The Perfect Mother(69)
This isn’t working, this thing between us. I fear that no matter what I do, Joshua will never be happy with me. Our days have been difficult. He’s sullen, ignoring me, pushing me away.
He tunes me out, like I’m not even there. Like my feelings don’t matter. (I would never say this to him, but I swear, he is just like his father.)
This morning I reminded him that this was something we both wanted. And then I said a few things I wish I hadn’t. Telling him that maybe I made a mistake. That maybe I was better off before. That I’d have to live with what I did for the rest of my life, and I no longer believed it was worth it. I can be so mean sometimes. I shouldn’t have said any of that.
I’ve been trying to see his side of the story. How annoying my constant need to talk about things must be, especially now that they’ve let Bodhi go. How I haven’t figured everything out yet. I’ve told him all my stories, of course—how clever I’ve always been, testing off the charts as a child, a natural-born problem-solver, as my mother said. And now I think he’s waiting for me to be the one to solve this predicament, figure out the right strategy. To make sure we’re protected.
But know what else it’s time to admit? I’m not clever at all. I am, in fact, a moron.
We can’t go to Indonesia. Joshua can’t get a passport, obviously. I should have realized this from the beginning—it’s exactly the type of thing Dr. H would have helped me with in the past. Seeing the holes in my logic, my inability to make sense of even simple things. So we’re back in Brooklyn, back in the bubble, figuring out a new plan, laying low, getting things in order to get out of here.
The May Mothers are everywhere. Sometimes I stand at the window, peering out from behind the curtain, trying to get a bit of sunlight on my face, and I see them. A few hours ago it was Yuko, walking on the shady side of the street, a yoga mat under her arm, earbuds in her ears. Then, not twenty minutes later, Colette. She was with a guy I assumed to be Charlie. Big-time writer Charlie. Poppy was strapped to his chest and he and Colette were holding hands, laughing about something, passing an iced coffee back and forth, her arms heavy with flowers from the farmers’ market. The ideal Brooklyn family. So good at making perfect look easy.
What people like them don’t get is what seeing scenes like that does to people like me. To people who don’t have what she does. Joshua and I went for a drive yesterday, and I was looking out the window at a stoplight. I watched this mom in the next car. She was in the front seat, facing forward, her arm reaching into the back seat, holding hands with a little girl strapped into her car seat. It was so simple and beautiful. Little did she know she was breaking my heart. In the city you can feel it, the rhythm of children. The burst of yells and laughter early in the morning, little bodies gathered, running in sprinklers in backyards invisible from the street, arguing over the swings at the playground. Then the lull around noon, when they return home to wash their hands, eat their lunch, and then sleep, quietly, peacefully, slack-jawed and wheezy until they wake a few hours later, springing to life again.
I can’t bear to stay inside for much longer, but nor can I bear the idea of running into one of them on the street, of having to make conversation about how I am, where I’ve been. Having to hear the inevitable question: My god, what happened to Midas?
Oh no. Joshua is up. I must go. He really hates to see me cry.
Chapter Sixteen
Day Nine
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 13
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 60
Let’s talk about . . . sex. Chances are, you’ve been too tired these last few weeks to give the topic much thought. While it’s common to have a low libido after giving birth, there’s a good chance things are beginning to feel back to normal in that department. And it’s important us new moms don’t forget we’re also wives. So, it might be time to break open a bottle of wine, turn on some music, and see what happens. (But remember, ladies: BIRTH CONTROL IS YOUR BFF.)
Francie sits on the hot, rough stoop of a brownstone, sucking on a chocolate-covered pretzel, pressing the soft rise of a blister on her heel, her camera resting on her lap.
It makes so much sense, she thinks, once again.
The way he looked at Winnie during the meetings, whispering in her ear, saving her a seat beside him on his blanket. It was like he was obsessed with her. And where did he go, after disappearing so abruptly from the Jolly Llama? Francie should have been focused on this from the beginning, not getting derailed by false leads. Archie Andersen, who somehow seemed to vanish into thin air. Fake Archie Andersen. The thought of that guy repulsed her—his hands on her body, the stench of his breath. She’s felt disgusted ever since she excused herself from that couch, telling him she had to use the bathroom and then hightailing it out of the bar.
She hadn’t told Nell or Colette she’d met him, or the things he’d said. There was no need to. The guy was a liar. She could tell, the minute she saw him. Maybe he was telling the truth about some of it. Maybe they had hooked up. And so what? Winnie was single, she could do whatever she wanted. Francie had never slept with anyone other than Lowell (the science teacher didn’t count), but she’s aware of how things work in the real world. Especially these days, especially in New York, and most certainly for a woman as beautiful as Winnie. But say those things about Midas? About not wanting her own child?