Page 18 of The Other Mother
THE PACIFIER
T he October heat in the desert never lets up, even at dusk.
Our house feels like a sealed box, the air conditioning humming constantly.
I'm folding Eva's laundry in the nursery, the pale yellow walls Adam insisted would be "gender neutral and calming" now feeling more like the inside of a manila envelope.
Everything smells like fabric softener and that particular baby scent—part breastmilk, part something indefinable that makes my chest tighten every time I breathe it in. Six weeks of this. Six weeks of trying to feel like a mother and failing.
I'm sorting through the tiny clothes mechanically.
I have onesies with snaps that I still can't work properly and burp cloths stained with spit-up that never quite comes out no matter how much stain remover I use.
Eva's sleeping in her crib, finally quiet after another afternoon of inconsolable crying that made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The desert light slants through the blinds, casting everything in that harsh golden glow that makes me miss the soft gray light of Orange County.
Back when I had my editing job, back when I knew who I was.
Now I'm just this woman in a house that still feels like it belongs to someone else, taking care of a baby who…
I stop the thought before it can finish. The same thought that's been circling my brain for weeks now, the one that makes me feel like I'm going insane.
I reach into the drawer that Adam labeled “Pacifiers” in his neat handwriting, because everything in this house has to be organized and perfect.
Most of them are new, still in their Target packages from when I panic-bought half the baby aisle during my third trimester nesting phase.
Pink ones, blue ones, the expensive orthodontic kind the books all recommend.
But at the bottom, underneath everything else, my fingers find something different.
It's older. Yellowed around the edges. The rubber is softer, more worn than the others. I pull it out and turn it over in my palm, and that's when I see it.
Etched into the plastic guard, in tiny block letters: GRACIE.
My hands start shaking. Something feels familiar and then I remember. We were going to call her Gracie for a while, and her full name would be…Evelyn Grace .
But I don’t remember ordering anything with that name on it. I don’t remember opening a package.
I've never seen this pacifier before in my life. I'm sure of it, the same way I'm sure about my own name, about the house I grew up in back in Ohio, about the way my mother's voice sounded when she was dying. Some things you just know.
I grab my phone and scroll through my photos, looking for any picture of Eva with this pacifier. Nothing. Every photo shows her with the new ones, the bright clean ones we bought specifically for her. For Eva. Not Gracie.
So where did this come from?
I dig through the nursery drawers frantically, looking for receipts, for packaging, for anything that might explain this.
In the trash can under Eva's changing table, I find the Target bags from last week when I bought more diapers.
The receipt is crumpled but readable: three new pacifiers, all different from this one.
The rational part of my brain, the part that used to edit manuscripts and catch inconsistencies for a living, knows there has to be an explanation. Maybe it was a gift from someone. Maybe I picked it up at a garage sale months ago and forgot. Maybe.
But I can't make myself believe any of those explanations. Not when my skin is crawling just from holding this thing.
I hear Adam's key in the front door, the sound of him dropping his golf bag in the hallway.
He's been playing more lately, disappearing for entire Saturday mornings while I stay home with Eva, drowning in the endless cycle of feeding and changing and trying to soothe a baby who never seems quite satisfied with anything I do.
His footsteps on the hardwood floors sound confident, purposeful. Everything about Adam sounds that way. Even when he's wrong, he sounds right.
"Claire?" His voice carries that slightly concerned tone he's been using with me lately, like I'm made of glass and might shatter if he speaks too loudly.
"In here," I call back, still staring at the pacifier.
He appears in the doorway, still in his golf clothes, navy polo that brings out his eyes, khakis that probably cost more than I used to spend on groceries in a month.
His hair is perfectly styled despite the desert wind.
Adam has always been beautiful in that effortless way that makes other women look at me with mild confusion, like they can't figure out what he sees in me.
"Good day?" I ask, trying to sound normal.
"Great day. Shot under par for the first time this month." He grins, but it fades when he sees my expression. "What's wrong?"
I hold up the pacifier. "Where did this come from?"
He barely glances at it. "Target? I don't know. You picked out most of them."
"It says Gracie." I turn it so he can see the letters clearly.
Now he looks, really looks, and for just a split second I see something flicker across his face. Surprise? Confusion? It's gone so fast I wonder if I had imagined it.
"Yeah, you said you liked that name. Before we settled on Eva."
The words hit me like cold water. "I never said that."
"Claire ... " He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "What are you doing?"
"I'm just asking a question. I don't remember this pacifier."
Adam steps into the room, and suddenly the nursery feels smaller. He's tall, six-two to my five-four, and when he's frustrated, his presence becomes overwhelming. Not threatening exactly, but ... big. Inescapable.
"Because you're not sleeping. You're spiraling again."
Again . The word hangs between us.
"Again?" I repeat.
He exhales hard, puts his hands on his hips in that gesture he does when he's trying to be patient but failing. It's the same stance he used with difficult contractors on job sites, the same tone he used when explaining why we had to move to the desert for his career.
"We've been through this. You had a hard delivery. You've been off since the hospital. I told you I'd support whatever you needed. Therapy, meds, anything. But you have to meet me halfway here."
His voice is calm, measured, but underneath it I hear something else. Something sharp. Not quite fear, not quite anger. Control.
And suddenly I understand that he's not scared for me. He's scared of me. Of what I might do, what I might discover, what I might remember.
"Why would I make up a name?" My voice sounds small in the big room. "Why would I lie about this?"
For a moment, his expression softens. This is the Adam I fell in love with, the one who brought me soup when I had the flu, who held me when I cried about my mother's diagnosis, who promised me that moving here would be a fresh start for our family.
"Because you're exhausted. That's all this is. You're just ... tired."
I nod, because it's easier than fighting. A part of me wants to believe him. And the alternative, that something is very, very wrong, is too terrifying to accept.
But after he walks out, I sit alone in the nursery with the pacifier still clutched in my palm. Eva stirs in her crib, making those soft little sounds that should melt my heart but somehow don't. The desert wind rattles the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls.
I need air. I take the diaper trash out to the curb and step into the heat that never really leaves. The Hendersons’ garage door is half-open, the desert wind nudging it like a lazy wave.
On a wire shelf, I see a gray infant car seat. Heavy. Old-fashioned. The exact shade that flickers in my mind at three a.m.
Two days after discharge I switched to the white Nuna, so was this the loaner I used and promptly forgot ?
My breath stutters. Did I ever own that? Or did she?
Sharon said I had a gray one the day we came home. But we only have the white Nuna. I take one step closer, then stop. Suddenly, I’m aware of how exposed I am in the driveway and how loud my heart is beating.
Finally, I walk to my bedroom and hide the pacifier in my sock drawer, buried underneath old but very comfortable underwear I can't bring myself to throw away yet.
I can’t just throw it away.