Six Years Ago
When Rosie walked into the backyard, she was overwhelmed at the sight of Rex pushing Willow on the tire swing. Overwhelmed at the perfection of the scene. Overwhelmed with love. Overwhelmed with the idea that she didn’t want to be anywhere else in that moment.
Rosie had spent her life in perpetual motion before Rex. She moved from city to city without any thought. She bounced from job to job. She had many boyfriends but never considered a future with any of them. She buzzed around bookstores and cafés and boutiques. She explored every cranny of her world with full interest and full openness. She absorbed it wholly and let it fill her up. And then she would let it go—most of the time—as quickly as it came. But this moment, watching her husband pushing her daughter on the swing had almost made her want to stay still, here, for the rest of time. Stay here, in the backyard with her husband and daughter, for the rest of time.
Of all the good things Rosie was able to uncover behind Rex’s harsh exterior in their relationship so far, gentleness was not one of them. Over time he had been thoughtful and attentive, instead. But never gentle. Not until Willow. He was so, so gentle. Watching Rex pushing Willow delicately on the swing showed Rosie just how gentle he could be. Just the perfect amount of gentle push to make little Willow feel like she was flying. It made Willow smile a big toothless smile as her wild hair covered her little face. His broad hands against her tiny back, pressing her through the air.
Rosie wanted to cry at the beauty of Rex’s bigness next to Willow’s littleness. At how the happenings of this instant defied the very laws of the universe in which big overpowers little. But not in Rosie’s new world.
In her world, big could be gentle to little. And little could be so happy in the hands of big. And with this new knowledge, this new truth, Rosie’s heart was warmed. And even though when she turned around, her house was still filled with white walls and her paintbrushes were still tucked away in a white drawer, Rosie felt fulfilled.
When Rosie saw Rex hand Willow a purple Pixy Stix when she got off the swings, Rosie was certain about the choices, the compromises, the sacrifices she had made coming to Virginia. Because everything was perfect here.
And it would only get better.
Rosie placed her hand on her big swollen belly as she felt the new baby twirl around inside her. She could do this again with Rex. She could live like this with Rex.
She was thrilled about it.
* * *
But the birth of her son two months later brought Rosie a depression that was equal and opposite to the elation she felt with the birth of Willow. It was chemical, and it consumed her immediately.
As the nurses held her cooing infant, Rosie’s mind zoomed right into the future with that baby. There was the intimate terror about the sleepless nights and the raw nipples. There was the impending frustration with the manacles of her diaper bag full of bullshit things required to satiate a baby’s needs—pacifiers and bottles and formula and toys and wipes and diapers and powder and lotion. Things that didn’t bother her with Willow, but daunted her now. Rosie enjoyed things, but hated to be encumbered by them.
And then there was the baby, itself. Asher, himself. With his big blue eyes and a full head of blond hair that couldn’t possibly have been created by her genes or formed in her body. When she had looked into Willow’s eyes for the first time, she could see an extension of herself. It was so clear in the way Willow looked and the way she felt when Rosie looked at her. It was nothing like the way she felt when she looked at Asher. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Asher. Rosie felt every inch of her body tense up when the nurse tried to place him in her arms for the first time. She crossed her arms and turned her head away until Asher was gone from the room. Rosie shouted after the nurse to double-check the name tag before she brought him back into her hospital room again.
Dr. Winthrop told Rosie that it wasn’t unusual for women to experience these feelings after childbirth. “Up to fifteen percent of women experience postpartum depression,” she said in a tone that could have been used to describe a sunny January afternoon. Nothing to get too upset about.
But Rosie was very upset about it. About wanting out, out, out of this life. Out, out, out now. Out and away from Asher and Willow and Rex. Her need to escape boiled up inside her so fiercely. And everyone could see the waves of raging heat seeping from her every pore. Especially Rex.
But, even still, Rex was kind to Rosie after Asher’s birth.
When Rosie insisted on sleep, her husband lay awake with his cooing infant through the night. Asher didn’t cry much, but he was noisy. Rosie could tell through the bedroom door that Rex found his son’s gargling and spitting and squeaky noises so endearing as he rocked him to sleep in the hallway. And Rosie could tell that her husband could see through the ajar bedroom door that these same sounds grated against his wife’s ears. Because when his son excitedly kicked his feet and looked at his mother, Rosie just quietly turned away. When Rosie refused to breast-feed, her husband prepared Asher’s formula and fed him in the rocking chair that he had built from scratch as a present to his unborn son five happy months prior. And when Rosie didn’t want to leave the house, her husband took Asher for long walks around their quiet neighborhood with the white fences, crisp lawns and dark windows.
Rosie said thank you to Rex many times. She said it warmly. She would even place her hand on his back, and say thank you right to his face. Because nothing would change the fact that she still wanted out, out, out. All the time.
Often her daughter would crawl into bed with her listless mother and snuggle right up next to her. Willow would bend her little body to fit her mother’s, then just rest there. All wrapped around her mother. And Rosie would force herself to kiss her daughter on the head, then go back to her tense stillness. But still, Willow stayed there tangled in her mother.
* * *
Rosie was in her usual position on a Sunday morning, lying in her bed listening to the sounds of her home. Listening to all the annoying sounds of motherhood. Asher spitting formula. Willow accidentally stumbling on her way down the stairs. Cheerios scattering across the floor. Rex rummaging through the pantry. These sounds. They were making her insides crawl.
But just as Rosie was going to press her pillow against her ears to muffle those grinding sounds, the sound of her daughter on the piano wafted up. One careful note at a time. And another. And another. Willow was fumbling her way through the notes of Elton John’s “Bennie and the Jets.” She thought of Rex in that piano bar all those years ago. So handsome. So talented. So full of soul.
Rosie was preparing her body to get out of bed to see Willow when another, more capable set of notes flowed through the house.
And then suddenly, her house was filled with the beautiful, heartening, delightful sounds. Her husband’s talent and her daughter’s fumbling in perfect concert. Rosie watched from the top of the stairs as these sounds were created. Her mouth formed a smile for the first time in many months. Rosie wondered if there was a light at the end of this tunnel, after all. If once she reached the light, she could stay in it.
But Rosie would never be able to stay in a moment indefinitely. She knew it now more than anyone.