If I Tell - By Janet Gurtler Page 0,67

my arms. I stared at his sleeping face. I tasted my love for him. And bitter fear.

I got up and placed him down in his playpen crib, like I’d seen Grandma do, and tiptoed up the stairs. I opened the door to Mom’s room, hoping she was sleeping.

She lay on her back, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

“Mom?”

“I should never have had this baby,” she said without looking at me. “Who did I think I was? He’d be better off without me.” She crumpled her body up in a fetal position, squeezing her eyes shut.

I stepped inside her room, my heartbeat speeding up. “Mom, that’s crazy. Come on.”

She didn’t answer.

I walked to the side of the bed, leaned down, and touched her forehead. It was clammy and sweaty.

“Mom? You okay?”

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t do this.”

I patted her shoulder but knew how she felt. I didn’t think I could handle it either. “I’m going to call Simon.”

She didn’t protest so I left the bedroom and hurried downstairs to the kitchen phone. I dialed Simon’s cell number, but voice mail picked up.

“Simon, when you get this message, call home. Mom’s acting really, um, weird. I’m here, but I’m worried. Really worried.” I hung up and went to check on the baby.

I picked him up, toting him with me to the couch. I sat holding him in my arms and wishing I could protect him from whatever was happening.

“I’ll look after you,” I whispered. “I promise.”

Probably half an hour later, a key clicked in the door. It opened, and Simon barreled down the hallway into the living room.

His eyes immediately went to the baby, and the tension in his face relaxed a little. “I was on my way home when you called,” he said. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

He sat beside me on the couch. Worry lines were etched into his features. He looked older. “Where’s your mom?”

I nodded toward the stairs. Simon bent down to kiss his baby on the forehead and then stared at me as if he wanted me to tell him what to do.

“Go.” I ordered. I declared a silent truce with him. My mom needed him, and right now, so did I.

He broke out of his trance and got to his feet and slid off his shoes. “You think she’s going to be okay?”

What the heck did I know? I was a seventeen-year-old kid. I nodded. “She’ll be fine,” I said to convince both of us.

He bolted up the stairs two by two and closed the bedroom door behind himself. My mom cried hysterically, but eventually she quieted down, and I heard the low murmur of their voices talking.

I focused on my brother, willing his tiny chest to keep moving up and down while he was blissfully unaware of the drama going on around him. I stood and took him to the playpen, where I placed his little sleeping body back inside and covered him with a blanket. My heart ached for him.

Simon finally slipped out of the bedroom and dragged himself down the stairs. I waited, my hand on my throat.

He plunked heavily on the couch beside me. “She’s been acting weird all week. Your grandma thinks she’s just being dramatic. I think she’s in trouble.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

“God. I want my mom,” he said, and then he leaned over and grabbed the phone book from the magazine rack beside the couch. “I’m calling the hospital. Screw your grandma.”

I hid my shocked expression behind my hand and then listened while he spoke with a nurse and explained Mom’s increasingly irrational behavior. Reality hit hard. There was something really wrong with her. Concern echoed in his voice, but I also heard his commitment to helping my mom with her mental well-being. He wasn’t running away. He was dealing.

He sighed when he hung up, leaned back against the sofa, and breathed deeply in and out. I needed to hear what they’d said, but I dreaded hearing his voice telling me the facts.

“They think it’s postpartum depression,” he finally said, his chin dropping to his chest. “They want me to take her to the ER. They said she needs to see a psychiatrist, and that’s the quickest way to get one.”

My heart thumped. The room spun, but I focused on his face. “She’s not crazy, is she?”

Simon scratched his head. “I don’t know.” His eyes welled up. “She’s been talking about dying, and the baby and I being better off without her.” He closed his eyes.