Bound Read Free Page A

shoulder length blonde hair was curling near her ears from sweating all day in the kitchen. “Sleeping as much as you’ve been, not eating, feeling alone – they’re all signs of depression.”
    “Depression?” I balked. “Maybe I’m tired from killing myself studying for finals and moving! And who says I feel alone?”
    “You don’t have to say it. And finals were two weeks ago. Argue all you want, Kate, but you need to deal with this. Maybe you aren’t ready yet, I don’t know. But consider the group. Or, if you’re more comfortable, we have some good psychiatrists at the hospital.”
    “A shrink? Mom, I’m not crazy, I’m just tired.” I narrowed my eyes at her as I walked back to the counter and grabbed the plate, taking a huge bite of the sandwich. I considered changing my mind about going out, but … no. I wasn’t about to suffer an entire evening of bar hopping just to prove I wasn’t depressed.
    She raised her brows and puffed out her huge sigh that practically screamed I’m judging you right now.
    “Don’t worry about me,” I said, reaching out to hug her with one arm while I held my plate in the other. “Tomorrow I’ll mow the yard and finish unpacking my stuff. I’ll make something for dinner, too.”
    “We can have leftovers from today,” she said. “I’ll be home by 6:30.”
    “Your dinner will be waiting,” I said, smiling as I turned back toward the stairs. She offered a terse nod in return and I hurried the rest of the way to the open oak staircase in the living room. As soon as I was sure she couldn’t see me, I let the smile drop away. Maybe with school finally behind me, and a good night of sleep, I’d feel better tomorrow.
     
    But I didn’t. If anything, I felt a little worse. Mowing Mom’s small yard only took about 30 minutes, and then I turned my attention to unpacking. Moving back home was defeating. Friends I’d graduated with were moving into nicer apartments or taking vacations to celebrate the start of the next chapter of their lives. And I was loading my clothes into the dresser I’d decorated with Barbie stickers when I was 12.
    My heart thumped when I looked into the bottom of the c anvas bag I was unloading and saw it. The box. Mom had packed this bag with items from the closet in my apartment. A memory box, the nurse had called it when she passed it to me before wheeling me out of the room that still haunted my dreams.
     
    I was numb, way beyond feeling after the emotionally draining experience of delivering the baby. I’d cried the entire time, my head throbbing with a headache as I either kept my eyes squeezed closed or stared at the ceiling while Mom held my hand. I didn’t want to see any of it; I just couldn’t handle it.
    Dr. Harn had told me it was okay that I didn’t want to see the baby or know anything about it. She said every woman dealt with the loss of a baby in her own way, and there was no right or wrong.
    That’s why I was so shocked when I was handed a pale pink box as I sat silently in a wheelchair, waiting to be wheeled out when it was over. My heart thumped as I stared at it.
    “ What’s this?” I asked the nurse who gave it to me.
    “It’s a memory box. There’s a photo in there, and some information about the baby.”
    I was too empty to get furious, but I felt a rise of disbelief that this woman had just violated my wishes and was acting like she’d done me a favor. I didn’t want to know I’d lost a daughter. It was too much. More pain, on top of the crushing loss I already felt.
    “Okay, discharge instructions . . .” the nurse said, her eyes scanning a paper as Mom walked into the room. I pulled the blanket in my lap over the box, not wanting Mom to see. “You’ll have very heavy bleeding for several days. You may need several pads at a time, and you may pass clots. If you pass anything that looks like tissue—”
    “What’s that mean?” I looked at Mom blankly. She reached out to the nurse’s hand and