Mother of All Secrets(22)

Next, I searched my texts. Had she texted me about plans? My only one-on-one text with her was just after I’d attended my first meeting, after which we’d exchanged numbers. She’d sweetly said, So nice meeting you and Clara! She’s adorable, like her mom. Looking forward to getting to know you both better! Our only other communication was in group texts with the other moms. I searched my Gmail to be safe. My sole email correspondence with her was when she emailed me the details of the moms’ group meeting, following her (delayed) response to my Facebook post.

I couldn’t find any trace of communication with Isabel on my phone that I’d forgotten about. No reason why she would think we’d have plans on Thursday the first.

None of this made any sense. Why did Isabel think we had plans? And at 7:00 p.m., meaning it wouldn’t have even been a playdate. It would have been just the two of us. Had she planned on asking me to get together, and then never did? Was she interested in one-on-one time with me for a specific reason? And, most importantly, if she had wanted to see me outside of our meetings, why hadn’t she asked?

The detectives’ visit to my apartment would have felt routine, like I was just a check on a long roster of all the people she knew, if it weren’t for this calendar entry. This felt dangerous. Like I was a suspect or something.

I finally put my phone down and went to the bedroom to scoop Clara from her bassinet; her fussing had turned into decisive Come get me NOW cries. I returned to the living room with her, flopped onto the couch, and yanked my shirt down, not caring that I was ruining the ancient, pilly Gap V-neck that probably belonged in the trash. I hoped Clara would latch quickly so that I could get back to the business of Isabel, and she did. She began nursing eagerly, and only then did I notice that as she drank, she was scratching my chest gently with her fingernails, which were indeed a bit long. But not hard enough to make cuts—not even close. So the mysterious cuts covering my knuckles that the detectives had inquired about remained unexplained. What the hell did I do to my hand?

I decided to open up my Isabel search to my entire phone, just to see if anything else at all came up. First, my search history, which yielded only evidence of very recently googling her name after she disappeared, and then, from further back, my Ingrid & Isabel maternity wear purchases. Then I checked my notes. There were notes that made little sense to me and that I barely remembered writing:

9/17 3:23 a.m. Pretty Baby don’t look for me a good marriage the Herd

These, I realized after a minute, were four separate titles of books I wanted to read but sadly probably wouldn’t anytime soon.

9/21 1:21 a.m. pump tube thingy???

I needed to order new valves for my breast pump but had apparently forgotten what they were called when writing this note.

9/23 2:01 a.m. Mom I miss you so much please come back

Reading this one made my eyes sting and heart hurt.

There was nothing about Isabel in my notes.

I opened up Google Docs. I hadn’t been using the app much, since usually I only did so for lesson planning and work-related stuff. So it was surprising that there was a new Doc. Untitled. Friday, September 25. Appeared to be only one line. I opened it.

Isabel doesn’t matter.

My heart leaped out of my chest. It was a surprise that Clara didn’t propel off me.

What the hell were these words doing in my documents? I hadn’t written these. I couldn’t have. What did they mean?

My mind jumped to the same explanation I had offered the detectives about myself: Could this be about a different Isabel? But I really didn’t know any other Isabels. Certainly none whom I would have written this about. But I couldn’t imagine writing this about her, either.

Next possibility—could this be someone else’s Google Doc that I was invited to view?

I checked the file’s ownership settings and saw my own Gmail address there.

And no other people had viewing or editing access to the Doc.

Had I—could I possibly have—written this?

And on Friday, September 25.

The last time I had seen Isabel.

Why would I have written this?

I thought hard. Admittedly, sometimes I left our meetings feeling a little down. The other moms, Isabel included—even Kira, if I was being honest—just had their shit together more than I did. So sometimes our conversations left me feeling more inadequate than uplifted. Sometimes I felt a bit excluded on the basis of wealth, too: the talk of Comotomo bottles, SNOO bassinets, BabyBj?rn chairs, private twos programs, and Jacadi clothing made me feel like not only was I failing Clara in emotional ways, I was also coming up short by not being able to give her all this great stuff that the other moms were giving their babies.

But the frustrations I felt during our meetings were mild, for the most part. I liked these women. A lot. I admired them. I enjoyed and felt I was benefiting from seeing how other moms were managing the roller coaster of new motherhood. I valued their insight and advice. And I loved getting wine with them after.

Didn’t I?

Isabel doesn’t matter. Had she said something that hurt me? What had I meant by this?

I couldn’t have written this. And yet, here it was. On my phone. In my Docs. Undeniable.

And, truthfully, there were plenty of other things I couldn’t remember these days.

I could never remember how many feeds or soiled diapers Clara had in a day; when they asked me this question at our biweekly pediatrician appointments, I inevitably shrugged helplessly.