Seventeen Pots of Hydrangeas

On the nineteenth day after giving birth, I told my mother something felt wrong. She didn't even look up. "Who isn't exhausted after having a baby? I didn't have anyone helping me after I gave birth, and I still got through it." After that, I stopped talking about it. At night, when Noah cried, I got up to warm his bottle. My hands shook so badly that I dropped it on the floor. Carol ran out of her room barefoot. The first thing she said was, "Are you doing this on purpose?" Once, a nurse from the clinic came out for a postpartum home visit and asked how I was feeling. Before I could answer, my mother cut in. "What could possibly be wrong with her? She eats my food, lives under my roof, and still complains that taking care of her own baby is exhausting." After the visit ended, my mother slammed the door. "You really know how to put on a show for outsiders." During that time, I spent every waking second trembling. Then I started growing hydrangeas on the balcony. Seventeen pots. I planted them one by one, counting the days. Those ten minutes I spent watering them every day were the only moments when I felt like I was still alive. Last week, driving Noah home from his vaccination, I thought the first flower should be blooming soon. Then I opened the door. The balcony was empty. Only smears of soil left on the tile. My mother was in the kitchen trimming beans. She didn't even look up. "I pulled the flowers out. They attract mosquitoes. The balcony's better used for the baby's things." I said nothing. I walked out to the balcony and stood there a long time. The wind came through. The air was clean, without even the faintest trace of flowers. I looked down at the dirt marks on the tile. And suddenly I thought they looked like the last evidence that I'd ever existed in this house. Chapter 1 I stood on the balcony, staring at the muddy streaks left on the tile. They twisted across the floor like hydrangea roots after someone had ripped them out by force. "What are you staring at? Noah's awake. Are you deaf?" My mother's voice cracked across the living room. Noah was crying in his crib, his face red. I reached for him. Mom knocked my arm aside. "Your hands are shaking like that. What if you drop him?" She picked him up with practiced ease and started soothing him. Without looking back, she asked, "Did you warm the bottle?" I went into the kitchen and switched on the bottle warmer. The bottle slipped from my fingers, struck the edge of the counter, and rolled across the floor. Mom came in barefoot, snatched it up, and ran it under hot water. "What exactly can you do? "You can't feed him properly. You can't take care of him. But somehow you had plenty of energy for flowers. "You're upset because I threw them out? The balcony was covered in dirt and mosquitoes. Where was I supposed to hang his clothes?" "Those flowers were —" "In this house, what could possibly matter more than that baby? The flowers? Or your little feelings?" At six-thirty, the front door opened. Mark was home from work, and Mom was already at the entryway to meet him. "You're back? Dinner's ready. I made the pot roast you like." He set down his bag, played with Noah for a moment, then finally noticed me. His smile disappeared. "What's wrong? Crying again?" Again. That word hurt more than it should have. Mom sighed deliberately, keeping her voice soft enough to sound reasonable and loud enough for him to hear. "Don't even ask. I cleared those flowers off the balcony and she acted like I'd killed someone. Stood out there all afternoon. Didn't warm the bottle. Didn't go near the baby." Mark frowned. Not because he was worried. Because I was inconvenient. "They were just flowers. Was it really worth all this? Your mom's only thinking of Noah." Mom smiled. The expression said, See? I told you. "At least Mark has some sense." She handed Noah to him, moving around me to do it. "Here. Let Daddy hold you. Daddy's dependable." At dinner, a full plate sat in front of Mark. Mine held broth and a few slices of onion. Not one piece of meat. "You should eat light. Your milk supply's already poor. If you get another clogged duct, that's more money wasted fixing it." "Mom." I put down my spoon. "I grew those hydrangeas myself for Noah. I wanted to take him out there and —" "Enough." Mark set down his fork. "Can we get through one meal without this? Do you have any idea how much your mother has done for us?" Mom's eyes reddened instantly. "I came all this way to look after her after the baby was born, and I don't even get a thank-you. If I'd known, I'd have left her to manage it all herself and seen how long she lasted." "Carol, don't be upset." Mark reached over and refilled her glass. "She's always like this." Then he turned to me and lowered his voice. "Clean up after dinner. Don't make your mother do any more work." I finished the bowl of meatless broth one mouthful at a time. It was salty. I couldn't tell whether it was the broth or my tears. At eleven that night, everyone was asleep. I walked quietly to the crib. Noah slept deeply, one tiny fist curled shut, his mouth slightly open. I reached out and touched his cheek. So soft. So warm. A tear landed on his blanket. I planted those flowers for Noah. When he was old enough to walk beside me, I would point them out one by one. They were gone. But I was still here. "What are you doing?" The light snapped on. Mom stood in the doorway, staring at me the way you'd stare at something dangerous. "Why are you crouching over him in the middle of the night?" "I just wanted to look at him." "Look at him?" She crossed the room and started rolling the crib toward her door. "You're not stable. The doctor said you shouldn't handle him at night." "No doctor ever said that!" "Keep your voice down!" Mark came out of the bedroom looking irritated. "What time is it? Does nobody in this house want to sleep?" He looked at me, then at Mom. "Take him into your room, Carol. She's not doing well lately. If something happened —" He didn't finish. But the if cut through me anyway. The crib wheels crossed the floor. Noah woke and started crying. Mom lifted him into her arms, put her body between us, and carried him in. The door closed. The lock clicked. His crying came through the wood, muffled and far away. Mark passed me and stopped. "Can you just act normal for once?" Before I could answer, he went back into the bedroom and shut the door. One by one, the lights in the apartment went out. Only a thin line of light remained under my mother's door. My son was behind that light. And I was locked outside. Chapter 2 Mark booked a hall for Noah's sip-and-see and invited close to forty people. Mom had been getting ready since early morning. She put on a new burgundy coat and had Mark drive her out to get her hair done. When she came back, she stood in front of the mirror admiring herself from every angle. "You look great today, Carol," Mark said. She beamed. "Of course I do. It's my grandson's sip-and-see. His grandmother has to look presentable." Then she saw me in the mirror. Her smile faded. "You should fix yourself up too. Put on something decent. Don't go looking like you just finished crying." I opened my closet. The last sweater without formula stains had a stretched-out neckline. "That's what you're wearing?" Mom looked me over and turned away. "Whatever. Wear what you want. It's not as if anyone's looking at you." The hall was full of relatives and friends. Mom carried Noah from group to group. "Look at our little boy. Doesn't he look just like his dad?" "He's so healthy. You're raising him well." "Of course I am." Mom laughed loudly. "I've been the one taking care of him since he was born. His mother isn't well and can't manage much. I know exactly how much he drinks, when he sleeps, when he's had his shots — everything." The relatives praised her. "You've worked so hard." "Tell me about it." Mom sighed, dropping her voice just enough to sound private while making sure the whole circle could still hear. "I had a perfectly comfortable life back home, but I had to come out here. If I didn't love that boy, why would I put myself through it?" I sat in the farthest corner and picked at my plate. Judy, Mark's aunt, came over with a glass in hand and patted Mom on the shoulder. "You're lucky, Carol. Mark's wonderful to you." "Absolutely." Mom handed Noah to Mark and looked at him with satisfaction. "My son-in-law's a hundred times more dependable than my daughter. Good money, good to his family. Nina got very lucky." Mark smiled. He didn't disagree. He didn't look at me. Susan, seated at the head table, joined in. "Mark really does have it hard. He works all day, then comes home and has to settle the baby and the grown-up." The grown-up. She meant me. My fingers tightened around my fork. Beth, who was married to Mark's cousin Danny, sat down beside me and asked quietly, "How are you recovering? You don't look well." I'd just opened my mouth when Mom's voice came across the room. "What could possibly be wrong with her? She eats my food, lives under my roof, doesn't have to worry about the baby, and somehow she's still the tired one." Beth gave me an awkward smile and stopped asking. Then Noah started crying. Mark couldn't settle him. Mom was halfway through a conversation across the room. I stood without thinking and reached out. "I'll take him —" Mom crossed the floor, lifted him out of Mark's arms, and turned so my hands closed on nothing. "I've got him. Don't touch him. Your hands are cold." Then she smiled at the people nearest her. "He cries harder when she holds him. Maybe babies can sense things." Several of them laughed. My hands stayed up in the air for a second, and then I lowered them. I went back to my seat. Everyone crowded around my child. Mom laughed the loudest. Mark played along. Susan sent someone out for more food. Everyone in that room seemed to belong to my son. Except me. I stood up. "Mom." She was passing a tray to Judy. She turned, still smiling. "You keep telling everyone I can't do anything. Have you ever once asked me?" Her smile disappeared. The room went quiet. Mom's face slowly hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?" "I have postpartum depression. I'm not useless." My voice shook, but I kept going. "I take care of him too. I warm bottles at night. I change him. I rock him to sleep. You just don't see it." Every eye turned toward me. Mom's eyes filled instantly. She set her glass down hard enough to rattle the table. "So that's what this is. I leave my own home and come out here to take care of you, and in return you humiliate me in front of the entire family?" "I'm not humiliating —" "You are!" She stood, her voice rising. "Everyone listen to this. What am I doing all of it for? I had a good life back home and I came out here to be her servant. And now she's angry at me for caring too much." Her lips trembled. "The greatest regret of my life is giving birth to her." The air froze. All I could hear was my heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Under the table, Mark grabbed my wrist hard enough to hurt. "Enough." He spoke through clenched teeth. "Sit down." Mom covered her face and began crying. Susan hurried over with tissues. "Please don't be upset, Carol. Nina doesn't know what she's saying. I'll apologize for her." Judy rubbed Mom's back and glared at me. "Do you have any idea how much your mother has sacrificed for you? How could you embarrass her in front of everyone?" Aunt Lorraine shook her head. "It's understandable to be emotional after a baby, but you can't take it out on your own mother." No one asked me anything. Not one person asked why. Mom's crying grew louder. Everyone comforted her. I stayed in the corner with red marks on my wrist from Mark's fingers. He'd already let go. Now he stood with a drink in his hand, smiling at the room. "Sorry, everyone. She's been unstable lately. I'll talk to her when we get home. Come on — today's supposed to be a happy day." His smile was flawless. As if the last few minutes had never happened. When it was over, I stood outside the hall holding Noah's little jacket. Mom came out. Her tears had already dried. She passed me without stopping. "You embarrassed me today. You'll answer for that." Mark came behind her with one arm around her shoulders. He never looked back at me. I stood at the entrance with the jacket against my chest. I lifted it and breathed in. It still smelled faintly of milk. And I was already losing the chance to hold my own child. Chapter 3 After the sip-and-see, Mom stopped yelling at me. The silence was worse. Every morning she made breakfast for Mark and a bottle for Noah. She skipped me with perfect precision. I started making my own. She leaned against the kitchen doorway with her arms folded. "Oh. So now you know how to do something yourself." On the third day, Mark came home and didn't even check on Noah first. He locked the front door. Then stood in the entryway looking at me. "My mother called me today." I blinked. "Susan?" "Your mom's been calling her every day, crying. Saying you hit her. That you scream at her. That you smash things around the house." "When did I ever —" "Let me finish." His voice was calm. That frightened me more than shouting. "Everybody on my side knows what happened at the sip-and-see. Now they're saying I married someone unstable." He paused. "My manager pulled me aside at work today. Someone passed the story along. He told me to keep my home life stable and make sure it doesn't affect my job." "I didn't cause a scene." "You didn't?" His voice rose. "You made your mother cry in front of forty people." He stepped closer and pointed at the coffee table. "If you're sick, get treatment. Don't drag the whole family down with you." If you're sick, get treatment. He'd said it many times. He'd never once taken me to a doctor. On the fifth day I was washing dishes when I heard Mom on the phone in the living room. Her voice was quiet enough to sound private. Loud enough for me to hear. "Yes. She's getting worse. She smashed a bowl a few days ago. I didn't even dare say anything to her." I'd dropped a bowl while washing it. My hands had slipped. "I'm frightened too. What if one day she's holding the baby and she does something —" She paused. "Mark told me he can't take much more either." The plate in my hands went still. Who was she talking to? I moved closer to the doorway. Her last sentence came through clearly. "All right. You talk to her too, then. She listens to you." She hung up. I stepped back into the kitchen and pretended I'd heard nothing. But I understood. She was building the story before anything happened. On the seventh morning I woke up and the apartment had changed. Mom's suitcase was gone. Her closet was empty. So were Noah's clothes. His bottles. His blankets. Even the toy that hung over his crib. I ran through every room. Living room. Bedroom. Nursery. Empty. I called Mom. Once. Twice. Five times. She answered on the sixth. "Stop calling. He's with me." "Where did you take him?" "Home. Why?" "You had no right —" "No right?" Her voice sharpened. "You can't hold a bottle without dropping it. You creep into his room in the middle of the night. You are not well." My whole body shook. "I'm not unstable. I have postpartum depression." "Same thing. Who in their right mind would leave a baby with you?" "Did Mark agree to this?" Silence, for about a second. "Ask him yourself." She hung up. My phone was shaking. No — my hand was. I checked Mark's location. He wasn't at work. His car was parked downstairs. I went out to the balcony. He was leaning against the driver's door, talking on the phone. Smiling. I couldn't hear him. But I could read his lips. "Don't worry. She can't do anything." I stepped backward. My back hit the doorframe. My phone buzzed again. The family group chat. Mom had sent a sixty-second voice message. I played it. Her voice trembled with practiced grief. "Everyone — I really didn't want to air this in public, but I can't handle it anymore. "Nina's mental state has gotten worse since the baby was born. She's angry all the time. She throws things. She's put hands on me. "You all saw what happened at the sip-and-see. "We were afraid she'd hurt Noah, so we had no choice but to take him somewhere safe. "If she contacts any of you, please don't engage with her. Don't set her off." Messages appeared one after another. Uncle Ray: That doesn't sound like Nina. She was never like this. Carol: She changed after the baby. Doctors say the severe cases can turn violent. Aunt Marcy: Then get her treated. Right away. Susan Parker: Mark's exhausted too. Works all day and comes home having to watch her. Aunt Lorraine: I thought something was off at the sip-and-see. The way she acted was frightening. I kept scrolling. Dozens of messages. Not one of them asked me anything. Nobody wrote, Nina, are you okay? I opened a private chat with Marcy. "Aunt Marcy, I never hit anyone. Mom is lying." Five minutes passed. Read. No reply. I messaged Ray. "That's not what happened. Please believe me." Read. No reply. I sent another. "I'll go to a hospital. I'll be evaluated. I'm not violent." He finally answered. "Nina, your mother's only doing what she thinks is best. Get some rest and stop overthinking." Stop overthinking. I hated those words more than anything. Every time I said I was hurting, someone told me I was thinking too much. As if all my pain existed only because I'd imagined it. I put my phone face down on the couch and walked out to the balcony. The tile was spotless. Before she left, Mom had even scrubbed away the dirt marks. Nothing remained. As if those seventeen hydrangeas had never existed. As if I never had either. Chapter 4 Mark came home that night. He set down his bag and turned on the television. Everything looked normal. As if the apartment weren't missing a crib. As if our son hadn't disappeared out of it. "Are you hungry?" I stood in the kitchen doorway. "I can make you something." He looked at me. "Your mother leaves and suddenly you're normal?" I didn't answer. I made two plates. He ate on one side of the table. I sat across from him. Between us was the empty high chair. "I want to see Noah." His fork stopped. "Your mother said you can see him when you're more stable." "I only want to see him once." "Nina." He set the fork down. "Can you give it two days? You've worn your mother out. Now you're starting on me. What exactly do you want?" He reached into his bag and put a document beside his plate. I looked down. Divorce papers. "What is this?" "Read it." I opened it. He wanted sole custody. I would waive any claim to marital assets. His signature was already on the last page. The date was three days earlier. Before Noah had been taken away. They'd planned all of it. "Your mother thinks we should handle it cleanly while he's still small," Mark said, casually, reaching for his glass. "She says the way you are right now isn't good for him." "She says that?" "Yes. She doesn't think you're capable of raising him." Not capable of being a mother. The words went in one letter at a time. "What about you?" I looked at him. "What do you think?" He didn't answer. He finished eating, carried his plate to the sink, and passed me on his way to the bedroom. "Sign it. It's better for everyone." Then the bedroom door closed. I sat alone at the table. The empty high chair faced me. The papers lay open at my elbow. The apartment was quiet enough that I could hear the refrigerator running. I stood, and walked into the nursery. The crib was gone, but a shallow scratch remained on the wall where the rail had rubbed. A single tiny sock had been left behind in the drawer. So small — barely longer than my thumb. I closed my hand around it. Then I opened my phone and went into Notes. I typed a few lines. Deleted them. Typed again. Deleted those too. After a long time, I left only this: "His vaccination record is in the second drawer of the nightstand. I circled shot next time in red. "He needs someone to pat his back before he can fall asleep. Not too fast. About the rhythm of a heartbeat. "Buy the formula in the green can. He's mildly lactose intolerant. "He's afraid of thunder. Hold him tighter when it storms and cover his ears." I looked at those lines for a long, long time, and then added one more. "I'm sorry. I really tried." I left the phone on the nursery windowsill. The screen was still lit, and the light fell on the scratch in the wall. I set the little sock beside it, folded neatly. Then I left the apartment. The air outside was warmer than the air inside had been. The streetlights stretched my shadow long across the pavement. The convenience store on the corner was still open. The clerk was half asleep at the counter, and a stray cat was cleaning its paws by the door. It looked up when I passed. I crouched and touched its head. It didn't move away. It pushed against my fingers, then went back to what it was doing. I stood up and kept walking. The building behind our complex had a roof access door that had been broken for months. The management company had posted notices three times. Nobody ever came. Wind poured down the stairwell, stronger on every landing. I pushed the door open and the whole city lay out in front of me. Across the street, on the seventh floor, one window glowed a warm yellow. A woman was walking back and forth in front of it with a baby against her shoulder, rocking gently. Getting him down for the night, probably. I watched her for a long time. The wind blew my hair across my face. I didn't push it back. I took off my canvas sneakers and set them side by side. Then I took a receipt out of my pocket. The pen I'd picked up outside the convenience store was almost out of ink, so I pressed hard. On the back I wrote one line. "Seventeen pots of hydrangeas. I wanted to count every one of them out loud for him." Across the street, the seventh-floor light went out. She'd gotten him to sleep. The wind was strong. But I wasn't cold at all. At seven the next morning, Frank Doyle came up to the roof for his routine check. He opened the door and saw a pair of white sneakers first. Set neatly side by side at the edge. A receipt underneath them, one corner lifting in the wind. He picked it up and read it. His legs went out from under him. His voice was shaking so badly he could barely get the words out. "I need police — hurry — somebody's gone off the —"