Page 22 of Insidious

Amelie fusses, turns her head, and refuses to latch.

I try again.

And again.

My arms start to tremble, frustration building under my skin. I think I am going to cry.

“I don’t think she’s—” I can feel my lip wobble.

“She will,” Manon says insistently, oblivious to the fact that I don’t want anyone here … Not her, or her daughter from another mother, or even my stupid, stupid husband, who has not shooed them out yet. “Sometimes, it takes a few tries.”

Chloe hovers nearby, watching everything.

She is close … too close.

Heat creeps up my neck.

“I know,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

Isaac steps in finally, blocking them from us with his broad back.

“Maybe she needs a minute,” he says, meeting my eyes.

I look up at him, grateful.

He’s watching me.

Not the baby or them.

Me.

“I’ve got her,” he adds, reaching for Amelie.

Isaac settles beside me again, crowding in while blocking their view with his broad back.

“Hey,” he whispers. “No rush. We’ll figure it out.”

I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping just a little.

And this time, she latches. Relief hits me so suddenly it almost hurts.

“There you go,” Isaac whispers, a small smile on his face.

I let my head fall back, eyes closing. It hurts, but at least I did it. I wish Mum were here. She is still a couple of hours away.

But for a moment, everything feels right.

And then the memory fades.

The warmth slips through my fingers.

I wake like I’m being dragged through quicksand, as though my body has surfaced before my mind has quite caught up, and the first thing I notice is the pain in my head as the bright light blinds me—a pressure that sits behind my eyes and spreads outwards each time my heart beats, making even the idea of moving feel like a mistake.

There’s a sound somewhere—steady, rhythmic, like everything is louder inside my skull. Even my own breathing echoes in a way that makes my stomach roll. When I try to swallow, the dryness in my throat sends a dull ache upwards that folds into the headache until I can’t quite separate where one ends and the other begins.

I try to open my eyes and immediately regret it because the light is too sharp, slicing through me. I flinch, closing them again as the pain spikes. For a few long seconds, I stay completely rigid, instinct telling me that stillness is safer.

A memory comes in fragments, but the moment I try to hold on to it, the effort alone makes the pressure in my head throb harder, and a slow nausea builds.