into bed with me. That I should have released her into Agathe’s loving arms that morning. That a woman who had borne four children of her own, three of them girls, knew better than I did. They all knew better than I did, I said.
Two weeks later, they released me to Victor, who took me home. I never slept with Lucie again. At least, not until she was nearly five years old and could sneak into my bed on her own. When she did, I pulled her tight against me, our bodies curved together as they were the night everything went wrong. For the rest of my life, I knew, I would be trying to get back that month in Switzerland, loving Lucie with all my heart, always trying to make up our lost days.
When I came back to the house in Paris, tiny baby Lucie was smiling. I held her and laughed with delight while Victor and his mother watched me, examining me for signs of mania. I could never again give them a reason to send me away. But that night, alone in the bathtub, all the world’s tears fell into the water. Lucie had changed. Not only could she smile, but she now looked more like me. Her eyes had darkened and even though her hair was black, she reminded me a bit of the girls in my family. Especially my youngest sister, Eleanor, the one I missed the most.
I told Victor a month after I returned to Paris, to our marital home, that I was completely cured. Switzerland was a distant memory. But the truth was that it had pushed me off center and I was quite sure I was never going to come back, not without help. My powers of renewal were lost. I never showed any signs of nerves in front of Victor, terrified that I’d end up restrained to another hospital bed. But I had to break sometimes. I’d learned that after Virginia.
I started consulting a doctor, once a week, far in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, and with him, I cried. I talked about the waves of anxiety that would come over me if I smelled a baby or saw a child fall in the park—and, sometimes, for no reason at all. I talked about the fear I still had of losing my child, and my mind along with her. And I spoke about Virginia. The memories that still punched at me, and all the things I had kept from Victor. That I would always keep from Victor. I spoke about my worries, my secrets, to no one but him. I was very thankful for the outlet. Knowing that I had a private ear every week, I was able to find myself again. But Victor could never know about the doctor, about how much I needed his counsel, and he could certainly never know about certain pages of my life from before I met him.
In the seven years since Switzerland, Victor and I had talked about having more children, but I refused to while we still lived in Paris, just around the bend from his mother. If we go to Clermont-Ferrand, or somewhere even farther, I had told Victor, maybe I’ll be ready then.
It had taken months, but one day he walked into our living room in Paris, sat on the floor, and apologized. He understood, he said. He understood how his mother had contributed to my weakened mental state. He gave me the emerald Boucheron ring and promised to try to keep his family out of our private lives. He begged me not to lose myself to emotion again. He said that my state had terrified him. He admitted that he’d only seen one person in a similar condition—his father, right before he left the family. “They said it was mania,” he disclosed. “I call it selfishness, but perhaps it was mania. All I know is that it terrified me. And then I had a new baby and a wife in the same condition. I’m sorry I sent you away, but I panicked. I don’t want you to be my father. I want you to be you. Adventurous but balanced. Supportive. And in love with me.” I’d looked at him, a man who had given me everything I had, including my child, swiveled the ring around on my finger, and nodded. Yes, I was that person, and something like Switzerland would never happen again. I was completely in control of my emotions, I