The Perfect Mother(44)
The camera pans to one of Patricia Faith’s guests: an older man with unblinking black eyes and a graying goatee. “I’m happy to have with me Malcolm Jeders, the head of Calgary Church and a board member of Family America. And Elliott Falk of the Post. Thank you, gentlemen, for being here. Malcolm, I want to start with you. What’s your take on this?”
“A baby is missing, Patricia. That’s tragic. But if you ask me, the chickens are coming home to roost on this idea that women need to ‘have it all.’ What has that come to mean, exactly? That a few weeks after giving birth, they’re out at a bar, moms getting drunk, acting like they’re pledging a college sorority?”
“The Jolly Llama,” Patricia says. “Or more like the Jolly Mama.” She smirks at the camera, a clever eyebrow raised over the frames of her bright orange reading glasses. “I agree. Nobody is going to argue that women need to be home rolling meatballs all day. But if I had a child—a newborn no less—would I leave that baby to go out to a bar? No sir. When my mother had her first child, her only priority was that baby, and it stayed that way until her youngest started kindergarten. She never would have—”
Four young women carrying paper bowls overflowing with salad noisily take a seat at the table next to Nell, drowning out the sound of the television. Nell picks up her tray and walks to a booth in the corner, under a larger TV, the words in closed caption on the bottom of the screen. Patricia Faith turns to her other guest. “Elliott Falk, nice seeing you again. The women pictured here with Winnie Ross—let’s call them the Jolly Mamas, for the sake of convenience. What do we know about them and their role that night?”
“Well, Patricia, so far, the names of these women have not been released. But as we know, Winnie was out with her mommy group. This is a fairly new cultural phenomenon. Let me explain. Historically speaking, women have always depended on a circle of women to help them after giving birth. Of course, they didn’t sign up to join this circle. It happened naturally. It was their mothers, aunts, sisters. This still happens in the developing world. But today—”
“Nell?” A woman stands at the table, holding a tray of food. Her hair is held back in a sleek ponytail, and her ID badge is turned so Nell can’t read her name. Nell’s mind races. They attended the same conference, shared a bottle of wine one night over a dinner in LA. “I haven’t seen you since you returned from maternity leave. When did you get back?”
“Today.”
“Oh, man. And how old’s the baby?”
“Eight weeks.” Nell looks up at the television.
The woman grimaces. “How’s it going?”
“Great.”
“Really? It’s great leaving your infant so you can come to work? I don’t believe you.” She takes the seat across from Nell. “My kid is eight months. I’m still plagued with guilt.”
Nell nods and swallows hard. She’s not going to cry, not in the middle of the company café, not in front of this woman. (She plans to limit that to the fifteen minutes three times a day she’ll be spending on the toilet in the handicapped stall, staring at photos of Beatrice as she pumps milk.)
The woman notices. “Oh, Nell. I’m sorry. It’ll get better.” She shakes a bottle of thick protein drink. “They’re supposed to give us a nursing room—”
Nell sees it then. On another screen, in a bank of televisions across the room. The face of former secretary of state Lachlan Raine. He’s taking questions from reporters outside his lake home in Vermont, his expression somber. Nell knows that look too well: the slow shake of the head, the practiced expression of remorse.
“I have to go.” Nell picks up the tray, her lunch untouched. “I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
“Okay. You should know, there’s a group of new moms at the company that meets—”
Nell feels lightheaded as she slides the tray beside the others on the metal cart near the garbage cans. A small crowd is gathered at the elevator bank, holding iced coffee drinks and plastic to-go containers. She walks past them into the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time to the sixth floor. Her cell phone rings as she shuts her office door.
A wave of relief washes over her when she sees the number. It’s only Francie.
“Colette and I are here,” she says. “We raced to Colette’s apartment. Hang on. I’m going to put you on speaker.”
Nell sinks onto her desk chair, out of breath. “That photograph of me. Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
Nell closes her eyes, seeing the photograph again. The sweat stains under her arms. The maternity band at her waist. The milky fat of her stomach. “Who sent that to her?”
“An opportunistic jerk, that’s who,” Colette says. “I don’t think it was one of us. You can tell from the angle. Whoever took it was on the far end of the deck. And really, Nell, nobody will know it’s you. It’s way too blurry. You can’t make out your face.”
“But then why is Lachlan Raine being interviewed?” Nell asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him, on CNN or something. Taking questions.”
“They say he’s being considered for the Nobel Peace Prize. Did you think he was commenting on the photo of you?” Colette laughs. “I know some people are going to treat the image of a mother drinking as a matter of national security, but involving the former secretary of state might be a tad extreme, even for Patricia Faith and her cable news friends.”