“I need to get going,” she says. Fifteen minutes. She lasted fifteen minutes in the psych ward. I watch as she retreats toward the doors, her shoulders sagging with the weight of my failures as her daughter. At least this time she came.

   TWENTY-ONE

I am alone. I realize that it’s always been this way, my whole life, and anything my mind constructed to convince me otherwise was a lie. A comfortable lie I needed. My parents were occupied with my sister, Torrence, who was always getting into trouble at school or with her friends. I was the good child; I parented myself well while they were busy. I knew the rules, the moral confines they’d built around me: no drinking, no premarital sex, no drugs, no sneaking out, top-notch grades only. It was easy to follow their guidelines; I wasn’t the rebel of the family. My sister, on the other hand, dabbled in all of the above. My father grayed at his temples, my mother started getting Botox and I tried my best to be perfect so there was one less daughter to worry about. Then, when Torrence straightened up and married the right man, they’d been so relieved they’d showered her with a different type of attention. She’d put in three well-behaved years and they’d both forgotten the decade she spent snorting their money up her nose and fucking every dealer in town. Maybe all of that trying made me go crazy. Maybe the lack of attention from my parents pushed me toward Seth, my desperation to be accepted trapping me in a relationship any normal person would think bizarre.

I poke at my Jell-O. They love to feed you Jell-O in this place—wobbly and colorful, like our minds. Today is orange, yesterday was green. It’s like they’re trying to remind you that you’re weak and unstable. I eat my Jell-O.

I have to get the fuck out of here. I have to find Hannah, make sure she’s okay. Where once I slept, I am now awake. I saw Dr. Steinbridge today. I’ve realized that he is my keeper—not the electric doors with keycard access, nor the burly nurses who wrangle us like toddlers if we get out of hand. Calm down, little Thursday, or we’ll put you in the padded time-out room.

Dr. Steinbridge has the power to say I’m well; he is God in this place of speckled sterile tile and fluorescent lights. One swipe of his pen (a Bic) and I am a free bird.

Hannah... Hannah. She’s all I think about. I’ve become her savior in my own mind. If something has happened to her, I am responsible. If she is to be saved, I must get out of here. I married this man, gave my blessing for a third wife. When I saw that first bruise I should have spoken up, forced her to tell me what he did. For a moment, I doubt that she is real. That’s how good they are—they can make you doubt your own mind in this place.

Eat your Jell-O!

I realize it is my duty to convince the good doctor that I have come to my senses, that my head is cleared of its delusional fog. That I am whole and my husband is a one-woman man! That Hannah and Regina are not real, but a sexual game my husband and I played. That’s what they want to hear, isn’t it? All I have to do is say I’m lying about Seth’s penchant for plural pussy and I am a cured woman!

It can’t happen too fast, my change, or Steinbridge will suspect that I am lying. During our daily sessions, I pretend to be confused. Seth only has one wife? That wife is me? Gradually, I become more myself, each session I am less confused, less insistent.

“What is wrong with me?” I ask the doctor. “Why don’t I know what’s real and what is not?”

I am diagnosed! The trauma of losing a child, never dealing with that loss in a healthy way, it put stress on my relationship with Seth. I blamed other women instead of focusing on my healing. When the good doctor asked what I thought triggered the mania that led to my mental demise, I thought of Debbie: chatty Debbie, nosy Debbie, Debbie with the big hair who suggested I snoop on the women who made me feel insecure. I don’t blame Debbie for any of my actions; if anything, she woke me up. I wasn’t the only one who suffered crippling insecurity, you could be any age. Hell, Lauren seemingly had a perfect life. I always thought she taped those anniversary cards to her locker to brag, to rub it in the rest of our faces that she had it better than us. But now I see the truth: women are stuck in a cycle of insecurity perpetuated by the way men treat them, and we are constantly fighting to prove to ourselves and everyone else that we are okay. Sure, women occasionally lose their minds over men, but does that mean we’re all unstable, or that men made us unstable with their careless actions? I don’t tell Dr. Steinbridge about Debbie or Lauren; he would say I was deferring responsibility. But that’s not what I’m doing at all; I’m holding everyone accountable, because it takes a village to put someone in a mental institution.

My lack of dealing with issues is part of my unraveling, according to Dr. Steinbridge. I like the way that sounds: my unraveling.

But I’m not unraveling in the way they think I am; I’m unraveling out of my infatuation with my husband. I play the part of frail, painfully unaware woman. Stress has eaten at me, I have no coping mechanisms, my parents’ lack of attention coddled me into a tight, naive little cocoon.

We take a tour of my daddy/mommy issues. My mother is a pleaser and my father is detached. As I watched my mother do more, more, more to earn my father’s attention...well...I learned to express that love language. And when I do too much, I collapse under the weight of expectations. My empty womb has made me feel like I’m not a real woman, not worthy of my husband’s love. They scraped all of my organs out, roped off my reproductive system: closed for business. Before my eyes, scenes from my miscarriage begin to flash in painful succession. I know I’m supposed to let them come, face them—as the doctor says. But they’re memories I’ve never looked over, not even once, since it happened. It’s easier to cope when you don’t acknowledge what you’re coping from.

Seth and I have just left our bed and breakfast, and we stop at a gas station to fill up and buy snacks for the road. We’ve just eaten but he insists the baby will need snacks, which makes me smile. He’s so attentive: buying little gifts and kissing my swelling belly. One of my friends at the hospital told me that her husband is revolted by her pregnant stomach and refuses to touch it. I watch him through the car window, my heart swollen with pride. My husband, mine. And now we’ve made a baby together; my life couldn’t be more perfect. He’s so handsome as he walks toward the car, carrying two paper cups, a plastic bag hanging from his forearm. The cups hold tea; he says he asked for hot water inside and then used his mother’s tea bags. It’s bitter, but I’ve been drinking it for a week and the taste is growing on me. I dig in the bag while he finishes up with the gas. He’s bought my favorite pregnancy snacks: unhealthy, processed garbage that normally make me blush with shame. But as I sip on my tea and pull things out of the bag, I feel only grateful for my thoughtful, observant husband. So sweet are the ranch-flavored chips and licorice sticks that resembled twisted, red plastic. The cramps start an hour and a half later. I don’t want to say anything at first, remembering that my doctor said that some women experience Braxton Hicks contractions early in their pregnancies. The phantom pains a mere reflection of what is to come. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, my open bag of chips falling to the car’s floorboard, little speckled triangles spilling out around my shoes. It’s not until I bend to retrieve the chip bag that I see the blood. It’s pooling on the tan leather, staining my cream pants in a dark, ominous red. “Seth,” is all I have to say. He looks over at me and pushes his foot down on the gas, his face pale at the sight of the blood. The nearest hospital: Queen County. When we pull up at the doors of the emergency room I already know my baby is dead, his life leaking out from between my legs.