Page 67 of Dandelions and Smoke

Beneath her rage is hurt, a pain that she’s never let me see except through the fractures of her losing her composure.

“I was trying to respect what you asked. I thought I was doing the right thing.” I exhale, my shoulders dropping from the weight of the past.

“The right thing?” She laughs, sharp and humorless. “That’s what we’re calling it? How noble of you, Chief.”

She says it like a slur, mocking my position.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I wanted…” Whatever she’s about to say is clipped, as if she’s realizing mid-sentence that she’s about to reveal her hand.

My head shakes. I wait, but I know what comes next. It’s what always comes next.

“Forget it,” she says, like she’s said a million times before.

I used to beg for her to tell me what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but she’d leave me in the dark. I eventually stopped looking for the light. But still, even now, I press on.

“No,” I reply sternly.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her tone losing its bite.

“It obviously does,” I press.

After another long pause, her voice drops, quieter now, but no less angry. “You saw me disappearing.”

It always comes back to this, and the guilt floods in. “I knew you were struggling,” I rasp.

“You thought I was tired,” she huffs, and even though we’re on the phone, I can see her in my mind, rolling her eyes, crossing her arms as she turns away from me.

“You’d just had a baby,” I exclaim.

I was a new dad and didn’t know what a new mom was supposed to act like. I didn’t understand that what she was going through wasn’t normal.

“I wasn’t tired,” she says flatly.

I say nothing as the memory and grief hollow me out, leaving an aching emptiness behind.

“I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep even when he slept. I’d stare at him because I was terrified something would happen if I closed my eyes… that it would be my fault.”

Her voice shakes, and it’s like I’m reliving the nightmare with her.

“I stopped laughing.”

“Jay…” My stomach knots itself tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut, grabbing my head in my hand.

“I stopped being me.” She pauses. “And you believed me when I told you I was fine.”

But you weren’t. I remind myself now. I found out the hard way.

“You believed me,” she whispers, and the accusation lands harder than if she’d yelled.

“I didn’t know,” I murmur.

“You didn’t look.” Her tone shifts, and just like that she’s gone from a moment of vulnerability to one of accusation.

“I looked every day.” I defend myself the way I have a dozen times before.

“Not hard enough.”