Mother of All Secrets(36)

“Do you mind if we sit for a second? I have to make a bottle.” They sat down and Cynthia took out a Comotomo bottle filled with water and dumped powder from a plastic baggie into it. She shook it vigorously, carefully lifted Phoebe out of her stroller, and started feeding her. “There’s a girl. There’s a sweet girl. Drink your milk, baby. By the way, how is your son doing at college?” And with that, they moved on from Vanessa and Isabel.

I turned left out of the park, exiting onto Eighty-Third Street and Riverside Drive. I was winded, either from the short hill or the adrenaline rush from overhearing what I had.

Clara woke up with a scrunchy face and a wail. I knew she would be hungry, and I didn’t want her to cry all the way home. I felt like whenever she started crying in the stroller, people glared at me—as if I didn’t know I was inadequate and they needed to confirm it with their concerned looks. Even the most well-meaning interventions, like a woman who’d recently asked if I needed help as Clara shrieked through the last few minutes of a walk in Central Park, left me shaken. “I promise it gets better!” she’d said with a sympathetic smile. I knew she was being kind, but I was still embarrassed.

I sat on another bench on Eighty-Fourth and Riverside, shaded by trees and overlooking the section of park where we’d just been walking, and fumbled with my nursing bra, nursing cover, and Clara’s head, until at last she was latched, tangled in my layers.

I allowed my mind to race, replaying their conversation. Lots of women bounce back quickly from delivery. (Not me, obviously, but I’d seen pictures on Instagram of Kristin Cavallari in a bikini, like, nine days after giving birth, and Hilaria Baldwin on a run the day after coming home from the hospital. So I knew it could happen.) The fact that Vanessa looked trim and was already exercising when Cynthia met her didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean that she was incapable of understanding the plight of other postpartum women who were perhaps struggling more than she was. Nor did it mean that she wasn’t also fighting her own private battles. Especially since she was doing it all on her own.

That she had lied about formula feeding, or at least perhaps implied that she didn’t, only made me feel sorry for her, that she’d been embarrassed enough about her choice that she’d tried to hide it. Because there was nothing wrong with formula feeding at all—I knew that, absolutely—and yet I wondered if I, too, would deny it, or just not mention it, when I made the switch. There was so much judgment around the whole issue, and most mothers I met were so quick to mention that they were nursing. That dreaded “Breast is Best!” chirp—who came up with that? I’d like to smack whoever did.

But her apparent close friendship with Isabel felt like a big omission. That day when we visited Isabel’s house, it seemed to me like we were each somewhere between acquaintances and friends with Isabel, that we both weren’t totally sure if we really belonged there. And Vanessa had only lived in New York City for a few months—how could they be close enough for Isabel to be crying in her arms? And days before disappearing, no less. Isabel had obviously confided in her about something—what could it have been? Was she simply feeling overwhelmed by new motherhood, as Vanessa’s nanny had assumed? Or could it have been something else, and if so, could whatever it was be related to her disappearance?

I couldn’t answer any of these questions without logging some more time with Vanessa. I resolved to do that, as soon as possible.

I quickly switched Clara from right boob to left and, with my free hand, rattled off a quick text to Vanessa. Hey! How are you? I know you’re working, but let me know if you have any time this week. Would be great to get a drink or have the babies play (or both).

I saw three dots appear right away and then disappear just as quickly. I imagined her at work: crisp, fitted black dress under her white coat, hair in a low bun, red lipstick, smiling and laughing with patients, putting them at ease as she scraped moles, injected cysts, and prescribed creams, making even these routine, unappealing tasks seem somehow glamorous.

Her response came through after Clara and I had finished her feed and were walking up Eighty-Sixth Street toward home. Yes! Let’s do it. I actually finish at 1 today. Would you and Clara want to come over this afternoon, maybe around 3? I know it’s super last minute so if today doesn’t work we can definitely find another time!

Tim and I had dinner plans that night: of all things, it was our anniversary. I had a babysitter coming over for the first time. But I’d made a late reservation, to allow for me to put Clara down to sleep myself, so I figured I could still easily squeeze in this afternoon playdate. I didn’t even know if we were still on for dinner, anyway, considering where we stood right now. Regardless, I was invested in learning more about Vanessa and trying to gain some understanding of what I’d overheard. I responded that Clara and I would be there, and could we bring anything? (A question women are legally obliged to ask, though the answer is always “Not a thing!”)

Clara beamed at me from her stroller, and despite everything going on, I instantly felt warmer. Whenever she smiled at me, I felt (albeit briefly) like maybe I wasn’t doing such a terrible job, after all. “Are you my assistant detective?” I asked her in a voice I’d once told myself I would never use. “Yes you are!”





June 27

Dear Baby,

I’m not sure if I can form sentences here, because I am so freaking fried, but I’ll try.