Chapter 33
Elara
My vision started to blur. Black spots dancing at the edges.
And then, suddenly, I wasn't in the hallway anymore.
The memory hit me like a freight train.
The hospital room smelled like bleach and antiseptic. I'd given birth two days ago.
Tristan came with his lawyers on the third day, before they'd even discharged me.
"Elara, we need to discuss your postpartum care plan."
"I'm fine. I just want to take Lily home."
"That's what we all want." His smile was kind, reasonable. "But given the circumstances—the stress of new motherhood, your history of emotional instability—the family's medical team recommends preventative treatment. Just to ensure you stay healthy. For Lily's sake."
"What kind of treatment?"
"Medication. Mood stabilizers. Anti-anxiety medication. Very standard for high-risk mothers." He slid papers across the bedside table. "It's voluntary, of course. But if you refuse, we'll need to involve Child Protective Services for an assessment. Which could delay taking Lily home for weeks. Maybe months."
I looked down at my daughter sleeping in the bassinet beside my bed.
I signed.
The first six months were bearable.
They gave me pills twice a day—morning and evening—but the dosage was low enough that I could still function. Still think. Still paint when Lily napped.
I lived in the Glass House with a nurse they'd hired, and I hated the isolation but I had my daughter. She was perfect. She'd grab my finger with her tiny hand and I'd feel like maybe, maybe I could survive this.
Then Sloane called.
"Elara, I need a painting for the Kennedy Foundation gala. Something large, impressive. You have three weeks."
I was holding Lily against my shoulder, trying to get her to burp. "I can't. I have a baby. I don't have time to—"
"Tristan says you're on medication that makes you drowsy. I'll have him reduce it so you can work. You'll need to be sharp for this piece—it's going to be auctioned for charity. My name will be on it, so it needs to be exceptional."
The line went dead.
Two hours later, Tristan showed up.
"Sloane needs a painting." He set a new pill bottle on the counter. "Half dosage for the next three weeks. You'll be clearer, more focused. But after you finish, we'll need to increase it again to compensate for the interruption in treatment."
That's when I understood.
They'd keep me just sedated enough to control me, but clear enough to paint when Sloane needed my work.
I was useful. That's the only reason they let me keep some piece of my mind.
For the next two years, my life followed a brutal rhythm.
Most of the time: Full medication. Fog. Exhaustion. Days that blurred together where I'd hold Lily but my arms felt too heavy, where I'd try to sing to her but forget the words halfway through.
When Sloane needed a painting: Reduced medication. Three to four weeks of relative clarity. I'd paint frantically, desperately, knowing the fog would return. And during those precious clear weeks, I'd spend every moment I wasn't painting with Lily.
"Mama!" She'd run to me when I picked her up from the nurse's care, her little arms outstretched.
I'd hold her for hours. Read her books. Draw silly pictures that made her laugh. Take her to the beach and let her splash in the waves while I sat on the sand and just watched her be alive and perfect and mine.
Those weeks were everything.
"Mama, look!" She'd show me shells, rocks, seagulls.
"I see, baby. It's beautiful."
Her hand in mine. Her head on my shoulder. Her voice saying "Mama" like it was the most natural word in the world.
I lived for those moments of clarity.
But Sloane needed paintings frequently.
Four major galas a year. Three gallery showings. Private commissions for her wealthy friends. Each time she'd build her reputation on my work while I lived in isolated fog, barely able to remember what I'd painted.
"The collection needs to be cohesive, Elara. You'll need at least six weeks for this one."
Six weeks of reduced medication. Six weeks of being able to think, to feel, to be Lily's mother.
Then back to the fog.
After each cycle, they'd increase the dosage slightly—"To stabilize you after the interruption."
I didn't realize until much later that they were slowly destroying my brain.
Lily's second birthday was during a clear period.
Sloane needed a series of paintings for a museum retrospective—"Make it your best work, Elara. This is the show that will establish me internationally."
For eight weeks, they reduced my medication to almost nothing.
I painted like my life depended on it. Five large canvases, each one pouring out years of trapped rage and love and loss.
But every moment I wasn't painting, I was with Lily.
"Mama, can we make cookies?"
"Yes, baby. Whatever you want."
We made cookies. We read books. We danced to music in the living room. I taught her the alphabet. I drew pictures of animals and she'd guess what they were, laughing when I made the dog look like a cat.
"Mama's silly!"
"Yes. Mama's very silly."
I took hundreds of photos on the nurse's phone when she wasn't looking. Tried to memorize every detail of Lily's face. The gap between her front teeth. The cowlick at her hairline. The way she said "I love you, Mama" every night before bed.
Because I knew what was coming.
After I finished Sloane's paintings, Tristan came with a new bottle.
"You did exceptional work. Sloane is very pleased." He set the medication on the counter—the dosage was higher than before. "But you pushed yourself too hard. The medical team is concerned about a potential episode. We need to increase your treatment for your own safety."
"No. Please. I'm fine. I feel better than I have in years—"
"That's the problem. You're manic. Unstable. We can't risk another breakdown with a young child in the house."
"She needs me!"
"She needs a stable mother. Not someone who'll have a psychotic break and hurt her."
I looked at Lily playing with blocks on the floor, humming to herself.
"If you refuse the medication, we'll have to hospitalize you. And Lily will stay with the nurse. Maybe permanently."
I took the pills.
But this time, something was different.
The fog didn't just return—it thickened. Darkened. Consumed.
I'd sleep fourteen hours and wake up exhausted. I'd try to paint during Lily's naptime but my hands wouldn't cooperate, the brush falling from my fingers.
"Mama's tired," I'd tell her when she asked to play. "Mama needs to rest."
Her face would fall. "Okay, Mama."
The nurse would take her. And I'd sleep. And sleep. And sleep.
Three months later, Sloane called about another commission.
"I need two paintings for the spring auction. Can you have them ready in a month?"
"Yes. Of course."
Tristan reduced my medication.
I tried to paint.
The canvas stayed blank.
I'd stand in front of it for hours, brush in hand, but my mind felt broken. The images wouldn't come. The colors looked wrong. My hands shook.
Two weeks passed. Nothing.
Sloane called, irritated. "Where are my paintings?"
"I'm trying. I just need more time—"
"You've had two weeks. With reduced medication, you should be producing your best work."
"I can't. Something's wrong. I can't see the images anymore. I can't—"
"Figure it out, Elara. I have buyers waiting."
She hung up.
I spent the next two weeks in front of blank canvases, crying.
The nurse wrote it all down.
"Patient unable to complete basic tasks. Patient displays frequent emotional distress. Patient's cognitive function appears significantly impaired."
When the month was up and the paintings weren't finished, Tristan came.
"Sloane is very disappointed. She's had to cancel the auction."
"I'm sorry. I tried. I swear I tried—"
"The medical team believes the medication may have lost effectiveness. We need to try a different combination. Stronger sedatives to manage your increasing agitation."
"What agitation? I'm not agitated, I'm just—I'm sad because I can't paint anymore—"
"Exactly. You're depressed. Possibly suicidal. We need to increase supervision."
New pills. Higher doses. More fog.
And this time, even when they reduced the medication for the next commission, I couldn't paint.
My brain was too damaged.
I'd used up all my value.