The nurse’s voice softens. “That’s pretty common. A lot of mothers try to downplay how hard things have been, especially if they’re high-functioning. But based on her answers—I’m lookingat the paper now—she checked feeling hopeless, like she’s failing, that it’s hard to connect, and thoughts of being better off not here.”
My chest caves in.
“She said that?” I whisper.
“It doesn’t go into any further detail, but her score is high enough that we’re required to follow up. She hasn’t answered our phone calls since.”
I swallow the golf ball–sized lump in my throat. “Right.” I rub a hand through my hair and rest it on my neck. “I’ll have to talk to her first. Thanks for calling.”
“Course. Give us a call then, so we can figure out how to help.”
“Okay.” I hang up and just stand here. In the wide open. My tailgate still dropped, decoys half loaded. The sun is almost fully set now. I have a lot to do yet, but it doesn’t matter. It can wait.
I should’ve known something was wrong and that everything she’s been saying isn’t normal. I thought it was normal to cry as much as she does—being a new mom, being alone for a lot of it, being as tired as she is, irritable, unmotivated—I thought it came with the territory.
But, damn it, why didn’t she tell me about the appointment last week?
I shut my tailgate, hard, and get in my truck to drive down to her. She isn’t expecting me but I’m not giving her a choice. Not with this.
I hear Emma crying from just outside the door. When I step inside, I don’t see anyone, but the crying is growing louder. I take off my boots and head toward the bedroom where Emma is. The bathroom door is half shut. I hear the shower running, and Emma is in the bouncy seat on the bedroom floor, just outside the door, her binky on the floor, and she’s kicking the hell out of the air like she just can’t take being in the dang thing.
“Alright, hey. Shh…” I say as I scoop her up. Her brown eyes stare at me, as I put the binky in her mouth and holler through the bathroom door.
“I’m here, Karissa. I have Emma and I’ll be out in the living room.”
“Okay,” she says, muted, not much emotion to it.
She comes out in pajamas, a towel on her head, her face splotchy and red, dark circles under her eyes. I’m on the couch, and Emma’s in the swing, asleep.
She sits beside me and gives me a small hug. “Thanks for coming.”
“Course,” I say finally. Then I wait. Wait for her to say it. Like the answer might be written in her face somewhere if I just look hard enough.
Her brow pulls. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I repeat. “About the screening you filled out at the doctor.”
She goes still, looking down at her hands.
“How do you know about that?” she whispers. Tears threatening.
I sit up straighter, being mindful of how I speak. I don’t want to sound mad at her. “They called me. Said they’ve been calling but you haven’t answered. So they tried your emergency contact. Which—surprise—is me.”
She swallows. “They can’t make me do anything, and they don’t have the right to call.”
My body stiffens, and my voice is sharper than intended when I say, “When the mother of a child confirms they feel as though they’d be better offnot here, they do have a right, and asyour boyfriend, who loves you more than anything, I have a right to know too.”
She breaks, crying harder, swiping her hands over her eyes and dragging them down her cheeks. My heart aches. My breathing turns shallow. I know I have to watch how I talk—no matter how much it kills me that she didn’t tell me. I force myself to rein it in, to take it down a notch.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I have. And you tell me a bunch of things that I don’t—and won’t ever—believe are true!” she cries.
“Like what?”
