The Locked Nursery

Chapter 3 Spitting Out the Pills

That night, I took the pill from Zane and let him watch me drink. I had tucked it beneath my tongue, where the chalky coating began to dissolve at once.

After he turned off the light, I waited until his breathing settled into the same slow rhythm.

Then I spat the bitter tablet into a tissue hidden in my palm and pushed it to the back of the nightstand.

Without the sedative, my hands began to shake before dawn. The tremor traveled up my arms, cold sweat soaked my nightshirt and nausea kept pushing into my throat.

I stayed still beside him and clenched my teeth until morning.

For four days and four sleepless nights, I kept up the routine. During the day, I let my eyes drift out of focus, missed objects when I reached for them and moved slowly enough to satisfy Zane.

I nodded through Dr. Evans’s assessments while he wrote down each delayed answer.

At night, I lay beside my husband with a pounding head and timed my breathing to his. When the shaking became visible, I folded my hands beneath the blanket.

When my legs cramped, I waited for him to turn away before stretching them.

By the fourth night, the worst of the shaking had eased and I could hold a glass without rattling it against my teeth.

At two in the morning, Zane’s left hand lay open on the sheet, palm up and fingers loose.

I went to the bathroom and took translucent setting powder from my makeup bag, then found a roll of clear packing tape.

I knelt by the bed and dusted his thumb with the corner of a makeup brush. A pale print appeared.

I pressed a short strip of tape to the pad of his finger and held it there for three seconds.

On the second, he muttered and shifted toward me. The sheet moved under his wrist, but his hand stayed open.

But he didn't wake.

I peeled the tape away from one edge. A complete whorl showed in the powder, with no smear through the center. I laid it against a clean strip so the print would not rub off in my palm.

I folded the strip over itself without touching the print. As I stood, the crying began again.

Without the drugs, I could hear where each thin cry started and stopped. The baby fussed, drew breath and tried again.

The sound came down the hall in uneven bursts, too close and too ordinary to belong to a memory.

I closed my hand around the strip of tape and left the bedroom. This time I was going through the door.