When my parents wanted me to sleep, they would strap me into my car seat next to William and drive around for hours, hoping I would drift off, even if just for a few moments. This often didn’t work, and I would simply gaze out the window, enraptured by the world moving past me.

William would ask to lie down with me, insisting he could help me fall asleep. After my father had spent some time lying on his back, balancing me on his swaying knees, rocking me from side to side, he would place me next to my brother. We looked like two porcelain dolls in matching pajamas with our chubby, flushed cheeks pressed together. And then, miraculously, we’d drift off to sleep in our parents’ bed.

I couldn’t sleep. It was my fault. I knew it was my fault. Jack knew. The doctors knew. The nurses knew. My parents knew. They all hated me. That was why I was alone in my hospital room. They didn’t want anything to do with me. I’d killed my baby.

I had spent the morning listening to baby trolleys wheeling past my room. Unable to turn my head, my eyes remained fixed on the fog that was collecting outside, clinging to the concrete of the parking lot below. I wasn’t surprised that Jack had disappeared. I wasn’t surprised that my father and my mother hadn’t shown up. I lay glued to that hospital bed, staring out the window, unable to cry.

A nurse entered my room. “You know, you’re lucky,” she said, lifting the brown clipboard hanging at the bottom of my bed, bringing it close to her nose. “You’re so young, you have plenty of time to have more babies.”

My eyes followed the woman’s motions.

“The doctor has cleared you to leave.” She dropped the clipboard and it hit the plastic baseboard with a clack. “We called William, your emergency contact. He’s waiting outside.”

I sat up, and as the nurse left the room, William entered. His morose expression shattered what was left of me. Neither of us said a word as he helped me out of bed and into the black wheelchair he had been given. Grabbing my bag, he wheeled me down the long hallway of the maternity ward. The space was filled with the sounds of babies crying and cooing, families laughing together, oohing and aahing over the newest additions to their clans.

William hit the call button for the elevator. The doors dinged open, and once inside, he situated me between two other women in wheelchairs, both with newborns swaddled in their arms, my own arms empty.

Chapter 63

I often practiced smiling in the mirror. Bringing my face close to its reflection, I would pull the corners of my mouth upward, a dimple forming only on the left side. I’d smile with my mouth closed, keeping my lips tightly pressed together. I’d hold it until my mouth began to twitch, staring into my own eyes, and then I would let the smile fall.