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Bergreen, Karen.
Perfect is overrated / Karen Bergreen. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-00176-4 (trade pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-4668-0191-2 (e-book)
1. Childbirth—Fiction. 2. Postpartum depression—Fiction. 3. Separation
(Law)—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E756P47 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012007567
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I emerge from my depression the moment I learn of
Beverly Hastings’s death. She’s not just dead. She’s been mur-
dered. Someone, apparently, liked her even less than I did.
I get out of bed, where I have been spending way too much
time. And alone, at that. I turn the volume up on the televi-
sion. A reporter is standing outside Beverly’s East Side town
house, and cops are everywhere.
“Very little is known about the murder of Beverly Hast-
ings. Police are withholding what appear to be gruesome de-
tails.”
Gruesome details. I perk up even more.
“I just feel sorry for the child.” An older woman identified
as Sarah, Beverly’s neighbor, is speaking.
I, too, feel sorry for the child, but on the bright side, Bitsy
will never again have to wear bloomers.
I unravel my Disney princess comforter—Molly’s actually,
as mine has been in the laundry for two months—and start
looking for the telephone. I haven’t used it in days, a lingering
by-product of my acute, protracted depression. It’s not in the
cradle. My apartment, once a masterwork of cleanliness and
organization, is now a prime example of college-dorm-style
disarray. I straighten Paul’s old NYPD sweatshirt and pick up
the jeans that I left on the floor after returning to bed this morn-
ing. Then I shuffle from my lightless bedroom into the kitchen,
which owes its brightness to the building’s architect rather than
to any feat of mine. I realize I’m wearing one sneaker.
• 2 • K AREN BERGREEN
“I know.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” He’s convinced that I’ll never
be okay.
“Truly, I am.” Truly I am. In fact, I’m sweeping. “I’ll drop
Molly off later.”
“ ’Kay.”
He’s trying to be familiar, but I hang up in lieu of partaking
in our old routine.
I will never forgive him. He makes my skin crawl. But we
share a daughter.
And, he’s gotta know something.
“And the Emily Dickinson look may not work with these
people, so before you go for your school interview, you might
want to take a walk or a run or something. Gray may be in this
year, but not in skin tone. Buy a dress or some shoes.”
“I get it, Peg.”
“Some of these schools are in a church. You don’t want
them redirecting you to the food bank.”
“I get it.”
Peg was the only person who understood my mental state.
Despite her anti-elitist leanings, she knew that my applying for
schools was a sign that I had graduated from the ocean-floor
depths of my noxious depression to my current state of some-
what functional dysthymia.
But I had lost a husband in the process.
Once Paul and I were out of the precinct, he put his arm around
me and drew me in. Neither of us said anything.
PERFECT
CHAOS
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