probably asks everyone the same questions. Why did you even talk to the guy?”
Images of Michelle’s body on the floor flooded my mind. I willed myself not to cry. “I found Michelle dead. I wanted to help.”
Jim stroked my hand. “Honey, I know having a baby is stressful. It’s stressful for me. I can’t fathom how it is for you, much less with all this other stuff going on. But you can’t let your imagination run away with you. Focus on recuperating. You’ll have to be back at work in a couple of weeks.”
I sat dumbfounded as he cleared the plates from the table. “What if I don’t want to go back to work?”
Jim’s eyes clouded. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do. I wish we could afford for you to stay home. What do you want me to say, Kate? You know the cost of living in San Francisco. You want to live anyplace else besides California? Montana or Nebraska?”
I shook my head and took a deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry again.
“We talked about this before? Remember?” Jim asked.
“I didn’t know I’d feel this way.”
“What way?”
“She needs me, Jim. She’s so tiny. She needs me. I knew that. I knew she would, of course. I just didn’t know I’d need her.” I sighed again. “Do you know how much Galigani gets paid?”
“No, and I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s worth it. I’m sure he has plenty of experience doing whatever he’s doing.”
“He talks to people all day. I have plenty of experience talking, too.”
Jim scrunched up his face. “The point is, Kate, he has a client.”
•CHAPTER ELEVEN•
The Third Week—Grasping
I had a fitful night, tossing and turning during the short time Laurie was asleep. When I awoke, Jim had already left for work.
It was time to acquaint myself with the dreaded breast pump.
After carefully reading the instructions twice and not understanding anything, I decided on the trial-and-error method.
I plugged the pump in and hooked up all the tubes and components the best I could. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it didn’t yield that much milk either. I looked at the pitiful three ounces that I’d pumped. An ounce and a half from each breast. How was that ever supposed to sustain Laurie?
Maybe I had hooked it up wrong.
I grabbed my notebook and stretched out across the bed.
To Do:
1. Lose weight, when can I start exercising?
2. Call work—YUK!
3. Plan alternate career! Can I work from home?
4. Where is George? Does he live at the apartment on Haight?
5. E-mail Paula about alibi for June fifteenth—just in case.
6. Research postpartum paranoia online.
7. Get a haircut.
I logged on to the computer to e-mail Paula. I attached photos of Laurie, asked her how to use the breast pump, caught her up on all the drama around Michelle and George, and finally requested an alibi for June fifteenth. After that, I researched “postpartum paranoia.” Every single reference was accompanied by the words “delusion,” “hallucination,” and “psychosis.”
Good grief! Psychosis?
Was I psychotic? Delusional? Wait a minute, no one had broken into my house last night, that much was true, but I had found a dead body.
The ringing phone interrupted me from further analysis. I hurried to reach it before Laurie awoke.
“Is this Kate Connolly?” asked a soft female voice with a Russian accent.
“Yes.”
“You called me yesterday. I didn’t hire an investigator.”
“Mrs. Avery?” I asked.
“Svetlana.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was trying to reach Gloria Avery,” I said.
“Gloria?” her voice sounded alarmed.
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“My mother . . . well, er, mother-in-law,” Svetlana said.
The first wife.
“Gloria hired an investigator?” Svetlana asked.
“I think so. That’s what this guy said.”
Svetlana let out a breath. “Ohh . . .” Silence filled the line. Finally she asked, “Can we meet?”
I clicked Laurie’s car seat into the
Images of Michelle’s body on the floor flooded my mind. I willed myself not to cry. “I found Michelle dead. I wanted to help.”
Jim stroked my hand. “Honey, I know having a baby is stressful. It’s stressful for me. I can’t fathom how it is for you, much less with all this other stuff going on. But you can’t let your imagination run away with you. Focus on recuperating. You’ll have to be back at work in a couple of weeks.”
I sat dumbfounded as he cleared the plates from the table. “What if I don’t want to go back to work?”
Jim’s eyes clouded. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do. I wish we could afford for you to stay home. What do you want me to say, Kate? You know the cost of living in San Francisco. You want to live anyplace else besides California? Montana or Nebraska?”
I shook my head and took a deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry again.
“We talked about this before? Remember?” Jim asked.
“I didn’t know I’d feel this way.”
“What way?”
“She needs me, Jim. She’s so tiny. She needs me. I knew that. I knew she would, of course. I just didn’t know I’d need her.” I sighed again. “Do you know how much Galigani gets paid?”
“No, and I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s worth it. I’m sure he has plenty of experience doing whatever he’s doing.”
“He talks to people all day. I have plenty of experience talking, too.”
Jim scrunched up his face. “The point is, Kate, he has a client.”
•CHAPTER ELEVEN•
The Third Week—Grasping
I had a fitful night, tossing and turning during the short time Laurie was asleep. When I awoke, Jim had already left for work.
It was time to acquaint myself with the dreaded breast pump.
After carefully reading the instructions twice and not understanding anything, I decided on the trial-and-error method.
I plugged the pump in and hooked up all the tubes and components the best I could. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it didn’t yield that much milk either. I looked at the pitiful three ounces that I’d pumped. An ounce and a half from each breast. How was that ever supposed to sustain Laurie?
Maybe I had hooked it up wrong.
I grabbed my notebook and stretched out across the bed.
To Do:
1. Lose weight, when can I start exercising?
2. Call work—YUK!
3. Plan alternate career! Can I work from home?
4. Where is George? Does he live at the apartment on Haight?
5. E-mail Paula about alibi for June fifteenth—just in case.
6. Research postpartum paranoia online.
7. Get a haircut.
I logged on to the computer to e-mail Paula. I attached photos of Laurie, asked her how to use the breast pump, caught her up on all the drama around Michelle and George, and finally requested an alibi for June fifteenth. After that, I researched “postpartum paranoia.” Every single reference was accompanied by the words “delusion,” “hallucination,” and “psychosis.”
Good grief! Psychosis?
Was I psychotic? Delusional? Wait a minute, no one had broken into my house last night, that much was true, but I had found a dead body.
The ringing phone interrupted me from further analysis. I hurried to reach it before Laurie awoke.
“Is this Kate Connolly?” asked a soft female voice with a Russian accent.
“Yes.”
“You called me yesterday. I didn’t hire an investigator.”
“Mrs. Avery?” I asked.
“Svetlana.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was trying to reach Gloria Avery,” I said.
“Gloria?” her voice sounded alarmed.
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“My mother . . . well, er, mother-in-law,” Svetlana said.
The first wife.
“Gloria hired an investigator?” Svetlana asked.
“I think so. That’s what this guy said.”
Svetlana let out a breath. “Ohh . . .” Silence filled the line. Finally she asked, “Can we meet?”
I clicked Laurie’s car seat into the
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