Page 29 of Wildwood

I can almost see her get to the section before she speaks. “I see you were treated for depression about two years ago.” She says it so matter-of-factly. The darkest period of my life, summed up so simply. But in this context, the tone doesn’t bother me. I’d rather it be viewed clinically. I had a medical condition, but I treated it. Just like a broken bone or a sinus infection. It’s not a fault or a weakness.

“It was after my mother died.” I can see her face soften. She swivels to face me directly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“But I’m okay now.”

“You aren’t taking medication anymore? I see you were on SSRIs.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You know, they are safe to take during pregnancy.” She looks skeptical.

“I’m fine.” I assure her more emphatically. Then I force myself to smile. I like her, and I want her to trust me. It feels a little exposing, though I know it’s unfounded, to have my OB be part of Topher’s workplace. Back in Cambridge, there were so many medical options, it was easy to find a doctor that wasn’t part of Topher’s practice. But here, there’s just one.

“Okay. Well, take good care of yourself. Get plenty of rest. Try to keep stress low. I know that’s probably challenging when you’ve just moved to a new place. Your priority is your baby.”

I bristle a bit at this. It feels as though she’s suggesting it hasn’t been.

“We’ll see you in about a month. Take care of yourself, Elinor.”

Walking back to my car, I feel like I’ve just put on glasses and can see clearly again. The parking lot is full of cars. Older couples walk hand in hand to an appointment. Mothers hustle children into the office. It’s all so modern and alive and normal. When I get in the car, I flip open the mirror on the visor. I’ve looked better. I have bags under my eyes and my skin looks pallid. I think of Topher, when I told him about my nightmares the other morning. How weary he looked. I slam the mirror shut, angry with myself. I need to get a grip.

I’m going to be a good mother, I tell myself. I’m going to focus on what matters. I’m going to eat right and take evening walks with Hugo. I’m going to stop obsessing about the nightmares. My priority is the baby. There are no ghosts at Wildwood.

* * *

“We’re having a date night!” I call, banging into the kitchen, shopping bags cutting into my palms.

“Topher?”

I find him on the back deck, staring at his phone.

“Huh?” he asks, sliding it back into his pocket.

“Date night. I got salmon and corn. I think we need a nice night together.” I smile proudly, like I got an A on a test. “You’ve got tonight and tomorrow off, right?”

Topher blinks, then smiles. “Yes. Great idea.”

His phone pings again, but he ignores it and walks toward me, placing both hands on my belly and kissing me gently on the cheek.

“Date night it is,” he murmurs.

The sky is enormous with cotton candy clouds of pink and blue. And for the first time in a long time, I remember how lovely it all is. Topher cooks the salmon on cedar planks, and I boil the sweet corn, then slather it with salt and butter. Sweet corn reminds me of my grandmother. So many wonderful things do. We eat outside on the back porch, with Hugo lounging by my feet, and I let myself indulge in a half glass of sauvignon blanc. The wine is delicious, and even the small amount makes me feel calm, slightly loose. Topher is rested and therefore less crabby and tells funny stories about the hospital. We make plans for tomorrow and feel more connected now than we have in weeks. The sun is setting, and the air smells of grass and apples. Two deer are grazing farther out in the meadow.

In this bucolic scene, my worries really do feel far away. Maybe Topher is right. Maybe it’s all just related to stress, to pregnancy hormones. We really have made so many transitions in the past few months. That plus my complex feelings over the inheritance . . . of course it’s going to manifest in some way.

I go to bed that night feeling renewed. Topher wraps his arms around me from behind, and we fall asleep like that, the way we used to early in our relationship. Even the painted trees don’t unsettle me. I imagine I’m in an enchanted forest, and that a wood nymph is watching over me as I sleep.

Chapter 26

It’s a hot, muggy Saturday in August. I’ve spent the day trying to do the things I am supposed to do for me and my baby. I did yoga. I ate a salad with hard-boiled eggs. I drank roughly a gallon of water. I listened to classical music. And whenever my brain felt the tug of the dreams, saw the flash of a woman’s face contorted with rage, I’d pull myself back. I’d close the door on those dark thoughts.

Topher has the weekend off. He’s already mowed the lawn, which even at ten in the morning was in sweltering heat. He drank a beer at lunch, which I eyed jealously, as I watched the beads of condensation gather and roll down the tall can as we sat on the back porch.

He’s now passed out upstairs, sleeping off the heat. I tried napping on the porch, but found myself just turning over restlessly, uncomfortable, my clothes sticking to my damp skin. None of the houses in Vermont have air-conditioning, but summers didn’t used to be so hot.

I decide to head out to the river, hoping the water will cool me off, and hoping that I can go back to viewing the woods as magical and safe.