The Perfect Mother(82)

“Mothers and babies. You’re everywhere. I hope you appreciate everything you have.” Winnie tips back the cup of wine, swallowing the last of it, and then peers down at Will. “I don’t want to be rude, Francie, but I can’t really deal with—”

Francie is flooded with regret. Why didn’t she think of this? Of how selfish and insensitive it was to force Winnie to see Will. How difficult it must be for Winnie each day, surrounded by the sight of mothers with their children. She understands now why Winnie ran away from her outside the coffee shop.

“I’m sorry, Winnie,” Francie says. “I should have been more considerate.” They walk inside, and Francie closes the terrace door. Winnie’s back is turned to Francie as she ascends the stairs.

“You can let yourself out.”

“If there’s anything you need—” Francie pauses. “He’s alive, Winnie. I can feel it. Please. Don’t give up hope. I haven’t.”

Winnie turns the corner at the top, disappearing down a hall.

Francie walks unsteadily through the living room, past another stack of moving boxes—saddened by the idea of strangers combing through Winnie’s house, their hands on her possessions—and opens the door to the sidewalk. She walks, unsure of where she’s going, becoming aware of the sound of steps running toward her. The guy in the fedora is rushing from the corner, his camera covering his face. “Hey! Mary Frances! What did Winnie say—” The shutter of his camera clicks relentlessly, and he yells out questions, but Francie pays him no attention as she keeps walking, her head bent toward the sidewalk, her arms shielding her baby, her mind foggy.



“What are you doing?” Lowell asks Francie later that evening. She’s sitting on the living room floor, her stomach in knots, placing lavender-scented candles in a circle around Will, who lies on the blanket in front of her.

She tries to keep her voice steady. “I’m practicing hygge.”

Lowell nods. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s all the rage in Denmark.” Francie blows into her mug of tasteless chamomile tea, aware of the way Lowell is looking at her. Watching her. “It means ‘being cozy.’ It’s why those people are so calm and happy. I thought it might help Will’s mood.”

“That’s a good idea.” Lowell sits on the sofa and opens a beer. “And how’s your mood?”

Francie puts a fresh pair of cotton socks onto Will’s feet. The article said it was best to surround oneself with sheepskin, but she didn’t dare spend the money on the rug she found online, knowing these Carters’ cotton socks will have to do. “My mood? Fine. Why?”

“What do you mean why? Can’t I ask my wife how she’s feeling?”

“Well your mom told me this afternoon she thinks our floors are unhygienic. And that I should wash them with bleach.” Francie keeps her voice low. Barbara is in the bathroom, soaking in her nightly bath, her face set in a mud mask, listening to talk radio on her iPod.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing. But I can’t use bleach on these floors. Bleach? Around a baby? I feel like she’s finding fault with our apartment. With half the things I do.”

“Francie.” His face clouds. “She doesn’t think that. You’re imagining it.”

Francie sips the tea, trying to force back the anxiety. She doesn’t want to talk about Barbara, she wants to talk about Winnie, about their conversation earlier. But she can’t, not with Lowell. She didn’t tell him what happened, knowing how angry he’d be at her for bringing Will to Winnie’s apartment. To make matters worse, Barbara stayed home all afternoon, her hair in furry plastic curlers, whispering into the phone in their bedroom. Francie assumes she was calling friends back in Tennessee, asking if they heard that Lowell was mentioned in the news, telling them she’d been right all along about the dangers of New York City. Barbara emerged from the bedroom only after Lowell came home, and by then Francie was too afraid to say anything at all.

“France, come on. She means well. Things were different when she had kids. She just—”

“Oh my god!” Barbara’s yell from the bathroom startles Francie, and she spills a few drops of hot tea onto Will’s arm. He begins to wail as Lowell jumps to his feet, bumping the table and spilling his beer, extinguishing two of the candles. He rushes down the hall toward the bathroom and knocks on the door.

“Mom!” He tries the handle but it’s locked. “Mom! You okay?”

“I knew it!” Barbara’s voice is triumphant. “I said it from the beginning.”

“What are you talking about?”

The door bursts open and Barbara steps into the hallway, wrapped in a towel, her face a tight sheet of gray, bubbles sliding from her shins to the floor.

“They’re bringing her in for official questioning,” Barbara says, her mask cracking. “That friend of yours. The mother. I knew she was hiding something.”





Chapter Nineteen



Night Eleven



I have an image of someone cutting me.

A long, thin knife penetrating my stomach, just below my navel, an easy slit, a straight line to my heart. I’m empty inside. As black as ash, my organs like dust. One touch and my heart crumbles into a million sooty specks, black powder left on the floor, leaving dark footprints wherever I walk.