The Perfect Mother(42)



She finally called Winnie. Three times. Winnie never answered, but Francie left a message each time, telling Winnie she’s been thinking of her, offering to bring her groceries, make her a few meals she can stick in the freezer. Francie also wants to tell her how much she’s been enjoying Bluebird. She found a DVD box set on eBay, all three seasons for just $60—a charge she prays Lowell won’t notice on the bank statement next month. She loves it. Winnie is so funny, so natural, such a phenomenal dancer.

Francie is still upset about the way Lowell reacted earlier that morning when she told him about the calls to Winnie.

“I don’t think that was smart, France.”

“Why not?”

“She probably wants privacy right now. And plus—”

“Plus what?”

“Well, you never know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked him. “Never know what?”

He sighed, and seemed unwilling to say anything else, but Francie pressed him. “Where was she when Midas was taken? And how come there was no sign of forced entry? All I’m saying is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get too close to her. And I certainly wouldn’t want Will to spend any time around her.”

Francie was furious. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

Francie watches Hector disappear around the side of Winnie’s building, wanting to forget about that conversation. She hears the vibration of her phone in the diaper bag, and strings her camera around her neck. It’s Lowell, texting. To apologize, she assumes.

Bad news. Didn’t get the renovation job. They went with the other guys.

Francie tucks the phone back into her bag, flooded with worry. That job was their only promise of income. Their rent is due in three weeks. Will rustles in his stroller, and she zips her camera into its case, piloting the stroller toward the park entrance, hoping to lull Will back to sleep, dark thoughts creeping into her brain.

She tries to block them out.

She loves Lowell. He’s a good husband, a kind man.

And yet. Why didn’t she choose a man more like those so many of the May Mothers ended up with? A man like Charlie, able to buy that fancy apartment on the park, always posting photos of Colette and Poppy on Facebook, alongside sweet messages about how beautiful they both are, how lucky he is. Or Scarlett’s husband, a tenured professor who can provide a big house in the suburbs, enough money for her to stay home without worry. She once mentioned that he even made sure to be home by six each night, to sit down to dinner with her, do the bath, help with bedtime. A man nothing like Lowell, who works constantly; who has never, not once, given the baby his bath; whose practice is failing, who’s begun to tell her, with increasing frequency, that she has to figure out a way to earn some money. He’s the one who came up with the idea that Francie should organize this meeting and volunteer to take photos of the May Mothers’ babies, to build a portfolio to start a baby portrait business, a passing interest she mentioned once.

When she arrives at the willow tree fifteen minutes later, slanted under the weight of the diaper and camera bags, her curls are frizzed and damp. Colette is there already, spreading out her blanket. She wears a short light-blue dress, her hair in a fishtail braid down her back. Francie doesn’t know how Colette does it; how she always appears so rested and put together. Francie’s not even sure she brushed her teeth this morning.

“Have you heard from Nell?” Francie asks her after parking Will’s stroller in the shade.

“Not yet.” Colette opens the paper box of mini muffins and offers one to Francie. “She’s supposed to call me at her lunch break. I hope her first day back is okay.”

Token walks up then. He takes off his sunglasses, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

“You okay?” Colette asks.

“Yes,” he says, looking away. “My allergies in this heat. It’s brutal.”

Others begin to arrive, and Francie recognizes none of them. Women she’s never seen before, who never cared enough to attend a meeting when free baby photos weren’t involved, walk cautiously up to the tree, asking if this is where the May Mothers are meeting. Meanwhile, there’s no sign of the women Francie was hoping to see—no Yuko, Scarlett, or Gemma. She tries to tamp down her disappointment as she arranges the props she’s brought for the portraits, eventually inviting people to step up for a turn. She’s never taken photos of babies before, and she throws herself into it, eager to be distracted from her worries about money, about Lowell, about the image Antonia Framingham painted: Midas, alone, terrified, missing his mother.

“So, I know this is morbid, but can we talk about Midas?” someone asks from the blankets behind her.

“We were at the pediatrician this morning,” someone else says. “I waited ninety minutes to be seen and my phone died. Anything new?”

Francie tries to shut them out, concentrating on the light, the shadows, on getting the fussy and obstinate baby in front of her to cooperate. “There was an interview this morning with that doctor from Methodist—the one they mistook for Bodhi Mogaro on July 4. He graduated top of his class from Harvard Med. He wasn’t ‘acting erratically.’ He was yelling instructions into the phone to an EMT. The young mother in critical condition? She died last night.”

“Oh, how sad.”

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