My answer is all over the counter. Lots of miniature cereal boxes are stacked on top of each other. The words loops, krispies, pops, and flakes spring out at me. The cereals come in all kinds of flavors, but the ones that stand out are chocolate, cinnamon, cookies, and honey.
Next to the boxes is a container of baby formula. The dirty baby bottles are dumped in the overflowing sink. Lavinia is a huge proponent of breastfeeding and planned to breastfeed her baby for a year or longer. The fact that she’s giving Jenna formula speaks volumes about her fragile emotional state.
I planned on going shopping first, but it might be best for me to clean up the mess. A clean house could help improve Lavinia’s mood.
Several times while washing the dishes, I have to hold my breath, overwhelmed by the smell of stagnant water and rotting baby formula. The dishwasher doesn’t seem to function, so I wash the mountain of dishes by hand. It takes me over half an hour.
Next, I wash Jenna’s bottles and sterilize them. Then I make her a warm bottle of formula so it’s ready when she wakes up.
By the time I’m done cleaning, the kitchen is sparkling and the trash can is emptied.
Tidying up outside the house is hard when people are staring at me as they walk by. I do my best to ignore the whispers and the pointing.
I only return to the house when Jenna starts crying.
Back inside the nursery, I lift her out of the crib and hold her to me. She leans back to gaze into my eyes.
“It’s okay, little one,” I soothe. “I’m here now.”
Still holding her in my arms, I walk to the bathroom to check up on Lavinia. It’s been a while since I left her in the bath. She must have fallen asleep.
She is asleep, but she doesn’t look much better than before. She looks worse. Her face seems to have grown paler.
“Lavinia, are you okay?” I ask. “Your baby girl is awake.”
She doesn’t answer.
I shift Jenna to one arm and touch Lavinia’s shoulder.
Her entire body slides lower into the water. Her head follows.
She doesn’t struggle for air.
Chapter 23
Ilower Jenna back into her crib and run out of the nursery. On my way back to the bathroom, I call 911.
I’m moving so fast that I slip on the wet tiles. I’m not sure how water got to the floor. Lavinia must have gotten out of the bathtub while I was washing dishes.
Jenna is screaming, but I can’t comfort her right now. Not yet. I need to help her mother.
Even though Lavinia is not moving under the water, I force myself not to think of the worst.
Holding back a scream, I slide my hands under her upper body and pull her up. All the oils and soap I poured into the water make it hard for me to keep hold of her.
“Lavinia,” I call repeatedly.
When she still doesn’t respond, panic riots within me.
“Sweetie, please, say something. Talk to me.”
My lungs are screaming with exhaustion when I get her out of the bathtub and onto the tiles.
With my mind in total disarray, it’s hard for me to remember the first aid course I took years back. It was such a long time ago that the memories come to me only in fragments.
I bring my lips to Lavinia’s and attempt to breathe air into her lungs. My tears drip from my eyes onto her face, mixing with the water on her skin.
After a few seconds, I place my palms on her chest and press several times before returning my lips to hers. Is she even getting enough air from me? I’m also gasping for oxygen.
