Chapter 5: The Voicemail I Almost Deleted
I didn't listen to it that night.
I put Lily down, changed out of my Christmas clothes, and made tea I barely touched.
Evan sat with me on the couch for a while, not talking much, the television on low.
Around nine he fell asleep with his head tipped back and his socks still on, the way he always did on holidays when the day had been too much.
I sat there in the quiet and thought about my mother standing in her Christmas kitchen, crying.
I thought about it the way you think about something that should move you and doesn't, and then feel guilty about the fact that it doesn't.
The voicemail sat on my phone like an object with weight.
I listened to it the next morning, while Lily was having her bottle and Evan was still asleep.
Carol's voice sounded different.
Smaller.
Like it was coming from further away than usual.
*"I know you're not going to pick up.
I just — I wanted to say I'm sorry.
I know that probably doesn't mean much right now and I understand if it doesn't.
I've been sitting here thinking about what I said and I can't — I don't know why I said it like that.
I was worried.
I've been worried since she was born and I didn't know how to say it, and instead I just—"*
A pause.
The sound of her breath steadying.
*"I know I've hurt you.
I know this isn't the first time.
I'm not asking you to forget that.
I just — I love that little girl.
I love her.
And I love you.
And I'm sorry."*
Then nothing.
The message ended.
Lily finished her bottle and blinked up at me.
I set it aside and put her against my shoulder and patted her back, the small reliable rhythm of it.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
She burped.
"Yeah," I said.
"Me too."
I played the voicemail a second time.
Then a third.
There was something real in it.
I couldn't pretend there wasn't.
My mother's voice at the end — that wasn't performance.
I'd heard her perform.
I knew the difference.
But real feeling and changed behavior were two separate things, and I had confused them before.
I had heard her cry at my wedding when she thought no one was looking, and then three months later she told me I'd chosen the wrong flowers.
I put the phone down on the kitchen table.
Jenna called at ten, like Mark had said she would.
"I should have said something," she said, before I'd barely finished saying hello.
"At the table.
When she said Lily would always be behind — I should have said something right then, and I didn't, and I've been angry at myself about it ever since."
"Jenna, you don't have to—"
"I do, actually.
I've watched her do this to you for three years.
Every visit.
Every phone call you tell me about afterward.
And I kept thinking it wasn't my place." Her voice was steady but tight.
"It's my place.
She's family and Lily is my niece and it is absolutely my place."
Something loosened in my throat.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me.
I'm telling you so you know you're not crazy.
Because I think sometimes she makes you feel like you're crazy."
"Yes," I said.
"She does."
"You're not," Jenna said firmly.
"What you did yesterday took more composure than I would have had.
You were extraordinary."
I laughed a little.
It surprised me.
"I was terrified," I said.
"You didn't look it."
"I was."
Lily had grabbed a fistful of my shirt and was pulling it toward her mouth with great determination.
"What are you going to do?" Jenna asked.
"About Carol?"
"I don't know yet."
"That's the right answer," Jenna said.
"Don't let anyone rush you."
After we hung up, I sat with Lily on the living room floor and let her bat at a crinkle toy while I thought about what Jenna had said.
*Don't let anyone rush you.*
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*This is your Aunt Ruth.
I got your number from Mark.
I hope that's all right.
I just wanted to say — what you did yesterday was brave.
I've wanted to do it for twenty years.
Call me if you ever want to talk.*
I read it twice.
Then I set the phone face-down and held Lily's hand while she tried to eat the crinkle toy.
The rushing had already started.
I could feel it.
Carol's voicemail.
Mark's careful questions.
Now Aunt Ruth.
Everyone had an opinion about what should happen next, and every opinion was wrapped in something that looked like love.
But none of them were the one who had stood at that NICU window.
None of them were the one Carol had always chosen as her sharpest target.
And none of them were going to be the one to decide what came next.
May you like
That was mine.
Three days later, Carol rang the doorbell.
