“Postpartum psychosis,” he said. “That’s what the psychiatrist called it after. She couldn’t stand to be near him. Wouldn’t hold him. Wouldn’t look at him. She kept saying she was poison to him.”
His voice cracked on the word poison.
“She left a note,” he whispered. “One line. I can’t be what he needs. I’m poison to him.”
Janelle swallowed hard. There was nothing polite to say to that kind of suffering.
“I brought him here to get away from the city,” Marcus continued, voice flattening again like he was trying to hide the fracture. “Thought quiet might help. It didn’t. He’s worse. If he doesn’t eat soon, the last doctor said his organs will fail.”
For the first time, Marcus looked up and let her see what lived behind his emptiness.
Fear.
Raw and animal.
Janelle’s chest ached, deeper than milk and pressure. “Can I see him?”
His eyes sharpened. “Why?”
