in the delivery room with only my bloody bedsheets to grip and tear at when the contractions seized me, a pain so intense I had to look at myself in the mirror that hung near the bed every few hours to remind myself I was a woman and not an animal at the slaughter. But I had witnessed my mother giving birth to all my siblings. I knew I would survive the ordeal. And when they placed Lucie on me, a little white bonnet on her head, her tiny body wrapped up, her eyelashes barely grown in, I knew none of it mattered. I knew I would never be alone again. She was perfect. She had Victor’s dark hair under her tiny hat, a pile of it, dark blue eyes when she finally opened them, and a mouth that was like the first bud of a perfect pink rose. She was my Lucie. She would be Victor’s, too, but my body had made her. That meant she would always be mostly mine.
We were very happy in the hospital, in our own little world, baby Lucie and I. Victor fell in love with her as soon as he entered the room, smelled her intoxicating baby scent, and heard her warbling cry. He would visit us all seven days that we were tucked away there. When we left, driven home by Victor himself, not trusting his chauffeur to it, I thought everything would be the same at home. Better even, as I was feeling stronger and more myself when we arrived. But our little blissful world was shattered the very next day.
Victor’s mother, Agathe, came and stayed with us, even though she lived just a mile away. She was constantly present, taking Lucie away from me whenever she pleased and demanding that the baby be fed on a set schedule. When I wanted to sleep with Lucie in bed with me, she told me I was a fool. That I would crush the child and that she had to sleep not only in her bassinet but also in an entirely different room. My parents had done very little right, but because we were in a small house, we were always sleeping close to someone, piled up like puppies comforted by heartbeats. Lucie needed to hear my heartbeat; I knew she did.
Despite Agathe’s threats, I would sneak into Lucie’s nursery when her nurse was asleep, lift her little body from her bassinet, and bring her back to bed with me to breastfeed. Soon that, too, was deemed disgusting by Victor’s mother. She forced bottles on Lucie, and I started to panic. Postpartum hysterics, Victor’s mother called my reaction. Fits. I heard her use those words constantly to Victor and to Lucie’s nurse. Then, one night, just after Lucie had turned a month old, I was consumed with a nervous energy that woke me up with a start. I went to Lucie’s room, sure that everyone was sleeping, picked her up, and brought her to my bed. I meant to keep her there for an hour at most, but I fell asleep, so soothed by her presence. Agathe caught me with Lucie in my bed the next morning, my arm draped over her body, which was tucked tight against my torso.
Agathe was outraged. “You’re suffocating her!” she’d screeched, waking us both up as she ran into the room. She tried to grab the baby, but I wouldn’t let her go. In the struggle, I lost my grip on Lucie and she fell to the floor. Victor insisted on calling the doctor, and the next day, Agathe took Lucie away from me.
With Lucie’s doctor’s word to support her, and my husband in agreement, it was decided that I was a danger to the baby and needed treatment, the best available. I was to be sent to the Prangins Clinic in Switzerland, a mental health facility near Lake Geneva. I was to stay for an undecided length of time, and Lucie was not to go with me.
On the morning Victor and I left, I was hysterical on the way to the station, as they hadn’t even let me see Lucie, kiss her good-bye. I remained inconsolable on the train, barely staying in my seat, constantly pacing the length of the car. Victor tried to stop me, embarrassed by my behavior, my tears, but after an hour, he gave up and let me grieve.
He fell asleep when we were nearing Lyon, and I watched him rest peacefully