The Push(59)

“Oh, I haven’t mentioned her? Her name’s Violet. She’s a sweetheart. My husband is very close with her, so she’s with us a lot.”

“And you get along, it sounds like?”

“No issues at all. We just work so well, our little family. My husband dotes on us. He loves having the four of us together.”

“And what about her mother?”

“She’s not really in the picture much. It’s a long story. She has some issues and so we sort of keep our distance.”

I nodded and was quiet, hoping she’d say more.

“There’s some history there and I stay out of it. Seems like she’s not the most loving human being, from what I gather. Although who are we to judge, right?” She sighed and eyed the room.

I wanted more. I wanted to know every last lie you had told her about me. “Violet’s lucky to have you, then.”

“That’s sweet of you, thanks. I love her like she’s my own.”

I searched her face for the truth. I was looking for the same uneasiness that had consumed me about Violet. But Gemma swayed to the music overhead and put her empty cup on the cash desk. “Shall we go?”

I cleared my throat and followed her to the door. “And so Violet, does she like the baby?”

“She adores Jet. She’s the best big sister.”

I hugged her good-bye, feeling her swollen milky tits against mine.





69





I’d gotten a new phone with a different number so that Gemma and I could text each other during the week. At first it was a quick series of boring pleasantries—Will you be there? Great, me too! And afterward, So nice to see you! Have a wonderful week. Later, she would text me for advice, standing in the aisles of the pharmacy while she looked for the right cold medicine, or wondering whether Jet should wear reusable or disposable swim diapers for his Mommy and Me lessons. She was a confident woman, loquacious and lively, but there was a part of her that constantly wanted reassurance when it came to Jet. She wanted to be a perfect mother, to do and buy and give the very best, and she often looked to me for advice. I found this vulnerability endearing. The way she consumed herself with her son’s well-being, constantly evaluating herself and what she provided for him.

She loved being a mother, yes, but she also loved to mother. To dote, to care, to fuss, to love, to hold, to feed. She thrived on it. When I asked if she had thought about weaning the baby soon—he was nearly a year old by that point—she shook her head vigorously. I should have known—she once told me that every time she nursed him, she felt an emotional surge she had never experienced before he was born, something from deep within her that she couldn’t explain. I told her it sounded like she was describing an orgasm.

“You know what, Anne—it’s even better.”

We laughed, but she was serious.

“I’d love to meet Sam,” she said to me one Wednesday night as we put on our coats. “Wouldn’t it be fun to get them together?”

“That would be so nice.”

She never followed up on the idea, although I had a suite of well-thought-out excuses if she had. Schedules. Illness (she was terrified of germs). Last-minute plans to be out of town. Carrying on together felt so much easier than I thought it would.

One evening she called me at nearly twelve o’clock on a night when Violet was at your house. She was worried. Jet had a terrible chest cold and was having trouble breathing. She didn’t know what to do: Should she take him into emergency? Should she run another steamy shower?

“What does your husband think?” I knew you weren’t married—we weren’t even divorced yet—but she called you her husband anyway.

“He’s not here—he’s out of town for work and he’s not answering.”

“Oh.” I was surprised you’d left Violet with Gemma for the night and not said something to me about it. I thought of our loose agreement, of how fair I’d been about the splitting our time. We were supposed to let each other know if we’d be leaving Violet with someone else. You had started to take advantage of her preference for you, asking for an extra night here or there, not telling me when she’d be leaving the city with you for a weekend away. You knew you had the upper hand now. “So, you’re alone?”

“His daughter is here. If I take him to the ER, I’d have to wake her up and bring her, too. But she has her first basketball practice before school tomorrow morning and she’ll be exhausted. Maybe—she’s eleven—maybe she can stay alone? The hospital is literally only four blocks away. She never wakes up, ever. But, God, I’d feel awful if she does and can’t find me.” She blew out a long stream of air, thinking. “No, no I’ll have to wake her up if I go.”

I don’t know what came over me.

“Leave her. Leave her there alone, she’ll be fine. Nothing will happen. Put the monitor in her room and watch her from there. She’s old enough. I would take him in right away if I were you.”

“Really? Shit. You think?”

“Yes, for sure. Just go. You won’t be long, she won’t wake up. You can’t risk it—he’s just a baby. You can’t take the chance. You’ll never forgive yourself.”

I never would have left her alone. But I wanted you to be angry with her. Furious. I wanted her to do something you would think was terrible.