Seventeen Pots of Hydrangeas

I stood on the balcony, staring at the muddy streaks left on the tile.

They twisted across the floor like hydrangea roots after someone had ripped them out by force.

"What are you staring at? Noah's awake. Are you deaf?"

My mother's voice cracked across the living room.

Noah was crying in his crib, his face red.

I reached for him.

Mom knocked my arm aside.

"Your hands are shaking like that. What if you drop him?"

She picked him up with practiced ease and started soothing him.

Without looking back, she asked, "Did you warm the bottle?"

I went into the kitchen and switched on the bottle warmer.

The bottle slipped from my fingers, struck the edge of the counter, and rolled across the floor.

Mom came in barefoot, snatched it up, and ran it under hot water.

"What exactly can you do?

"You can't feed him properly. You can't take care of him. But somehow you had plenty of energy for flowers.

"You're upset because I threw them out? The balcony was covered in dirt and mosquitoes. Where was I supposed to hang his clothes?"

"Those flowers were —"

"In this house, what could possibly matter more than that baby? The flowers? Or your little feelings?"

At six-thirty, the front door opened.

Mark was home from work, and Mom was already at the entryway to meet him.

"You're back? Dinner's ready. I made the pot roast you like."

He set down his bag, played with Noah for a moment, then finally noticed me.

His smile disappeared.

"What's wrong? Crying again?"

Again.

That word hurt more than it should have.

Mom sighed deliberately, keeping her voice soft enough to sound reasonable and loud enough for him to hear.

"Don't even ask. I cleared those flowers off the balcony and she acted like I'd killed someone. Stood out there all afternoon. Didn't warm the bottle. Didn't go near the baby."

Mark frowned.

Not because he was worried.

Because I was inconvenient.

"They were just flowers. Was it really worth all this? Your mom's only thinking of Noah."

Mom smiled.

The expression said, See? I told you.

"At least Mark has some sense."

She handed Noah to him, moving around me to do it.

"Here. Let Daddy hold you. Daddy's dependable."

At dinner, a full plate sat in front of Mark.

Mine held broth and a few slices of onion. Not one piece of meat.

"You should eat light. Your milk supply's already poor. If you get another clogged duct, that's more money wasted fixing it."

"Mom."

I put down my spoon.

"I grew those hydrangeas myself for Noah. I wanted to take him out there and —"

"Enough."

Mark set down his fork.

"Can we get through one meal without this? Do you have any idea how much your mother has done for us?"

Mom's eyes reddened instantly.

"I came all this way to look after her after the baby was born, and I don't even get a thank-you. If I'd known, I'd have left her to manage it all herself and seen how long she lasted."

"Carol, don't be upset."

Mark reached over and refilled her glass.

"She's always like this."

Then he turned to me and lowered his voice.

"Clean up after dinner. Don't make your mother do any more work."

I finished the bowl of meatless broth one mouthful at a time.

It was salty.

I couldn't tell whether it was the broth or my tears.

At eleven that night, everyone was asleep.

I walked quietly to the crib.

Noah slept deeply, one tiny fist curled shut, his mouth slightly open.

I reached out and touched his cheek.

So soft. So warm.

A tear landed on his blanket.

I planted those flowers for Noah.

When he was old enough to walk beside me, I would point them out one by one.

They were gone.

But I was still here.

"What are you doing?"

The light snapped on.

Mom stood in the doorway, staring at me the way you'd stare at something dangerous.

"Why are you crouching over him in the middle of the night?"

"I just wanted to look at him."

"Look at him?"

She crossed the room and started rolling the crib toward her door.

"You're not stable. The doctor said you shouldn't handle him at night."

"No doctor ever said that!"

"Keep your voice down!"

Mark came out of the bedroom looking irritated.

"What time is it? Does nobody in this house want to sleep?"

He looked at me, then at Mom.

"Take him into your room, Carol. She's not doing well lately. If something happened —"

He didn't finish.

But the if cut through me anyway.

The crib wheels crossed the floor.

Noah woke and started crying.

Mom lifted him into her arms, put her body between us, and carried him in.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

His crying came through the wood, muffled and far away.

Mark passed me and stopped.

"Can you just act normal for once?"

Before I could answer, he went back into the bedroom and shut the door.

One by one, the lights in the apartment went out.

Only a thin line of light remained under my mother's door.

My son was behind that light.

And I was locked outside.