself, and probably would for the rest of his life. For his sake, and her own, Sasha had to think of another target, someone else to blame.
She got the name of the midwife from Jay, who handed over some papers Daphne had signed when she hired the woman for her services. Her name was Rochelle, and she was young and not that experienced, but she hadn’t lied to Daphne and Jay. She had told them that she was new in the field, which was why her rate was so low. Daphne, alwaystrying to get a deal.Stupid.The paperwork Daphne had signed basically released the midwife from any liability. Rochelle, like Jay, was in a hell of self-blame, so it was difficult to hate her. She hadn’t run from the situation, which would have been tempting and even understandable. She was calling Jay every day. She’d written a letter to Sasha and her mother, expressing her profound regret and sorrow.
Things had gone horribly wrong.
That was the crux of it.
There was one person Sasha decided she could hate, and that person was Angeni Luna. Sasha kept visiting her Instagram page, seeing how she portrayed her own home birth as this transcendental experience. There were so many comments from followers who praised her, who said she was inspiring them to pursue their own natural births, free of medical interference. It was here, on this stupid—stupid!—Instagram page, where Daphne had gotten the idea to buck convention and have her baby in a giant inflatable tub. Angeni Luna wasn’t a doctor, and yet here she was, encouraging women to trust their bodies, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their bodies could betray them, that catastrophe was possible.
Sasha composed a message:
Hello. I just wanted to inform you that my sister took your advice and had a home birth and she fucking died, as did her son. You are so irresponsible. So reckless. I don’t know how you sleep at night.
It was biting and unfair, but she sent it anyway.
She stared at the screen, waiting for a reply from Angeni Luna, or whoever was in charge of her account. After an hour of just staring, she slammed her phone onto her nightstand, buried her head in a pillow, and screamed.
The next day, there was still no reply, and Sasha became increasingly agitated. How dare this woman just ignore her message. Did she not even read any of the messages from her followers? Did she think it wasappropriate to just put her agenda out in the world and be closed to feedback? The entitlement, the arrogance, the self-centeredness. She hated this woman, and it felt good to hate her. Anger was energizing, the antidote to the heavy-limbed feeling that accompanied sadness.
She went for a run and felt like her feet were barely touching the ground. She was just gliding through the air, powered by her rage. At the end of her run, sweaty and breathing heavy, she texted Jay:
I hate Angeni Luna
He texted back.
I know. I shoulda talked Daph out of it
He couldn’t stop bringing it back to himself.
She was brainwashed, Jay. It wasn’t your fault.
He didn’t reply. There seemed to be no convincing him.
Sasha began to fantasize about avenging Daphne’s death. This seemed like the only way to stop her brain from looping over the same thoughts. There had to be some justice for Daphne if Sasha was ever going to have peace.
It seemed cut and dried: Angeni Luna needed to feel repercussions. People needed to see her for the self-righteous, reckless person she was. They had to realize her role in Daphne’s death and shame her for it until she was canceled into oblivion. Sasha saw it as a kind of math equation. Daphne’s death had created this huge sum of suffering. Right now, Sasha and her mother and Jay were the ones carrying it. The midwife too. Angeni Luna deserved her fair share. It stood to reason that if some of the burden, some of the weight, was put on Angeni Luna, the rest of them would have less to withstand. This was not how life worked, of course. But Sasha was desperate to believe it was.
Chapter 9
Gwen
Jeff had never been the silent treatment type, but after the door-slam incident, he withdrew, becoming sullen and dejected and mute. Gwen could sense his disappointment with her, with how the early days of parenthood had made them into their worst selves instead of their best. Or maybe it was just her that was her worst self. He seemed to be exactly the same person he’d been before June arrived, and maybe that was the problem.
After a few days of tense quiet, their bodies moving awkwardly around each other in their shared living space, as if they were engaged in some strange performance art about marital discord, Gwen decided a peace offering was in order.
Jeff was packing his leather messenger bag for the day, stuffing it with various folders and papers. He had a deposition, and he was running late.
“I was thinking,” Gwen said as he snapped his bag shut, “you’re probably right. I should try that support group.”
When his eyes met hers, she could see the hope in them. It was a boyish, innocent kind of hope that told her he hadn’t given up on her, after all. His faith in her, in them, was alive and well, and she felt suddenly like crying for ever doubting their ability to survive this.
He put his bag over his shoulder and came to her, put his arms around her middle, hugged her so tightly that she did start crying.
“I think that’s a great idea,” he said, his breath hot on her ear.
