The Perfect Mother(68)
Francie keeps her voice low. “You should go back in. Look at Winnie’s profile. See if she says who Midas’s dad is.”
Nell hesitates and then leans in closer. “I did.”
A man bumps roughly into Nell’s chair, spilling something on her shoulder. She turns, annoyed, and sees it’s someone she recognizes—a man from her building.
“Nell, hi. Sorry about that.”
It’s the guy who lives one floor down, the one who always has the cuff of his right leg rolled up, at the ready to mount some waiting bike; the one with the frowning wife.
“How you doing?” he asks. “How’s the baby?”
“Brilliant, thanks.”
The man nods. “Sounds like she’s having some trouble sleeping, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lisa and I, we can hear the crying sometimes. Through the ceiling.”
“Oh, right. Well—”
“Lisa’s actually been doing some research. Do you give the baby a pacifier?”
“A pacifier? Yes.”
“Oh. Because Lisa read they can help to stop babies from crying.”
“Right,” Nell says. “I assume you don’t have kids—”
“Or there’s these new swaddles. Enchanted SleepSuit, or something. If the baby cries—”
“It’s nice of you to be so concerned,” Nell says, her patience waning. “But there’s no need. The crying last night. It wasn’t the baby.”
“It wasn’t? Who was it?”
“My husband. Sebastian.”
“Sebastian?”
“Yes. He was watching Beaches again. Gets him every time.”
The man offers a lopsided smile. “Right. See you later, Nell.”
They all remain silent until he finishes pouring milk and sugar into his coffee at the nearby counter. As soon as he exits the café, Colette leans in toward Nell. “What did Winnie’s profile say?”
“It wasn’t there,” Nell says. “She doesn’t have a profile. There’s no record of her membership that I could locate.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. I’m assuming she canceled it, and the system doesn’t keep a record of that. And really, who would blame her? Imagine her opening her e-mail, hoping for some good news about Midas, and then having to wade through sixteen new e-mails about Kegels.”
Colette rests her forehead in her hands. “This is getting crazy. I have no idea what we’re supposed to do now.”
“I do,” Francie says. She looks from Colette to Nell, her gaze disturbingly opaque, as if a shade has been drawn across her eyes. “We’re going to do whatever it takes to find Midas. We’re not giving up on him. Not until we have to. Not until we make sure we’ve done everything in our power to get him back, where he’s meant to be: safe with his mother.”
Chapter Fifteen
Night Eight
I’ve been thinking about something these past few days—that promise I made to myself when I found out I was pregnant. What a moment that was. Hovering above the toilet seat in the Duane Reade pharmacy, too anxious to wait until I got home to take the test, seeing the two bubble-gum-pink lines forming an immediate cross, like the one my mother hung over the door of her bedroom.
I will not, I promised, be one of those mothers.
I won’t read all of the books. Stress out about phthalates in my shampoo, pesticides in my creamer. BPA in my takeout Chinese container. I won’t ever, not once, stand in the grocery store, talking loudly to my child, hoping everyone hears how understanding I am, how close we are, as if parenting is a fucking piece of performance art.
I won’t become a different person.
And then how long did it take me to break that promise?
Three minutes.
Yes, three minutes: the amount of time it took to wind the pregnancy test in toilet paper, stow it in my purse, wash my hands, and go outside. Three minutes, and I was someone else entirely.
A mom.
How did I know? Because I stood at the corner, no cars in sight, and I waited for the walk light. I’ve never done that before in my life. I can still see myself. A crowd of people hurrying past me, into the empty street, on their way to the gym, to brunch, their to-go coffees slip-sloshing onto their workout clothes, while I stood there, motionless, my palms against my belly, convinced that the moment I stepped off the sidewalk a car was going to barrel down the street out of nowhere, turn the corner, flattening the baby (and me, along with him) against the windshield.
And I never went back. All of a sudden, that’s who I was. It was like an escalator materialized under me, lifting me against my will, carrying me to this place where—poof!—everything was something to fear: microwave ovens, manhole covers, dust from the renovation next door. It was all a cause for concern, things I couldn’t ignore, lest I risk losing the baby. Have him stolen away.
I tried my best to protect him.
I failed.
It’s later now. I’ve just woken from a fitful nap, hoping a little sleep might make me feel better, clear my head. Give me the courage to be more honest.
I’m starting to regret my decision.
There, I said it. It’s about time I had the guts to get this all out. Here’s more: