The Perfect Mother(52)

Colette’s palms are sticky on the stroller handle and the sun singes the back of her neck, even now, not yet seven in the morning.

“I’m dying,” Nell says, red-faced and sweaty. “I can’t believe you actually run this.”

Colette slows to stay in step with Nell. “We’re almost there.” They make it over the hill and head down the shaded path, under the arch, the wheels of their strollers crunching over the pebbles.

“Do I look any slimmer?” Nell asks when they stop in the large open plaza where a group of toddlers from a summer camp, wearing bathing suits and bright yellow vests, clutch each other’s hands and make their way into the park. “Sebastian is expecting me to get naked in front of him again. I’d like my ass to be only one stone heavier than he’s accustomed to when that happens.”

“Turn around. Let me check.”

Nell laughs and turns her backside to Colette, but her expression darkens as she sees something in the distance. “Oh my god,” Nell mutters. “Look.”

It’s Midas.

His face is printed on a banner held by two older women trying to work out how to fix it to the stone wall bordering the park. Colette walks closer, approaching a very overweight woman with gray hair held in a high ponytail. She rests her forearms on the metal bars of a walker. Nearby, a small group of women lay pink carnations in a circle on the hot pavement.

“What are you doing?” Colette asks.

The woman cranes her neck to get a closer look inside the stroller at Poppy, who is sound asleep, her arms raised over her head, tucked close to her ears. “How precious,” the woman says. “We’re holding a prayer vigil for Baby Midas. It’ll begin in an hour or so.” Nell appears beside Colette, and the woman hands them each a flyer from a stack on a plastic folding table behind her.

A Prayer for Midas

Can a woman forget her nursing child,

that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?

Even these may forget yet I will not forget you.



—Isaiah 49:15





Colette sees what’s printed below the words—Child Neglect is a CRIME—and then the photograph. The one Patricia Faith first showed, of Nell and Winnie from the Jolly Llama. The image is merciless: Nell, a drink in her hand, her stomach bared. Winnie, peering into the camera, a vacant look on her face, her eyes half closed.

Colette returns the flyer and takes Nell’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

“You should join us,” the woman says. “This baby needs all the prayers he can get. And we have a special guest coming.” She leans toward them, speaking just above a whisper. “Patricia Faith.”

“I don’t think so.” Colette steers the stroller with one hand, propelling Nell forward with the other. Nell is on the brink of tears by the time they reach the sidewalk outside the park. A young man with a dark beard and—despite the heat—a slouchy winter hat on his head gets out of an idling van at the corner, carrying a television camera.

“That photo.” Nell’s words are choked. “It’s not— It makes us look—”

“Let’s go to my apartment,” Colette says.

“I have to get ready for work.” Tears build in Nell’s eyes.

“Just for a few minutes. Charlie’s not home. I’ll make us coffee.” Colette takes Nell’s arm, and they begin to walk faster.

“Who are those people?” Nell says as they approach Colette’s building a few blocks away. Alberto opens the door for them, and they prod their strollers into the elevator. Nell looks down at the flyer, still clutched in her hand. “What are they asking for?”

“Scarlet letters, I think.”

The apartment is quiet. Colette puts on the water to make coffee and cuts the lemon cake she made earlier this morning, after getting up with the baby at five. Nell sits on the couch, clutching Beatrice to her chest. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is bad. You can feel it. They’re going to blame her.”

“Yeah, I know.” Colette takes a seat at the kitchen island. Her head is throbbing. “I’m just surprised it’s taken this long.”

“It’s rubbish.” Nell’s breath comes out in a cascade. “All we did—all she did—was go out for an evening.”

“Nell, stop. We didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t even—”

“You’re watching this all, right? You can see where Patricia Faith is steering it? Her show yesterday, she kept playing that video of Winnie, the one from the day after Midas was taken, examining every gesture, asking why she hasn’t said a word since.”

“Yes,” Colette says. “We both have to stop watching this crap.”

“There’s no way Winnie could have—”

Colette presses her temples. “I don’t know.”

“No, don’t say that. She couldn’t have done something so evil. We know her.”

Colette looks at Nell, hesitant. “Do we? Do any of us really know each other?”

“At least enough to know if there was a psycho in our midst. I know how much everyone loves to blame the mother, but I refuse to believe she’s responsible for this.” She spreads the tears on her cheeks with both hands. “I read this awful article yesterday. It was all about Winnie and the so-called Medea complex, from Greek mythology. The daughter of a king, she avenged her husband’s betrayal by killing their children.”