The Perfect Mother(15)

“Sorry. Of course I remember.” She wipes her hands on her shirt—a baggy tank top she wore throughout the pregnancy, now stained with cream cheese and brittle beads of breast milk—and takes the mop from Lowell. “We really need this job. Are you ready for it?”

He nods and steps past her to open the refrigerator. “Almost. You okay?”

“The story’s in the paper.”

He stops. “Already?”

“Yeah, the New York Post.” She’d found it on her phone while nursing the baby at 3:00 a.m., behind the click of a small headline: Kidnapping Concern for Missing Brooklyn Baby. “It was a short article. The police are saying there was no sign of forced entry. They didn’t mention Winnie’s name, but of course it’s her.”

“It’s got to be a misunderstanding. Maybe his dad came to get him.”

“What dad? There is no dad.”

“Really?” He makes a face. “She’s the virgin Mary?”

“No. I mean—if that was the case, they would have written that. They’re treating it like a case of child abduction.”

“Don’t worry, France. They’ll find him.” He touches her arm. “It’s probably a mix-up. A family member or something. It usually is.” He slides two bruised bananas from the bowl on the counter into the outer pocket of his laptop case. “Try not to think about it. I’ll be back for lunch.”

She kisses him good-bye, trying not to betray her disappointment that he has to work. Leaving her alone, in the wake of this terrible news.

He’s doing it for us, she reminds herself as she rinses the empty beer bottle he left on the counter the night before. He works all the time to pay the rent. Cover their health insurance. Buy the eggs she’s just wasted. Of course he has to work long hours, never mind his desire to spend more time with the baby, with the two of them. And she has to understand. After all, she was the one who convinced him to use the wedding money his parents gave them on IVF, and then, after the first round failed, begged him to ask his brother, the successful anesthesiologist in Memphis, for a loan to try again.

The sound of the door closing behind Lowell wakes Will. She lifts his warm body from the swing before he can cry, and carries him down the hall to their bedroom, on to the makeshift changing table she’d fashioned on top of their dresser. The morning stretches interminably in front of her—at least five hours to kill before Lowell will come home for lunch. Why hasn’t she planned something? What she really wants is to e-mail the May Mothers, ask if anyone is free for an impromptu meetup. She wants to be with them, together with the babies under the willow tree, talking about Midas, processing what happened. But that’s not an option. Last night, after leaving Winnie’s, Colette convinced them that it wasn’t their place to tell the group; that they should wait for Winnie to share the news. And Francie knows that even if the others happen to have seen that New York Post article, even if they’ve read that a baby has been abducted in Brooklyn, they’ll never think for a moment that it could be their neighborhood; that it is actually one of them.

In fact, Francie saw that while she was with Colette and Nell at Winnie’s, Yuko was at home, creating a photo album on the May Mothers Facebook page—A NIGHT OUT—inviting people to upload their photos from the Jolly Llama. Francie couldn’t bear to open it, to see the images of everyone enjoying themselves while Midas was being snatched from his crib, stolen away from his mother.

She carries Will to the living room, stepping around a basket spilling over with dirty clothes and burp cloths. She has more than enough laundry to do to fill the morning, she decides, just as her phone rings.

“Hello.” The word comes out too eager. She doesn’t recognize the number and thinks—hopes—that it’s Winnie calling to say Midas has been found. Lowell was right. It was just a mix-up. But it’s not Winnie.

“Hello, Mary Frances. It’s your mother.”

Francie freezes. “Mom. Hi.” She takes the remote and mutes the television. There’s silence on the other end of the phone. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t recognize your number.”

“I got a cell phone.”

“You did?” Francie can’t believe it. Marilyn Cletis, the woman who prohibited music in her house, sewed all of their clothes, the person who kept a cow to provide raw milk for her children—this woman now has a cell phone?

“Yes. A friend from church convinced me it was time. I can even text on it.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

“I got the birth announcement you sent. Cute photo. But . . .”

“What?”

“Kalani?”

“Yes. William Kalani. I told you that. We’re calling him Will.”

“Is that a black name?”

Francie snickers before she can stop herself. “A black name? No. It’s Hawaiian.” She heard it on their honeymoon. It means “sent from the heavens.” It’s the perfect name for her son.

“Oh. I thought maybe it was a New York thing.” She can hear her mother putting away dishes. “I told your grandfather. I’m not sure he understood completely, but he did seem honored you chose William.”

Francie has been unwilling to tell her the baby is not, in fact, named after Marilyn’s largely absent father, but after Lowell, whose middle name is William. Francie lays Will gently on the play mat, under the jingling band of farm animals, and stands in front of the window fan, waving her shirt away from her body. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to call recently,” she says. “Things are a little hectic.”