Mother of All Secrets(7)
“Hi, girls!” she exclaimed cheerily. “Oh my God, Jenn! Clara is so much bigger than last week, even! She’s twelve weeks now, right?”
“She is. You have such a good memory.” As if her pristine appearance weren’t demoralizing enough, she was always so considerate. “Twelve weeks. So I should be out of the fourth trimester, right? Things should be nice and easy soon.”
She laughed politely. “Totally! In the clear from here on out!”
“Anyway, how are you?” I asked.
“We’re good!” she responded, nodding vigorously. New moms tended to answer in “we” form, even when it made no sense to do so. We need a sweater. We keep breaking out of our swaddle. We go to day care. Or even, as a woman in the park with a newborn once said to me, we had a blowout poop this morning. “Work is already so busy,” Vanessa continued. “So much for easing back in. I have back-to-back patients. Still, being in a private practice is so much better than being in a hospital, which is what I was doing before. Also, I basically live next door to the office, so I can sneak in some visits and feeding sessions during the day, which is amazing.”
Yes: amazing. It honestly did astound me that Vanessa was already back to work and surviving—not just surviving, but apparently thriving. The idea of returning to the classroom made me feel physically ill. I couldn’t imagine facing a room full of expectant twelfth-grade English students feeling as exhausted as I felt—and yet, I was due to return to school next month, so I would have to figure it out. I loved teaching and had always planned to return as quickly as possible—but lately, I couldn’t read a sentence in a book without wondering if I had remembered to take Clara’s lovie out of her bassinet before putting her down for her nap, or thinking that I might’ve heard her spit up in her sleep, or feeling guilty about every undone chore. It was going to be kind of hard to lead a discussion on freaking Gatsby if I couldn’t actually reread the damn thing. It would also be quite challenging to run class effectively while breast milk inevitably bled through my shirt—high schoolers didn’t really roll too well with that kind of thing, in my experience. They’d probably start calling me some mean nickname like Ms. Donnelleaky instead of Ms. Donnelly. But maybe life would feel more stable by next month. It would have to.
“Has anyone heard from Isabel?” Selena asked. It was 2:15 p.m., and it was unlike Isabel to be late, especially since she was technically the facilitator of the group, though the role was casual and didn’t entail anything other than that she’d been the one to organize our meeting schedule and snack responsibilities. Where Kira wore her “hot mess” persona with transparency, Isabel seemed rather humorless about her new role as a mother—like being a mom was now her number-one job, and she was determined to execute it to perfection even if it killed her. Unlike Kira’s Caleb, who was always in mismatched socks and stained pink onesies, Isabel usually dressed Naomi in stiff, doll-like dresses, as if they were shooting their Christmas card photo later that day. Isabel herself always arrived looking chic, too, in cute linen jumpsuits with a white sweater over her shoulders, giving off Charlotte from Sex and the City vibes. She was a petite, reserved blonde who, like Selena and Vanessa, showed little evidence on her body of having recently given birth, though she shared my dark undereye circles—so much so that once I even wondered if her face was bruised, though I quickly dismissed the thought—and nodded vigorously when someone lamented about how difficult all this was. I really didn’t know Isabel all that well, mainly because she didn’t usually hang around for wine afterward, like the rest of us; she always seemed in a bit of a rush to get home, checking her watch and putting her dark sunglasses back on hurriedly at the end of every meeting before heading outside. To me, on the other hand, probably the best thing about being in this group was that somehow it made drinking wine with my baby at 3:00 p.m. on a weekday totally acceptable. I wouldn’t have bailed before happy hour for anything.
I’d seen Isabel in the park a week or so ago with Naomi and was about to say hi before realizing that they were having a moment I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt. She was sitting on a bench near the Ninetieth Street entrance to Central Park, holding Naomi up before her. It was sunny. Naomi was smiling, and I was close enough to hear Isabel saying, “Thank you for letting me be your mom. It’s very nice of you. I really appreciate it. Yes I do. You’re very kind. Thank you very much indeed.” It was a funny mix of an adult-sounding conversation in a baby voice, and both of them appeared delighted by it. It warmed me, too.
No one had heard from her. “That’s weird. I’ll shoot her a quick text,” Vanessa offered. “I hope she’s okay. But in the meantime, let’s just start without her, I guess. How’s everyone’s week going? I’ve got a question, actually: Does anyone have any tips on bottles? Phoebe’s nanny is reporting that she’s suddenly resisting the bottle a bit; it’s making her gassy, apparently. Which is very inconvenient timing, given that I’ve just returned to work, so she’s mostly getting bottles now!” Vanessa took a sip of her coffee, which I then noticed was labeled with a D. Decaf. Was she seriously drinking decaf? Ugh.
“Have you tried Comotomo?” Kira asked. “It’s the only bottle that Caleb will take.”
“Agreed! It’s the best.” Selena picked at a croissant while lightly jiggling Miles, who was lying on his stomach on the floor between her legs.