The Stolen Breath Read online

  Lea has calmed down now and is biting her teething ring. I’m nervous about getting her out of the car because she might start crying again, and I don’t think I can handle it. But it’s hot, and I can’t stay in the car. Also, Anita might think it’s a good idea to come and speak to me, or even Tamara from across the street, who is always very chatty.

  I’ve been avoiding Anita, just like I’ve been avoiding everyone else. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, so I get out of the car and lift Lea from her car seat. The crying starts, but not as bad as it was earlier.

  As soon as I close the door behind me, I exhale. It takes me a few seconds to notice that the entryway is not as cluttered as I left it. No socks or scarves on the floor. The shoes are neatly put away on the shoe rack.

  I lower Lea to the floor, and she scoots away from me on her butt, which is a new habit she’s picked up somewhere. She seems to want to get as far away from me as possible. I’m finding it really hard to blame her.

  Before she can disappear around the corner to the living room, Anita appears, startling me. “We need to talk,” she says, scooping Lea up.

  “I’m really not up to it, Anita.” I close my eyes. My eyeballs hurt so much they warn me of an even worse headache to come. I slowly open them again and brace myself for an uncomfortable conversation.

  “You’ve been avoiding me for over a week. You don’t answer my calls and you don’t open the door when I come by. That’s why I used my new key.”

  “It’s not just you. I’m not answering anyone else’s calls these days.” I feel terrible for pushing her away, but I’m not great company for anyone. I’d rather lick my wounds in private.

  “You’re still hurting, Delia. You need help.”

  “I tried reaching for help and as we both know, that didn’t do much for me, did it?” I slump against the nearby wall. Madison only served to highlight my flaws as a mother. And Kelly opened the doors to the past wider, and now my demons are free to roam around, not only in my nightmares, but in broad daylight.

  I don’t just see Tina everywhere. Sometimes I see blood, and hear the gunshot that tore my life apart seven years ago, ringing in my ears over and over again. Sometimes I have to clap my hands over my ears to cut out the noise. But there’s no way to deafen the persistent sounds in one’s own head.

  “I know Madison turned out to be a...” her voice trails off. “But maybe you should give Kelly a real chance to help you.”

  “I don’t think so. She wasn’t much different from all the other shrinks.”

  “Because she wants to talk about your childhood?” Anita moves Lea to her other hip. “I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

  “I just...I prefer to focus on my life after I met Andrew. I wanted her to help me through my grieving period and my struggles as a new mom.”

  “What’s going on, Delia? What happened in your childhood that’s so terrible you don’t want to face it?”

  “I’m sorry.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, pushing against my growing headache. “I’m sorry for lashing out at you like that...and avoiding you. I just really want to be alone now.”

  I pray that she will drop the subject of my childhood.

  Her shoulders visibly rise and fall. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about your childhood, but you’re my friend and I want to be there for you. You look terrible, sweetie. When was the last time you even had a shower?”

  Warmth floods my cheeks as I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t have much time for myself. Lea cries all the time. When she’s not crying, she still seems unhappy.”

  “Then let me help you take care of Lea sometimes, so you can have a nice shower. That hair needs washing.”

  “Anita, you couldn’t handle her on your own either, remember? Wasn’t that why you hired a babysitter behind my back?” The thought of having anyone else babysitting Lea makes my skin crawl, even if it’s Anita. When trust is broken, it’s hard to mend.

  Anita drops her chin to her chest. “I’m sorry about that again. I should have told you.”

  “You’re right, you should have.” I massage the tension from the back of my neck. “I don’t mean to throw your kindness back in your face. I just need to do this alone.” Sooner or later, Lea will forget about Madison and return to me, her mother. And with time I will learn to be a good mom.

  “I understand,” Anita says, her voice flat. “I was only trying to help.” She puts Lea back in my arms.

  When she reaches for the door handle, I call her.

  “How are you, Anita?” I tighten my arms around Lea. She’s not crying, but she’s restless. “Are you still going to your meetings?”

  “I am, and talking to Kelly helps as well.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” I wish I was also capable of talking about everything in my life without anxiety or fear. When you have nothing to hide, that’s true freedom, but that’s not the situation I’m in. “I hope you don’t mind, but it’s time for Lea to eat.”

  Food. That’s something I haven’t had much of the past few days, either. When I do eat something, it tastes like paper on my tongue. Meals are so empty and unfulfilling now that I can’t share them with Andrew.

  “Yes, of course. If you need anything let me know.”

  “I’ll be sure to give you a call,” I lie.

  The day drags by as it always does. When the sky outside is a splash of warm colors, anxiety starts to eat at my stomach lining, and I start to drown.

  Nights are unbearable.

  Before bed, I do everything on autopilot. I bathe and feed Lea. For now, she’s still calm, but that won’t last long. The crying will start as soon as I put her in her crib.

  It won’t be easier if I sleep with her in my bed. She cries even more when lying next to me, punching the air with her little fists in anger, refusing to sleep even when I know she’s exhausted.

  Delaying the inevitable, I sit with her in the armchair, like Madison used to. I sing a soft song, making it up as I go.

  As I rock my baby back and forth, my skin starts to tingle. It’s the kind of feeling one gets when someone is staring at them. We’re alone in the house, and yet dread has my heart in its grip.

  I startle Lea when I stand up from the armchair and move to one of the windows, peering through the glass.

  Someone dressed in black is walking past my house. It’s not unusual for my neighbors to take a late evening stroll, but why do I feel so anxious? What the hell is wrong with me?

  With Lea in the crook of one of my arms, I use my free hand to close the blinds. Then I walk around the house, closing every window and making sure all doors are shut.

  As expected, the moment I put her down, the screaming starts. I pick her up a couple of times, but she refuses to stop.

  I have no choice. I have to let her cry it out. Some parents swear by it. Other parents think it’s cruel. But I don’t feel I have a choice right now. I’m too weak physically to even lift her into my arms again.

  Back in my bed, I listen to my baby screaming. I’m desperate to put my hands over my ears, but I’d feel worse than I already feel. I pray she will tire herself out soon and find rest in sleep.

  Half an hour later, she stops. I count to sixty before I relax, but not enough to fall asleep.

  I need to empty my mind of my frustration. Maybe it would help me sleep.

  Before Andrew died, I used to be a regular blogger, sharing my thoughts with my followers at least once every week. I’m nervous about writing down my thoughts again, but I still find myself reaching for my laptop, switching it on in the dark.

  Writing could be the therapy I need.

  I pour out my emotions before I filter them, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

  I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long. Life has a way of getting in the way sometimes.

  In case you don’t already know, I’m a mother now. When I got pregnant, first I was terrified, then I was excited.

  The night I felt the first cramp that signa
led my daughter’s arrival, terror found me again. But I couldn’t wait to see her face. I loved her before I met her.

  What I didn’t know was that my life was about to change forever, for better and for worse.

  How could I have known that saying hello to my baby would be saying goodbye to my husband?

  It’s been almost a year since I became a widow and my heart is still raw.

  I’ve shed a lot of tears. So has my daughter. She can’t sleep most nights and I failed at comforting her. I asked for help...a live-in nanny, but she ended up being a nightmare, so she had to go. Now I’m back where I started, right at square one, trying to rebuild my life with my daughter from scratch.

  But let me tell you, it’s hard, too damn hard. She cries all the time, and I am too exhausted half the time to offer her the comfort she needs. Tonight, I let her cry it out.

  I feel like a terrible mother for letting her suffer that way, but I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I’m ashamed to say this, but I can’t handle it. No one told me how hard motherhood could be.

  She’s finally sleeping, but I’m sitting here writing this post because I’m too tired and broken to fall asleep.

  I hate myself for being weak and for the inability to be a better mother to my child. I should be strong for her, but I’m too weak to try.

  I love my daughter so much, but sometimes looking at her gives me anxiety. And then I feel guilty for thinking terrible thoughts. I totally understand women who choose not to have children.

  It’s too hard sometimes... most times. Tonight is one of those times. I’m pretty sure tomorrow will be the same, and the day after that.

  Do I ever wonder how life would be if Lea were not born?

  Forgive me for choosing not to answer that question.

  I save the post as a draft and shut down my laptop. Writing it made me feel better, but also worse at the same time.

  Chapter 12

  Iwake up before Lea and listen to her snoring softly in her crib. She woke up a couple of times during the night, but now she has been sleeping for at least three hours. She’s usually up before six, and it’s going on seven.

  There’s hope.

  I tiptoe back to my bed and climb back into the warmth of the sheets. Lying on my side with my hands under my cheek, I catch sight of my laptop on the floor. The post I wrote last night gave me some relief, but I’m glad I didn’t share it with the world. I can’t even remember all the things I wrote. I know it wasn’t good.

  When all is said and done, Lea is my whole world. I have to do this. I have to become a better mother to her, but first I need to catch up on sleep.

  Making the most of the time that she’s still sleeping, I bury myself deeper underneath the covers and close my eyes again, only for them to fly open the moment sleep is about to embrace me.

  I was exhausted when I wrote the post. What if I published it by mistake?

  I shove away the comforter and grab the laptop, snapping it open.

  The computer comes to life with a soft sigh.

  The first thing I see when it comes fully alive is the small window confirming that my post has been published successfully.

  Guilt hits me like a bolt of lightning, smack in the center of my chest.

  In a normal world, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I would delete the post before too many people saw it, but that won’t work for me. Over time, I have accumulated quite a following of about 5,000 people, loyal fans who jump on anything I post.

  During the months I was not blogging, I received endless emails from my most loyal fans asking where I was and if I’d ever blog again. I have not responded to any of the emails because I had no idea how to voice the pain that kept me away, but now that I have posted something, I’m certain it would get attention. My blog posts never go unseen, which has now turned out to be more of a curse than a blessing.

  Tears trickle down my cheeks as I scroll down to the end of the post to see the comments, two hundred of them. I’ve never received so many comments in a matter of hours.

  Some of the people are supportive. Their hearts go out to me as they offer their condolences for the death of my husband.

  But other comments are meant to inflict pain.

  I scroll through them, catching words here and there, daggers pointed at my heart.

  One comment in particular stops me.

  I’m sorry about your husband’s death...and everything, but your innocent baby has nothing to do with it. You should be strong enough for her, instead of complaining on the internet. How dare you take motherhood for granted!

  I swallow the sob rising in my throat. My first reaction is to delete the post, to forget about it and pretend I had never written it.

  But it’s too late.

  A quick search on the internet shows me that it has been copied and shared on different platforms, with more scathing comments that make it hard for me to breathe.

  I know I should only read the good ones, but my eyes are drawn to the ones that hurt me, the ones that tell me I don’t deserve to be a mother.

  The emails remind me that there are women out there who cannot have children, that I’m luckier than most and I should stop being so ungrateful.

  When Lea starts crying, I get her and bring her to my bed. With her in my arms, I continue to read through the curtain of my tears.

  “Mommy didn’t mean it,” I whisper to my baby, holding her close, our tears mingling. “I felt so overwhelmed and scared. I love you so much. I wish you could see it and feel it. I didn’t mean to write those things.”

  The doorbell rings downstairs and makes me jump. It’s Anita, and I know why she’s here. She’s one of my blog followers.

  She’s still wearing her pajamas with a bathrobe over them.

  I open the door wider. “You read it, didn’t you?”

  She nods and steps into the house, pulling me and Lea into her arms. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, for what you’re going through. Everything will be all right,” she says.

  She’s my only friend. I should have never pushed her away.

  “I don’t know if it will ever be all right again.” I break the embrace and kiss the top of Lea’s head. “I screwed up.”

  “You are overwhelmed. And you are not the first mother to feel that way.”

  I walk into the living room and sink onto the couch, my heart so heavy I can barely stand under its weight.

  Anita takes Lea from me and sits down next to me. I bury my head into my hands and sob.

  “It seems as if everything I’m doing is wrong. Everything. I can’t take care of my own child, and I can’t take care of myself. I feel like a total failure.”

  She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re far from being a failure. Many people would have been crushed after being hit with everything that came your way.”

  “You’re my friend, of course you’d say that.” I look up into Anita’s eyes. “Come on, be honest. Tell me I’m a bad mom.”

  “That would be a lie.” Anita looks down at Lea. “You’re doing the best you can. And those people who attacked you on social media are probably unhappy with their own lives. Lashing out at you makes them feel better about themselves.”

  I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. “How is it that you always know the right things to say?”

  “Because I do.” She grins. “But seriously, Delia, don’t worry about what those people are saying. They’re all bullies.”

  “Yeah, and here I was thinking I left that part of my life behind.”

  Maybe the reason I’m reacting so badly to all the comments is because it reminds me of the bullying I endured in high school before Tina took me under her wing. I feel the exact same feelings of rejection and pain that I felt back then. Those toxic emotions that had been lying dormant for years have come alive again. I’m a grown woman and I still feel like a child.

  “I’m so sorry,” Anita says. “You don’t deserve all this crap.”

  “Thank you for coming ov
er. I’ll go and change Lea’s diaper, then we can have breakfast together.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t join you for breakfast. I have an appointment with Kelly. But I do have a few minutes to change Lea’s diaper. If you let me. You can sit here and relax.”

  I nod and Anita stands up to go to Lea’s nursery. A few minutes later, they come back downstairs and she lowers Lea back into my arms, ready to be fed. She seems to want me to know that I’m Lea’s mother and no one can replace me.

  “Thank you for being you,” I say. “Thank you for not turning your back on me when I was being a jerk.”

  “You have nothing to thank me for.” Anita kisses my forehead.

  Soon after, she walks out of the house.

  I stand by the window, watching her hop onto her bike and cycle off.

  I feed Lea and do everything else that’s expected of me as a mom. She’s calmer today. Maybe it’s her way of comforting me.

  To preserve my sanity, I don’t go near my computer all day, and when Lea takes a nap, I decide that I should too. But instead, I find myself reaching for the laptop again.

  More comments have popped up, and my mailbox is flooded with more emails. Some are good. Most are bad.

  I click on the one that I know will hurt the most. I can’t stop myself from picking at the scab.

  The subject line makes me bite my lip hard: A message for the mother from hell...

  Dear monster mom,

  For you to sit there and write a blog post that tells the world you wish your child were never born makes me sick.

  Other moms go through the same struggles as you, but they suck it up. They do what they have to do without complaining. They know they’re blessed to be moms and they embrace everything that comes with it.

  But not you. You’re too selfish to do that.

  Your husband’s death may be tragic, but it doesn’t give you the permission to neglect your child. Don’t be fooled. Every time you push her away she will feel it. She knows you don’t love her enough.

  Why am I writing this? I guess I want to let you know that you should be ashamed of yourself for even calling yourself a mother. A real mother is stronger than you will ever be.