Page 130 of The Kiss Of Death
It was the last time I saw my parents.
“Are you okay, madam?” Another midwife had entered, this one with striking white hair. “The hospital can help you with moral support if you need it.”
The sound around me was made of shades of purple and black, and I rocked my body back and forth. I knew I shouldn’t do that in public because people thought it was weird. Mom would either slam my fingers with an iron ruler to make me stop or yell because I shamed her.
“He cried so much; his heart was beating at 210. I feel like I have a knot in my stomach, a scream bubbling within. It’s the worst day of my life; I feel like I lost something,” I said to the midwife.
She knelt beside me. “If you want to bring your son back with you, you have one month to reconsider. We’re here to support you during this time.”
No one could help. My mind thought of everything that could go wrong. Maybe he would have no friends like I did. Being different is dangerous. If he doesn’t fit in, he’ll draw negative attention to himself.
Being me was BAD.
“I’ll be a terrible mother.”
Eye contact, social cues, waiting for the right moment to speak, not speaking too much, don’t flap, hold it in, don’t freak out that someone is touching you, don’t mind the noise, don’t forget to smile, don’t say what you think, read between the lines, focus on the conversation, be more flexible, ignore the thoughts running through your head at once…
I’ll be a terrible mother.
“I don’t believe you’ll be terrible. You seem worried. It’s normal for parents to be worried,” the woman said with a smile. She seemed trusting, but then, I never read people right. “It’s normal to freak out.”
Did she notice? Did I not act right?
“I can’t give him what he needs.”
I’d have to meet with other parents. Would they look down on me? I’d have to communicate with teachers, attend events at school, and take him to medical appointments. How would I know to make this right if I struggled doing them for myself? How would I teach him things I’m not good at?
I want him to be normal. To belong. Not like me.
“A mother’s love is precious. No one can tell you what your child needs. It’s your choice.”
“I don’t want to talk. Please, leave me alone.”
Her smile dropped. Rude, I was rude again.
“Okay, but I won’t let you go. Is that okay? Can we keep in touch?”
I nodded.
The woman smiled. “I’m Diana Caron, by the way.”
Note 3:
Diana Caron.
Almost a month later.
I heard when people say “we’ll keep in touch,” they usually don’t really mean it, but Diana did. She requested an appointment a week later—she was my contact link between the hospital and social services.
“I can’t play music anymore, I’m always tired. I still hear his screams, it’s the worst.” My finger was tapping nervously on the chair.
“Do you want to see your son? You could request—”
I shook my head. “No, my parents believe I shouldn’t have children. What if I end up doing something wrong? I can’t—”
“He’s your son, you’ll know what’s best for him,” she told me. “We all need a little bit of help. If you need someone, I’ll be here for you, Mrs. Delombre.”
“Are you a mother?” I asked her.
