Page 88 of Dark Ugly Places

Emmy belongs to her nights. I feel her there, listening, watching. She waits for me but doesn’t try to get me back. I ache at this truth, and yet I cannot blame her. Martha is good that way. She makes people feel that she should have been there all along in place of me, that I was somehow unnecessary, irrelevant, the wrong version of us. I hate her for it and yet admire the way she scoots into my life so effortlessly, as if it were never mine in the first place.

I hardly remember a time before Martha. It’s as if her hand has always clutched at my throat, her long fingers the perfect length to dig in just where my vocal cords should be, cutting them off at a moment’s notice.

But sometimes, Martha has been my friend. She reminds me of this when she dips her head into the dark place and tells me that without her, I—we—wouldn’t be alive.

Yes, I know, Martha. You are right.

And now a memory is coming, swift and fast like a tidal wave. Soon, I will be consumed within, doomed to relive it again. There it is! The small blue light hanging over Emmy’s crib, the colors bouncing off her mobile, little furry animals spinning in the air, suspended in a sea of blue. Everything neutral soft—perfect for a boy or a girl. We don’t care either way, of course. “As long as she’s healthy!” we say on repeat. Then I’m there … in the exact moment she emerges from me, the searing incomprehensible pain of my body opening to release her. And her body lifted up to me—bright red and swollen, her face contorted and eyes sealed shut. I’m overcome with the most intense love I have ever known. And then fast forward to that instant we brought her home—something takes hold of me from the inside and starts screaming.

A deep-rooted fear unearths itself inside me and climbs up up up into my brain. The dark thoughts come, one after the other. Ugly, uncontrollable thoughts. At night, I wake, drenched in sweat, my body quivering with a swift release of hormones. The sheer panic of her cries sends me reeling. And then come the thoughts again. Quiet. Intrusive. Torturous. And I hate myself.

The baby begins to wail, filling the room with a desperate cry I’ve not heard before. I stand beside her bassinet, frozen, staring down at her in the dark. Eventually, I am able to gather her in my arms and bring her to my chest. She smells of me. Parts of me that are tired and hurting. Parts that need to heal. She smells of nothing. Her peaceful expression contorts, her smooth cheeks wrinkle. The beauty I see in her shifts, and Emilia Blair Holiday transforms into a tiny, unformed monster that requires more and more of me. It will never be enough. Sickness comes over me, and I need to be away from her, yet I am frozen, unable to move. I am terrified of my child. Terrified of loving her. Terrified of hating her. Terrified of failing her.

What have you done? This was a mistake. Martha’s voice screams louder inside me. You cannot love her like you should. Look at you. Look at where you come from. She doesn’t stand a chance. Not with blood like yours in her veins.

I place Emmy back in her bassinet, then turn and kneel on the floor near the tiny blue trash can we’d picked out from the cute home goods store at the mall. It is covered in cartoon clouds. My stomach lurches, and I heave, unable to stop from throwing up. The stench hits me, and I heave again. Emmy screams louder, but I cannot bring myself to go to her. I sit on the floor, paralyzed.

Take a good look. This is you as a mother. This is your destiny. Failure. Pain. Heartache. You were never meant for this, were you?

“Stop it!” I say, my voice muffled with saliva. Outside, a car passes, its headlights making the center of the room glow for a moment with a sweep of pale light.

You want it to stop? All you have to do is ask. I can always help you, Nicola.

My chest rises and falls, adrenaline pumps through me. Blood pumps in my ears, my face, my forehead. I know the way out, and for a moment, my eyes flick to the bathroom, where I keep pills—lots of pills. It would be so smooth and easy. So peaceful. Swallowing, swallowing, swallowing until I rest.

I huddle in the corner against the wall. My eyes catch the small pillow resting on the rocking chair with her name embroidered on it, and my body starts shaking.

The stench of me, my insides, and the baby’s fear fill the room, making it swell with unmistakable lack. I want to retch again, but I hold it back. Emmy cries longer and louder, her little body convulsing, searching for me. She wants me, but I have nothing to give her. I am empty. I am numb.

Come to us, the darkness whispered. We can take care of everything. We can help you, just like before.

A pathetic whimper escapes me, and I turn my face away in the dark and stand. I slap myself repeatedly until my right cheek burns. “Stop it! For fuck’s sake. Stop it!”

No more. I cannot go back there. I cannot face him in that place. I worked so hard to get through my father’s death, my mother’s apathy. I survived. I found Ben. Now here I am with Emmy and the threat of Martha lurking, waiting for a moment to strike.

The baby wails and shakes a little in the crib, and I freeze. Ben comes running in, his eyes lined with sleep but alert, nonetheless.

“What’s going on? Is she okay?” Panicked, Ben goes to the crib and lifts Emmy out. “How long has she been crying?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” His tone is sharp, accusatory.

“Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe more.”

“Jesus, Nicola. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I don’t know. I just—I couldn’t move.”

He picks up Emmy’s blanket, wrapping her in it. “She needs to eat.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

Ben sighs and kneels down to me, his nostrils widening. “You threw up?”

I nod.

He pulls Emmy back, shielding her protectively. “I’ll make some formula. Please clean that up and get into bed. We can’t let her get sick.”