Page 20 of Dream with Me

“It’s fine. Listen, Mom, if it’s too much for you and Dad to help with Chase, I get it. I can?—”

“It’s not too much at all. That’s not what this is about.”

Mom scoots closer to me, and Shyley stands, walks over, and sits on the chaise near my feet. I look up at her and her mouth is downturned in a frown.

“Shannon, I came to Mom because I needed help and didn’t know how to talk to you about this, but... I’m worried you’re depressed.”

I scoot back and try to burrow into the cushions of my seat. I don’t want to talk about this right now because the sudden pressure behind my eyes tells me I’m seconds away from crying.

“I’m okay,” I manage to squeak out. “If this is about the divorce, that doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

“It’s not about the divorce,” Mom says. She looks down at her coffee cup momentarily, then meets my gaze again. “After I had Shyley, I was depressed. It’s very normal. It’s called postpartum depression. The thing is, mine didn’t go away. I had to see someone about it and take medication.”

I’m shocked. Mom, depressed? I can’t imagine my vibrant, spunky mother as anything but full of life, love, and energy. I glance up at her, and she’s watching me closely.

“What?” I practically whisper. “I’ve had a lot going on.”

“Are you also sad? Maybe you feel like you don’t want to do anything, don’t have the energy to? Things you used to love don’t bring nearly as much joy?” Mom’s voice is soft and compassionate.

Well, this is wonderful. Now I’m full-on crying. Like weeping.

I use the back of my hand to swipe at the tears now pouring down my cheeks. I hate that she hit the nail right on the head with how I’ve felt. It takes me a few moments to pull myself together enough so I can talk.

“I-I’m trying to make it better.” I can barely get the words out.

Mom leans forward, tucks my hair behind my ear, and takes hold of my hand.

“Oh, honey, you can’t always make it better on your own. Sometimes, you might need a little help.”

Shyley wraps her hand around my ankle, letting me know she’s here. “You’ve been sad for a long time, Shan. It started after you had Chase, and I thought it would get better, but it hasn’t. You’re so hard on yourself, always putting yourself down. You don’t see yourself like the rest of us do.”

I roll my eyes at her assessment. “I’m pretty sure I see myself exactly how I am.”

Mom scoots closer to me and lifts her arm, the universal signal to nestle into her side, and I don’t hesitate. Before I know it, Shyley squirms between my other side and the couch cushions and snuggles up next to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

We stayed like this for I don’t know how long.

“Baby? Will you do something for me?” Mom asks. “Will you please make an appointment with your doctor and see what they think?”

I don’t say anything at first. But when my sister, my best friend, whimpers out, “Please, Shan?” I lose it.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”

CHAPTER13

SHANNON

I yawn as I wait at the traffic light, eager to get home. I’m grateful Troy was able to get the kids situated after school today since my end of the day meeting went long. These first two weeks at the new job have wiped me out with the disruption brought upon our daily routines. We’ll all adjust, but we’re not quite there yet.

The light changes and I accelerate the car more aggressively than I intend when a twinge of queasiness strikes me at the same time. Whether it’s from being hungry, or a side effect of the new medication I’m on, I’m not sure. Regardless, the nausea is much improved from even a couple of days ago.

Only a few days after the intervention she and my mom staged almost two weeks ago, Shyley was able to get me an appointment to see her college roommate, who is a nurse practitioner. I’ve officially been diagnosed with depression. While I was initially hesitant to take medications, after an explanation from the nurse practitioner, it made sense how they might help, and I agreed to give them a try. The queasiness was the worst for several days. Fortunately, I expected it because the nurse practitioner warned me that I might feel lousier—emotionallyandphysically— for the first week. Plus, it will take a few weeks to start working and even longer to take full effect. I’m looking forward to when I’ll notice some improvement.

As soon as I step into the house, the delicious smell of garlic and herbs fills my nose. I toss up a prayer of thanks to the co-parenting gods that Troy is such a good cook. It’s a skill he’s honed after years in the fire department since the crew take turns cooking. He doesn’t make a wide variety of dishes, but those he does are excellent, like his baked ziti. It’s always a win with the family and I never have to coerce the kids into eating their dinner when Troy makes it.

I’m desperate to get out of these heels, convinced I don’t have it in me even to wear them long enough to take them off in my room. Not a minute longer. I place a palm against the wall for support and bend down to remove my right shoe. When I go to remove the other, my eye catches on the tiles—the stupid tiles with the gap in the grout that somehow always manages to catch the narrow heel of my shoes and nearly kill me. The tiles with the wide grout lines I insisted I wanted because I saw them in a magazine and thought they looked nice.

Just this morning, I almost fell because of them and was convinced that if I died young, it would be from the lethal combination of thin heels and gaps in this damn floor. It’s the perfect storm, and I’ve already twisted an ankle and fallen on my ass twice because of it. Only now, I’m looking, and the gap is gone, fresh grout where there had been none.

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