Trespassing(10)

Once Bella and Nini are settled in the back seat, and we’re far enough away from Centennial Park that I can no longer see Claudette’s prayer circle, a feeling of utter exhaustion overcomes me. Suddenly, I’m bawling.

Guilt over my behavior and the way I treated Claudette begins to prick at me. I’ll have to call her to smooth things over.

“Nini, Mommy’s sad.”

Yes, I am.

I push the Bluetooth button on my dashboard. “Call Micah.”

“Calling Micah.” The computerized voice confirms my command.

His phone doesn’t ring; rather, it goes straight to voice mail: “You have reached the mobile phone of Micah Cavanaugh—”

In a knee-jerk reaction, I terminate the call. My tears intensify, not with despair as much as irritation. How convenient that he has the luxury of turning off his cell phone. I’ll bet he’s enjoying a late lunch and a cocktail, despite our agreement that if I can’t drink, he shouldn’t drink. And I’m stuck here with a sassy three-year-old, her mischievous imaginary friend, and Claudette Winters as my only acquaintance.

I take a deep breath and try again. “Call Micah.”

“Calling Micah.”

Again, voice mail picks up before the phone rings. This time, I leave a message, trying to hold my tears at bay: “It’s me. I have news from the lab and . . . it’s been a rather rough day. I hope you had a nice flight. We can’t wait to see you, so hurry home. Love you. Bye.”

I hang up.

“I know,” Elizabella is saying. “I told her, but she won’t believe me.”

I glance in the rearview mirror and witness Bella in deep conversation with no one. “What doesn’t Mommy believe, baby?”

“You don’t believe what Nini says. About Daddy.”

“What about Daddy?”

“You tell her, Nini.” Bella fiddles with the belt on her car seat. “I don’t want to make her mad.”

“Mommy won’t get mad,” I promise.

“I told you,” Bella says. “We’re all alone.”

“Daddy’s coming home tomorrow.”

“No.” She follows it up with a dramatic sigh. “No, Mommy. He went to God Land in his plane.”

I stomp on the brake at a red light. “Bella, you have to stop saying that! You know it isn’t true!”

“Is so.”

She sounds sleepy. I glance at her again and confirm it when I see her heavy eyelids. By the time I turn into the Shadowlands and punch in the access code at the gate, the kid is out cold.

I drive along the winding paths leading to Hidden Creek Lane, where our home sits just south of the eleventh fairway—across from Claudette Winters’s.

I park in the garage and have no choice but to carry Bella inside. I can’t leave her sleeping in the car. Nor can I wake her, unless I want to deal with an even crankier version of Miss Mind of Her Own. But when I lift her, I feel a subtle strain in my lower back, as well as in my abdomen. This is one of those times life would be easier if Micah had a normal job. If he were due home at six o’clock, I might not care about a challenging, overly tired three-year-old. I’d wake her up, let her have a fit or two, and let Micah take a turn dealing with it when he came home.

But as things stand, I carry her in, gently lower her to the sofa, unzip her coat, and remove her shoes. I watch her for a moment, time suspended, in absolute awe of her beauty.

Every parent thinks her child is exceptional, and from a certain point of view, it’s true. Every child is a miracle—of science, of faith, of whatever keeps us going in the still of the night. Claudette spends thousands of dollars on head shots for her daughter and son, insistent they’ll be the next Disney stars . . . and they’re not especially cute kids. Some moms go overboard believing their children are special, but Elizabella is. Especially considering the news from the lab today. No one can convince me she’s anything short of a miracle.

I snap a photo and text it to my husband, in order to document what he’s missing. Sometimes, he comes home earlier if he can arrange it, and especially given the news from the lab, I desperately need him to try.

I lower myself to a chair and prop my feet on the oversize ottoman. When I glance around this house, I realize, and not for the first time, that it has yet to feel like home.

But the Shadowlands is a good place for kids to grow up. And you can’t raise children in the city, Claudette has told me. As if she’d ever tried.

Still, I miss our condo in Old Town. The white-bearded man who sets up his folding chair and draws the charming buildings from the corner . . . the wrought iron scrolled gateway arching over the sidewalk to announce your arrival into the quaintest neighborhood in Chicago . . . the fresh produce market just around the corner.

I want to move back. When Micah calls, I’ll tell him. Let’s just pack up and go. Leave this snooty neighborhood and the eleventh fairway behind us. Chalk it up as a mistake. And I miss having friends like Natasha. Has enough time passed? If I were to reach out to her now, would she be open to meeting for lunch?

With the very thought of going back home and reconnecting with my college roommate, my one true friend besides my husband, my heart quickens, but I know it won’t happen. I remember why Natasha and I parted ways, and I know why we moved out to the ’burbs. More space for our growing family. Little did we know the only addition might come not in a bundle of joy in receiving blankets, but in the form of Nini.