The Perfect Mother(93)

“Daniel!” I say. “I knew I heard someone knocking earlier. You’re late.”

“I’ve been texting you,” he says to Francie. “I saw her coming. I’ve been trying to get in the building, but—” He stops talking, noticing Colette on the floor. His face goes pale.

“Daniel,” Francie says, quietly. “She has Midas.”

He is studying me, a peculiar expression on his face. When he approaches, he seems so big all of a sudden. I feel the light changing around us: a grayness shadowing the room, like clouds rolling across the sun. My legs give out and I reach for the counter, cradling Joshua’s head. I haven’t felt this out of sorts since my first trimester.

“You took Midas?” Daniel says to me.

“His name is Joshua.”

“Joshua?”

“Daniel, please don’t stand so close to me,” I say. “Go sit down. There’s beans.”

Francie is beside him then. “Scarlett, we just want to help. You’ve had a long day. Just you and the baby.”

“I have,” I say. “It’s hard.”

“I know.” Francie places a hand on Joshua’s back. “It is. It’s hard.”

I look at Daniel, and despite the hardened look on his face, I feel a wave of sadness for him. “It must be so much harder for you. Trying to do this as a guy.” I manage a laugh. “I know. Educated, wealthy white guy. Boo-hoo. The burden of it. But really, being a stay-at-home dad? That can’t be easy.”

“Give me the baby,” Daniel says. He grips my arm. His skin is smooth, his fingers strong, just as I’ve imagined his hands would feel on a woman’s body.

“No, I won’t give you the baby,” I say. “You have your own.” The sirens have grown louder and my back is pressed to the wall and there are footsteps on the stairs. Maybe it’s Gemma, or Yuko, with her yoga mat, arriving late again. But then the door is knocked open and men in black shirts are rushing into the room.

Francie is saying Midas’s name, and Daniel has his hands on Joshua. There’s so much shouting, and I can’t make sense of what’s happening.

I smell rain.

I’m in the stairwell, lumbering down the steps, belly first to the sidewalk, praying for the car service to hurry up and arrive. I feel the pain gripping my back, and see the look on the taxi driver’s face. The liquid seeps from me and I’m lying on the hospital bed, wishing Dr. H was here. Grace, the nurse, tells me to breathe.

I feel the pain and the darkness, and I know that something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. I know that I’m going to lose Joshua. Again.

“Wait!” I yell. Francie is holding my arms, and Daniel is wresting Joshua away from me. “I can’t let you take him. Let me see his face. I want to see what he looks like!”

“Hands above your head,” Grace screams. But it’s not Grace. It’s a police officer.

“Please don’t wash him off. I want to hold him. Skin-to-skin contact immediately after the birth.” I feel the pressure, squeezing my chest. “It’s critical.”

“Hands above your head!” Grace says, louder, her gun a straight line to my heart.

I put my hands on the wall and close my eyes.

Closure.

My fingers spider the wall, and I reach for the knife hanging from the magnetic strip. I feel the slick, cold metal of the blade and wind my fingers around the handle, pulling, aware of the magnetic fields splitting, breaking free from one another.

The sensation stays with me as I hear Francie scream; as I see the glint of light where the blade has caught a thin ray of sun streaming through the terrace window.

I close my eyes, and just before the knife meets my skin, I call for him one last time.

Joshua.





Epilogue



One Year Later



To: May Mothers

From: Your friends at The Village

Date: July 4

Subject: This week’s advice

Your toddler: Fourteen months

In honor of the holiday, today’s advice is about independence. Do you notice that your formerly fearless little guy is suddenly afraid of everything when you’re out of sight? The friendly dog next door is now a terrifying beast. The shadow on the ceiling has become an armless ghoul. It’s normal for your toddler to begin to sense danger in his world, and it’s now your job to help him navigate these fears, letting him know he’s safe, and that even if you’re out of sight, Mommy will always be there to protect him, no matter what.





Winnie puts on her sunglasses and stuffs her short hair under a baseball cap before stepping into the small garden. She crosses the street quickly, her head bent toward the ground against the wind.

A man in a top hat is standing in front of an amplifier at the entrance to the park, a marionette strung from each hand, a line of children sitting at attention in front of him, their faces slack with awe. A gust of wind blows the hat from his head, and Winnie turns away from the crowds, heading in the opposite direction, down the sidewalk toward the break in the stone wall. She steers the stroller over the pebbles and under the arch, and when she mounts the hill and enters the wide lawn, she slows, surveying the crowd. Two young women in bikini tops lie on their stomachs, laughing at something, iced coffees in their hands, sections of the New York Times strewn on the grass in front of them. A soccer game is under way nearby, dozens of shirtless men running in the rising dust, yelling to one another in Creole. Winnie spots them in the distance, where they said they’d be—on blankets under their willow tree.