Page 123 of My Unfinished Heart

“This might sound a little crazy,” she admits, going in. “Hear me out.”

I nod, suddenly nervous again.

“Did you know you were a preemie?”

Frowning, I nod again. My mother explained that to multiple doctors like it was the best excuse she could come up with for why I was so fucked up.

“And you know I used to work in a neonatal intensive care unit.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That I did not know. “Okay.”

“You were born on a holiday. Just before midnight. I worked the night shift. I remember when they brought you in. You weren’t breathing on your own. You had a lot of complications. It was a hard delivery.”

“Wait—” I hold up my hand to stop her. “Is this a true story?”

“It is, and I have a point. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from when I get to it. So save all your questions and comments until I’m done.”

“You were my nurse?”

“Three nights a week.”

“What hospital?”

“Archer.” She gives me an admonishing look, annoyed I’m not abiding by her no questions rule.

“Sorry. Go ahead.” I lean back in my seat, folding my arms across my chest, because I’m feeling suddenly defensive.

“Your mother didn’t visit much on the night shift. Three nights a week, it was just you and me. West was four months old at the time. I missed him so much, so you got a lot of my attention. Years’ worth of misplaced maternal devotion, I’m sure, but I don’t think either one of us minded. I was in a dark place, and I decided you needed me. It felt like you did anyway, when your own mother couldn’t be there.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I didn’t put too much thought into it at the time. Who was I to judge someone struggling to adjust to motherhood, you know?”

“I guess.”

“Well, once you were healthy enough to go home, I offered to follow up with you. Your mother was scared to death to take you home. You’d had this habit of stopping breathing in your sleep. By the time we discharged you, you were doing fine, but she knew it was something we’d dealt with a lot at the beginning. I told her I could stop by once a day to make sure the equipment was working right. Make sure you were still healthy and feeding well. All the usual things a home health nurse does. She agreed to it. She offered to pay me a lot, too. She was a piece of work, your mother.”

I don’t want to know. I want Helen to get to the fucking point of all this.

“Of course, I had to bring West with me most times, and your mother always took the opportunity when I was over to run errands. The three of us—me, you, and West spent a lot of time together back then. You were a fussy little thing, but you were precious. I would hold you right here.” She places her hand on her breastbone, over her heart, tapping it in a steady rhythm. “You loved being rocked in the chair by your bedroom window. You just slept and slept, like you’d never slept a day in your life. I held you on my chest, and I’d get West in my other arm, and we’d all rock together. You two would even share a blanket. You were so sweet. It was hard for me to put you down when I’d get hold of you.”

This can’t be a real story. It’s like a fable. An allegory.

She goes on, her hand falling back to rest on the table. “When you got a little older, your mother would call me up three or four times a week. She paid so much, I was able to quit my second job, so when I didn’t have to work, I picked you up, brought you home, and took care of you. Sometimes she’d even leave you with me the whole weekend. But then, over the years, I saw you less and less, and when you should have been getting into everything the way West was as a toddler, you were always sleeping. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what I could do about it except be there for you when she let me.”

At this point I feel really and truly defensive. Like my privacy has been invaded. Violated. And also like I’ve been thrown to the wolves with no way to defend myself.

“By the time you were four, I didn’t see you anymore, and it ate at me. Years went by, and all the messages I sent your mother asking after you went unanswered. So, I finally reached out to your father—my Hail Mary. He answered. He told me you’d been accepted at Cardigan, and that you enjoyed painting, and that you’d been through a lot with illnesses off and on, but you were healthy now and going off to school. Archer, I’d prayed for you every day. For years I had to count on God to watch over you, but it wasn’t ever enough for me. So my family and I—we figured out a way to send West to Cardigan, too. He was smart, he was good at baseball. He got a scholarship, and I had money saved from taking care of you all those first years.”

“Excuse me? What?”

Her mouth pinches, and she drops her eyes. Guilty.

“I know this must all sound crazy. My friends, my co-workers, my mom kept telling me to let it go. Let you go.” She shakes her head and stares at her folded hands on the table. “But I couldn’t. Not if there was finally something I could do to bring you back. I requested the two of you room together. West was a sweet boy, and I knew he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you because of how protective he gets.”

I’m scowling. If anything, West was over protective, but I hadn’t needed him. By then I knew how to protect myself. At first, West’s kindness had seemed like the biggest threat to my safety, but eventually he wore me down enough to feel comfortable around him. To trust him.

“And the rest you know already. The rest, you remember.”