When Dr. Horowitz finally speaks again, I am drowning. “Emily. You’d been doing well. But we talked about this. Symptoms can reemerge postpartum. You were supposed to come back—regular visits after the baby.”
“A shrink? I can hardly make it to my physical therapist.”
Dr. Horowitz exhales, tightening her lips. “What you’ve been experiencing, it feels real, but it’s like a fugue state. Amnesic barriers in the hippocampus cause memory deficits. It’s like pseudo memories, cognitive inhibition. It’s very common for people with DID to have trouble determining if an event is actually part of their personal history, part of reality, or whether it’s something they’ve learned.”
“ ‘Did’?”
“It’s short for dissociative identity disorder. You remember that.”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“You will. You need to be prepared for that.”
—
She was right. Several hours of talk and hypnotherapy and by the time I left her empty office, I started to remember, slowly at first and then all at once. The flat black scribbles I’d read in Daisy’s journals? Those were my stories, alive in vivid Bic ballpoint color. It had been over fifteen years since I’d created Daisy, a symbol of indulgence,charm, the allure of the rich. The nymph who resisted Apollo’s advances before being transformed into a laurel tree. Fifteen years since I’d been desperate and climbed onstage in cutoffs and a Burrito Barn T-shirt. Then Daisy came back. To help me cope with the crushing strangeness of new motherhood. The loneliness and isolation, the loss of self like an aftertaste I couldn’t shake, the styrofoam flavor of tiny surfboard-shaped teething wafers. Because maybe some things can never be erased. Maybe they’ll always leave a rot that festers beneath the baby registry.
—
That night, Holden is so happy to be home, with his sing-along mobile and the solar system of glow-in-the-dark stickers that Roman stuck on his ceiling, making sure Aries, Orion, Hydra, hung accurately. It occurred to me that this nine hundred square feet in Stuy Town is Holden’s universe. After I count forward to three hundred and back, rocking Holden to sleep, I sit on the sofa holding my breath.
I forget what time Roman’s flight lands. With the time difference, we’ve hardly talked. I tell myself that if he came home before I fall asleep, I will tell him everything. If he comes home after I drift off, I will go back to sleep. I will live in the before times for one more night. The sound of luggage, keys and cuff links tossed on the table. I crack my eyes. What time is it in Australia?
“Yeah, babe. Missed ya. Sorry I bailed. It’s a proper shit show back home—my uncles and Lucas are out of work again. He’s actually moved into Gigi’s, but my mom already put it on the market. We might have to get a fucking restraining order…” He’s talking so fast that he’s hardly looked at me. “We met with a lawyer. Oh, and Belinda is pregnant again…” He stops. He walks toward me, before he walks to the nursery, to the crib, to squeeze his favorite thigh, which is less chubby every day. “Shit. I’m an arse. I haven’t even askedyou what happened with your mam. You took off to Texas fast. I missed you.”
We hug. “We missed you, too.”
Again, he says how sorry he is for having to work so much. He walks into the bathroom. “Mam says she’s booking a flight to New York next month even though my sis is now saying she might be put on bed rest. I swear to fucking God, it’s her third kid. The whole family just keeps piling shit on Mam.”
“When do you think she’ll come visit?” I ask, trying to ignore that Daisy is there, spread-eagled on a chair. “Can you please fuck off?” I mouth.
“Yeah. No.”
I can’t look at Daisy, so I walk to the kitchen and dig around in a Target bag that Roman picked up on his way home. Formula, diapers, two packs of organic banana and sweet potato Happy Baby puffs. Not a grape or an IPA in sight. Roman comes out. He starts to unbutton his shirt. Daisy stands behind him.
“Of course they shitcanned half the team while I was gone, and right before the P and G audit. I’d be gone, too, but I guess they need someone to crunch the numbers.”
Daisy is barefoot, sitting on the floor, her skirt spread wide. Sirens roar outside. “Hey, babe?” I say, a shadow of my voice. “We need to talk.”
Roman walks into the living room and looks out the windows. But there is nothing to see, just another siren.
Daisy rolls her eyes. “Does he ever listen to a word you fucking say?”
“Hey,” I say with more punch. “Can we talk?”
Roman turns to look at me, his eyebrows lifted. “What is it?”
But all I can say, eyeing the Target bag, is, “You got his favorite flavor.”
“Huh?”
“The Happy Baby puffs.”
“Figured we were out,” Roman says.
Daisy is gone. Roman sits next to me on the sofa. He flashes me a crooked smile that makes me wish he would take me right then. He rubs his finger against my wrist. I stiffen. “What’s up?” He picks up the remote. I take it out of his hand.
My heart beats, a beast ready to shatter. I have entire chapters of my biography to tell him about. I take a deep inhale and then I start at the part he already knows. I remind him that I was diagnosed with some pretty serious mental health issues as a teenager and that I stopped taking a lot of my meds during pregnancy.
