The Perfect Mother(78)

“This book is awful.” Teb is rubbing his eyes.

She exhales. “Okay.”

Teb leans back in his chair. “C, what happened? Why is this so bad?”

Why? An unexpected pregnancy. Sleep deprivation. Her worries about Poppy’s health. Panic that Midas is dead. “Part of it might be that you’re busier now,” she says. “It’s not like the last time. It’s been a little difficult to keep our scheduled meetings—”

Teb shakes his head. “No. That’s not the issue. The issue is that this doesn’t sound like something I wrote.”

“Well, you didn’t write it.”

Aaron shoots Colette a look as Teb swivels slowly toward her in his chair.

“What do you mean?”

Her mouth has gone dry; she wishes she’d packed a bottle of water. “I mean you didn’t write this book, Teb. I did.”

“Colette.” There’s caution in Aaron’s tone. “I’m not sure—”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Of course I’m happy to rework the book, but we need to set up a schedule to talk more about some of these experiences you want to include. With all due respect, Teb, it’s been hard to sit down with you.”

“I think what the mayor means,” Aaron says, “is that this isn’t working.”

“I get it. So let’s talk about how to fix it.”

Aaron begins to speak, but Teb cuts him off. “I’m sorry to say this, C. But we have to bring in another writer.”

“Another writer?”

Aaron leans forward in his chair. “We’ve spoken to the editor,” Aaron says. “We’re hiring someone else to fix the book. Someone with a bigger name. That guy from Esquire.”

“You’re kidding. You’ve already arranged this? Without talking to me?”

“Come on, Colette,” Aaron says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This book is going to be an integral part of the mayor’s race for re-election. You know that. We can’t bring what you’ve written to the publisher or the voters. We’re in a ton of shit with this baby-abduction thing. That crazy real estate guy is throwing money at our opponent. We’re barely hanging on here.”

She searches for the right response, and then says nothing. It’s done.

She doesn’t have to pretend any longer that she can manage the baby and this work. She’ll get to stay home with Poppy.

“You’re sure about this?” She addresses Teb, but Aaron is the one to answer.

“I’m afraid so, Colette.” His phone beeps. “And we, unfortunately, need to go.” Teb is staring out the window, unwilling to look at her. “The banking people are here,” Aaron says, buttoning his jacket, gesturing toward the door. “Colette, thank you so much.” His manner is light, as if they’re wrapping up a conversation in which they’ve decided on brunch plans. “The mayor has really enjoyed working with you.”

She stands, expecting Teb to say something, but he remains silent. She walks out of his office, toward the elevator. Her head is swimming. What happens now? What will this mean for her career? She should call the editor, or her agent; she needs to explain herself.

But then she pictures Poppy, alone with a woman she doesn’t know.

She races past the elevator, down the four flights of stairs. Outside, there are no taxis in sight, and she runs as fast as she can across City Hall Park, down the stairs to the subway. A train is on the platform, and the doors are beginning to close as she swipes through the turnstile. She gets there just in time to stick her arm between them, and they close on her elbow. The doors open a few inches, and before they can close again, she pries them apart with both hands, wide enough to slip inside and take one of the last empty seats. The woman next to her smells of hair spray, and Colette catches the eye of an older woman with a pile of orange plastic shopping bags on the floor between her feet. The woman tsks loudly. “Slowing everyone else down,” she says, scowling. Colette looks away. Her elbow is throbbing.

Rap music blares from the headphones of a man sitting across from her, and she presses her fingers to her ears, trying to think of how to explain this to Charlie. He doesn’t know how badly the book has been going, how much she’s been struggling. What is he going to say? Colette opens her eyes, seeing that the man across from her is holding open a copy of the New York Post, the photograph of Nell from the Jolly Llama on its cover.

The air fills with the sound of squealing brakes and the sudden wail of a baby. The woman beside her clutches Colette’s thigh as the train jolts to an abrupt stop, and an older man near the door falls to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” the woman next to her says, removing her hand. A young couple is helping to lift the man, and people are glancing up from their phones, scanning each other’s faces as a stunned hush settles over the subway car. The older woman with the shopping bags tsks again and begins to say something, but her words are swallowed by the voice of the conductor. “Police to the tracks. If you can hear me, police to the lower-level tracks near the F platform. We have a person on the tracks.” There’s a moment of static and then: “He’s strapped to something.”

The power is cut, silencing the air-conditioning, cutting the lights; a ghostly quiet settles over the car. Colette feels the shift around her as people turn to their cell phones, as she does, knowing she won’t have service.