Mother of All Secrets(13)

“She wants you.” He sighed, sounding spent, as if his fifteen minutes alone with our baby had done him in.

“Okay, well, I need a few more minutes.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her? I have no idea how to make her stop crying. I really think she might hate me.”

This again. “She doesn’t hate you,” I assured him.

I was trying to be kind. I wanted us to have a good weekend together, and I genuinely did feel bad that Tim, like me, was not having the experience with new parenthood that he’d hoped for. I also knew that I was at least partially to blame for that; my anxiety around Clara had made me possessive and controlling, and my anger around my mom’s death pervaded every second of my day, including those spent with Tim.

“She’s just getting used to you still,” I told him. “It takes time.” I kept applying lotion. “What have you tried so far? Have you tried bouncing on the sports ball and giving her a paci? At the same time? You have to pretty much hold it in her mouth for her for at least ten minutes before she’ll take it herself. Have you tried reading her a book? She loves Brown Bear, Brown Bear.” I was using my “nice voice,” but I was also getting tired of always being the teacher. I was new to this, too, after all. I had no idea what I was doing, either.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to bounce her, because I didn’t think you’d want her to fall asleep yet.” This was a fair point. She’d only been awake for about forty-five minutes and needed to eat soon. I’d been reading all about “wake windows” online and had just given Tim a lecture about their importance. Apparently he’d been paying attention, and he was right: the ball did tend to put her to sleep right away.

“I’ll be there in literally two seconds. Can you just . . . ?” An exasperated wave of my hand replaced the end of my sentence.

He shut the door and the crying commenced with heightened intensity.

When I looked at my phone again, Selena and Kira had both responded to Vanessa’s text that they couldn’t make it today.

Hey hey—busy day with family in town, wrote Selena. I’ll likely pop over there sometime this week.

Brutal night with Caleb, read Kira’s reply. We don’t really have it together over here today. Trying to catch some naps. Please keep us posted, though. Haven’t stopped thinking about her.

I didn’t want to make Vanessa go over there on her own. Also, I had to admit to myself that, in addition to being genuinely and deeply worried about Isabel, and sickened by the thought of being separated from my baby, as Isabel was from hers, I was also curious—about Isabel’s house, her husband, and Naomi’s grandma, if that’s who Kira and I had seen the day before. When I was still actually able to read a page before falling asleep or succumbing to anxious thoughts about my daughter, I had been addicted to thrillers—I used to spend hours perusing the shelves at the Strand Book Store, picking out the perfect suspense novel to keep me up well into the night. Isabel’s disappearance had awakened whatever part of myself craved mystery. Or perhaps just distraction from my own insular little life. Either way, I wanted to scope things out a bit for myself. See what her life may have been like at home.

Besides, I figured Tim would be grateful for a little break. From Clara and me both.

I’m in, I wrote. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll meet you outside my apartment—86th and Amsterdam. I had never been to Vanessa’s apartment, but I knew she lived on West End Avenue in the high Seventies, making my apartment on Eighty-Sixth Street on her way to Isabel’s.

Vanessa texted me at exactly 2:50 p.m. Hi! We’re outside. Right on time—surprise, surprise. (Also, we were going to our missing friend’s apartment, but still, if you don’t start a text with Hi! you’re a bitch, right?)

I had ducked out earlier while Clara was napping to pick up some Levain scones and muffins to bring over to Isabel’s family. The solo time on this errand had rejuvenated me somewhat, though leaving the house without Clara was so rare that I’d felt like I had left a limb behind or was walking down the street naked.

As predicted, Tim was supportive about my going to Isabel’s—though he had been oddly aloof the night before when I’d told him about Isabel’s disappearance, swiftly delivering wisdom akin to “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” When I looked at him sideways, he realized that wasn’t a big enough reaction, and he recovered: “Crazy, though. How are you doing with it? Are you okay?”

I grabbed my Levain bag and gave Tim a peck goodbye before darting into the elevator, deciding to leave the stroller behind, Clara happy in her carrier, awake and sucking her thumb. Hopefully she would stay that way, but I didn’t exactly want to stay at Isabel’s all afternoon anyway, so if she did get fussy, it would give me an excuse to dart out. I also knew that there would be plenty of places for her to sit once we were there, since their house was obviously set up for Naomi and would have plenty of baby gear. My heart hurt when I thought of Naomi—if she was wondering where her mom was, when she would nurse again. While I (mostly) relished my occasional moments away from Clara, the idea of actually being separated from her in any real sense or for a long period made me nauseated and dizzy—especially thinking about whether it had happened against my will, which could be the case with Isabel. She could be kidnapped. Murdered. Lost. Anything.