I'll Be You(89)

I didn’t see, really. I still felt guilty. I still felt responsible. I still felt like there was damage I must undo. But I tried to push that away, to make up for it by being the best possible substitute mother to Charlotte. I smothered her with love so that I could forget that I was the one who couldn’t breathe.



* * *



—

Weeks passed. I stopped sleeping. Exhaustion wove itself into the fabric of my existence, my queasy, achy new normal. At night, I sat in the armchair in the nursery and watched Charlotte sleep, my heart beating in time with the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Often, I found myself thinking of Sam. Wondering what she would think of this madness, wondering how shocked she would be to hear what I’d done. Would she be disappointed in me? Would she try to talk me into taking Charlotte back to Arizona? Would she laugh, tell me she didn’t think I had it in me?

I wasn’t angry at her anymore, I realized. I’d lost that right the minute I crossed the street with someone else’s child in my arms. Or maybe once my anger tipped over from emboldening to frightening, I knew it was time to snuff it out. Instead, I once again found myself fantasizing that my doorbell would ring, and I’d open it to see Sam standing there. We’d look at each other and nothing would need to be said, we’d both just know. The way we used to, when we were children. She’d help me untangle the mess I’d made.

But of course she wouldn’t come, not with the way I’d left things last year. And I couldn’t even call to ask for her help: Dr. Cindy had made me delete her number from my phone months earlier. We were so far apart, and I had no clue how I could ever claw my way back.



* * *



—

A few weeks after I wrote out my confession, I was awarded Level Eight, which meant I was officially an “upper-level” member. I was given a pale green scarf, and an admonishment that I needed to start recruiting new members. (But who? I’d once dragged my neighbor Alice along, and she never looked at me the same way again. I could think of no one else to bring.) After the ceremony, Dr. Cindy pulled me into one of the velvet cubbies, and handed me a mug of chamomile tea. She sat down across from me so that our knees were touching.

“I’m so proud of the work that we’re doing here. But there’s so much more to do,” she said. “And I really want you to be part of it, Elli. You’re one of our brightest stars, you’ve made leaps and bounds this year. But the thing is—we need funding. We need to expand, to meet the demand of these women who need our help. We want to open a new center in San Francisco, we want to start a scholarship fund for women who don’t have the means to pay for workshops, and we have big plans to renovate our Ojai retreat into a state-of-the-art headquarters. And, of course, we need more full-time Mentors. This is where you come in.” My stomach flipped—was I being invited into the inner circle, a Level Ten Mentor?—but then she continued. “I’d love to show you our business plan and see if you would be up for an investment.”

“Oh,” I said, a little flustered. I thought of the amount that I’d already spent on GenFem so far—it had just crossed six figures—and wondered where, exactly, that money had gone. “How much do you think you need?”

“Three hundred thousand would be a good start.”

The tea scalded my throat, and I choked. I still had more than a million dollars in my childhood savings account, but my day-to-day income had dried up. Since Charlotte’s arrival, I’d let my florist business wither on the vine, turning down clients and canceling events. I just didn’t have the time. And I’d already told Chuck, via his divorce attorney, that I didn’t want anything from him except our house. I didn’t want to have to deal with lawyers who might dig into my current situation and discover the existence of an undocumented child. I figured I still had a career as a Mentor ahead of me anyway—but when would that materialize?

Dr. Cindy gripped my hands tighter, as if reading my mind. “You look panicky, I can tell what you’re thinking. But you’re looking at it the wrong way. This is an investment. A way to make money. You’ll double your money in a matter of a few years, I promise. It’s a win-win, really.”

I told her I’d think about it, she told me she’d get me some spreadsheets, and then I left to retrieve Charlotte from my parents’ house.

On the way out, I passed Dr. Cindy’s brand-new cherry-red Land Rover parked in the strip mall lot. It shone like a newly minted penny.





31




I STOPPED GOING TO GenFem almost by accident. I just got lost in single motherhood—the constant churn, the soothing repetition, the problems so easily solved. Lost bunny toy? Here it is! Hungry? Have a snack! Dirty diaper? Let’s clean you up! My mind was too numb, my conscience too conflicted by my day-to-day, to even think about bigger things like mastering the Method or leading a new women’s movement.

I found myself attending meetings only once a week, and then every other week, and then I stopped going altogether.

In June, Iona called to ask why I hadn’t been to a meeting in twenty-seven days. “Motherhood is a full-time job,” I said, a little alarmed that they’d been counting. (And yet, wasn’t it also nice that they’d noticed, and missed me? I thought. I was still looking for silver linings.) Across the room, Charlotte was smashing chunks of neon-bright Play-Doh into the cracks in the cabinetry.