If I Tell - By Janet Gurtler Page 0,68

His face crumpled as he tried to fight off tears. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Go,” I told him. “Take her. I’ll stay. I’ll look after the baby.” I tried not to ignore the overwhelming fact that I knew nothing about babies. I’d never even baby-sat in my life.

He rubbed at the short hair on his head. “It’ll probably take hours at the ER.”

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He massaged his forehead, his expression uncertain.

“I can handle it. You have to take her. She needs to go. ”

Upstairs Mom’s bedroom door opened. Simon leaped to his feet as Mom shuffled down the hallway, peeked down the stairs, and then took a step toward us. Her hair was still dirty and messy, and she had on no makeup, but she’d put on an old pair of sweatpants and one of Simon’s big T-shirts. Her face looked calmer, accepting of her fate.

“Jaz is great with the baby,” she called out softly to Simon. “Better than I am.”

“Mom,” I said. “That’s not true.”

She took another step down. “I love him.”

“I know,” Simon said.

“No. I was talking to Jaz,” she said softly.

“I know you love him,” I said.

Her eyes watered. She wrapped her arms around herself. “You were right. I’m the worst mother in the world.”

I remembered what I’d said to her at the restaurant. “Oh, Mom. You’re not. I never meant that. I was just being awful, trying to hurt you. You’re a good mom.” I blushed. “You’re sick. Go with Simon. I’ll take care of the baby. It’s okay. You need to get looked after too.”

She grabbed the railing on the stairs and whimpered. “Everyone else always has to take care of my babies.”

Simon bounded up the stairs, and when he reached her, she folded against him for support. He helped her down the stairs. Her pale, makeup-free face bothered me almost as much as her behavior. When they reached the bottom, she let go of Simon and tiptoed to the playpen.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered, stroking their son’s fingers. “I love you. I do.”

She wiped away her tears and struggled to gain control, and then she turned to me. “Joe,” she said.

She glanced at Simon. He nodded.

“His name. Joseph Simon Peacock. Joe for Grandpa.”

I wiped under my eyes as she gave me instructions on the proper way to change diapers and how often to feed him. Simon wrapped a coat over her shoulders and moved her toward the front door.

“Look after Joe,” he told me.

“I will.”

My mom shivered, and he led her away and left me all alone. In charge of my baby brother’s life.

chapter eighteen

Simon walked through the front door hours later, waking me from a light sleep on the couch. He hurried to the playpen, bent down, and scooped up Joe, snuggling him close.

“Where’s my mom?”

“I’ll put him upstairs in his crib,” Simon said. “And then we can talk about your mom.”

“Leave him. I’ll stay on the couch tonight. That way I can get up with him if he cries.”

Simon shook his head. “No. That’s not your job, Jaz. You’ve done so much already. I’m his dad. I get up with him. He’ll sleep in his crib. I have a baby monitor.”

I nodded, a little surprised. I’d kind of expected that he would let me be the one to look after Joe. Instead he was being totally responsible and dealing with things head-on.

“Is my mom okay?”

“She’s been admitted. She’s in good hands.”

I bit my lip, waiting as Simon carried little Joe up the stairs to settle him in his room. A few minutes later, Simon returned carrying the baby monitor. He propped it on the coffee table and fell back on the couch, rubbing his eyes.

“They admitted her?” I asked again.

He nodded. “The doctors think it’s severe postpartum depression. They’re worried she might be suicidal. They’re going to try to stabilize her with meds.” He looked down at his hands. “They want to keep her in the psych ward for a few weeks.”

I breathed out. “The psych ward? A few weeks?”

“It’ll take a while for the medicine to start working, and they can monitor it there. She’s terrified and she’s horrified, but there’s relief in her face too. You know? She’s definitely not herself. She knows she needs help.”

He stood up and looked around the room, and then he sat again, his face confused.

“She’s embarrassed to admit she has a mental illness.” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “But, she’s so