Mother of All Secrets(30)

“I’m sorry” was all I could say. Lamely. Miles and Clara lay on the floor looking at the mobile and reaching for toys, unaware that their mothers were having it out.

Selena shook her head sadly, like I was a lost cause. “I know. Thanks. We should go.” She reached down and started to gather Miles’s toys and paci.

“No, wait—I totally get it—I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. I know I’m obsessing, I just—”

“It’s okay, Jenn. I don’t think you do get it. But it’s not your fault.” She shrugged in a casual, unsurprised way that made me feel even worse. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

And with that, she scooped up Miles, who kicked excitedly, and her diaper bag and let herself out, leaving me with more questions than I’d had before and a rising, hot sense of shame in my chest.





June 15

Dear Baby,

This is going to be brief because I’m effing exhausted, but YOU’RE HERE, MY GIRL! And I thought I knew what love was but I didn’t. Because it’s this. It’s you. Ten fingers, ten toes, twenty-one inches of perfect.

Delivering you into this world is and will always be my proudest accomplishment. Holy Mother! I knew it would hurt, but man . . . those contractions take hold of your body and let go only when you’re writhing in pain, sure you can’t take any more . . . and then, just as you’ve tasted a sweet second of relief, they’re back with a vengeance. Then, my God, there’s the rectal pressure, the pushing and straining to get you out, the tearing, the blood. The postbirth shakes, the aftershock contractions. The sharp, raw first latches, made more painful by the fact that there’s no milk to drain yet, only gummy colostrum. The frightening showerhead spritz of bloody pee. And of course the diaper. Mine, not yours. Why aren’t more people talking about this stuff? I honestly had no idea.

But I did it, and I did it alone. And if I can do that, then I can do this, too. I can be your mom. I know it. Whatever I had to go through to get you here—labor, and what happened with him, your father—it was worth it.

I have to confide something—in the midst of all of this, I can’t stop thinking about his wife. Your father’s. Here you are, in the world—proof of what he did—and she probably has no idea who he really is. I feel terrible for her. But I know the best thing is to just try to put them both out of my head, forever.

We’re home now, and it hasn’t been an easy week. Little sleep, lots of crying. From both of us. I’ve never been this tired. Everything hurts. But then you stir and reach for me, make some unknowable expression in your sleep, and I know it’s all worth it. I can’t stop kissing your fingers and your lips. You are so, so amazing. And, happily, you’re all me—your eyes, your cheeks, your chin—you’re my girl. No doubt about that.

Right now you’re sleeping, and I know I should be, too, but I just can’t stop looking at you. My little girl. I’ll always be your mom, and you’ll always be my daughter. You’re the best part of my life. For the rest of it, that will remain true.

You and me against the world, girl.

Love you forever,

Mommy





Chapter Twelve



Monday, October 5

By the time Selena stormed out, it was already getting dark; my dressing-down had apparently gone on for quite a while. As soon as she left, I helped myself to the chardonnay in the fridge like I’d planned to, though I hadn’t anticipated how badly I’d need it. I was mortified about everything I’d said. And about everything she’d said. All I could do was look at Clara and say, “You still like me, though, right?” But I also knew that me wallowing in embarrassment did nothing: I vowed to apologize to Selena for real and to be more mindful of and curious about her experiences as a Black mother going forward. To try to earn my place as a real friend. And certainly, to stop trying to get her to join me in attempting to snoop around Isabel’s house. Seriously, what is wrong with me?

Tim got home shortly after Selena left, but had to duck right into our bedroom for a Zoom call. I remembered he’d mentioned that he had an afternoon meeting in the neighborhood, so he had probably decided not to return to his office afterward.

After an hour of trying to play with Clara but actually just mentally replaying everything both Selena and I had said and cringing, I poked my head in to say hi to Tim and see how much longer his call would be, Clara on my hip. He smiled at us, laptop open in front of him, but held up his finger to indicate he wasn’t off the call yet. I bounced Clara to the kitchen and poured myself another glass of wine.

I grabbed my phone and prepared to commence my new search routine—instead of browsing Instagram, I scanned Google hits on Isabel for news items, my Google Docs to make sure the note I’d written was still deleted, and my calendar app to see if our alleged plans had somehow reappeared. Although what I’d apparently written remained safely deleted, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was terrified it would resurface somehow. I checked my Google Alerts next. Nothing new; still the same half-hearted single-paragraph coverage on West Side Rag. Search Continues for Missing Mom, it offered, though the article contained no new or meaningful information. Clara started wailing from the play mat. Six thirty p.m.: time to eat. I decided to give her a bottle; I was nearly done with my second glass of wine, after all. Besides, maybe a bottle would fill her up more, resulting in a longer stretch of sleep.