Page 100 of Aced (Driven 4)
Then I must be thriving.
“Yeah.” I sigh. My eyes are back on the door but her comment sticks in my mind.
“You can’t do this all yourself, son. Let all of us help you. We’re setting up a schedule so we can come and—”
“I don’t know about that, Mom. I appreciate it, but Rylee—”
“Sorry. This is what family does. We rally the troops and take care of our own,” she says, the no-nonsense tone in her voice taking me back twenty years to when I was a punk kid getting reprimanded. “You don’t have a choice. Ry’s mom, Quinlan, Haddie, and I will take shifts if need be. Anything it takes. And you’ll take the help and not argue. Understood?”
Yep. Right back there to being ten and getting caught trying to light firecrackers in the backyard.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you need the break too. You’ll burn yourself out. A proud man is a good man. But he can also be stupid one.”
I can’t help the laugh that falls from my mouth. My blunt mother telling me like it is. One of a very few women who can.
“Mom, I have to go,” I say as the door opens.
“Let me know what she says so I can let everyone know and—”
I hang up the phone. Cut her off. I need to know.
“Dr. Steele?”
“Walk me out, please?” she asks.
“Sure.” We head to the front door. This doesn’t sound good. My dread builds with each footstep. My heart is in my throat by the time we walk outside and shut the door behind us.
“He is an adorable little guy, isn’t he?” she says as she focuses on Ace when all I want her to do is tell me about Rylee.
“Doc?” I finally ask, hoping she’ll have pity on me.
“You were right to call me, Colton.” The breath I’m holding burns in my lungs. “She’s definitely struggling with more than the typical baby blues.”
I feel a flicker of relief. I don’t know why. She hasn’t said she’s going to be okay, but at least I’ll know the beast we’re facing.
“Okay, so what do I need to do for her?” Something. Anything. I’m a guy. I need to fix things and this not being able to fix Rylee is fucking me up.
She smiles softly at me. “To be honest, there’s no clear-cut answer here. I talked with Rylee. Explained how she’s not alone. That a lot of women go through this and that getting help does not mean she’s failing as a mother.” She reaches out and plays with Ace’s hand as she continues. “Sometimes, postpartum depression is triggered by a sequence of events that seems out of the person’s control. Add in the rush of hormones. Then there’s the pressure of trying to get a newborn—who couldn’t care less about a schedule—to be on a schedule because every book you’ve read says that’s what you should be doing or you’re not doing it right. All of those combined are like the perfect storm of uncontrolled chaos. In Rylee’s case, her mind has internalized it all and has fallen into a little downward dip of depression.”
I blow out a breath, hear her words and know it’s not my fault. But I’m a guy so I blame myself nonetheless. “Is she going to be okay?”
She nods. “I’ve written a prescription for some anti-depressants and—”
“Can she still nurse?” I ask, knowing that nursing is the only time she feels somewhat connected to Ace.
“Yes. There is much debate on this. In my opinion the trade-off is worth it: getting Rylee on the road to recovery versus a trace of the drugs passed on through the milk.”
“Okay.”
“She’s a fighter, Colton. Get her out in the fresh air. A walk on the beach. A drive in the car. Anything you can think of doing to get her up and about without triggering her panic attacks.”
I chuckle. She does realize who we are, right? Did she forget there’s a reason she’s making a house call and we’re not going to her office?
“I know. It’s difficult in . . . your situation, but the more stimuli, the better.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I appreciate you making the house call.”
