Seventeen
Janie could smell the cookies all the way across the room. “Hope you like ’em warm!” Melissa cried, holding the plate aloft like the cover of a book on entertaining. She had emerged from the kitchen cheerful and somehow brighter, her cheeks flushed and her lips newly slathered with pink lipstick. She handed a cookie to Noah and placed the rest of the plate on a side table. The sweet scent masked the citrus-and-ammonia odor of cleaning supplies and the sour Noah smell that traveled with him everywhere. Janie wondered if the other woman had noticed it.
John looked at Melissa over the baby’s head. “Charlie’s wet,” he said, and made a face.
Melissa laughed sharply. “Well, change him, then.” The couple’s eyes met, and Janie got the distinct impression that more than one dispute had preceded this visit. John sighed; father and son left the room.
Noah sat still on the couch, his hands between his legs, his mouth full of cookie. He wouldn’t lift his head.
“So.” Melissa turned to Janie brightly. “I hear Noah’s something of a Nationals fan.”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your favorite player, Noah?”
“The Zimmernator,” Noah said to the carpet, his mouth full.
“He likes Ryan Zimmerman. Because of the name, of course,” Janie added.
But Melissa’s eyes widened. “But he was Tommy’s favorite, too!”
At the sound of the name, Noah jerked his head upward. It was impossible not to notice.
Melissa turned pale. She looked at Noah. She licked her lips nervously. “T-Tommy? Are you Tommy?”
He nodded hesitantly.
“Oh, god.” She put her hand over her throat. Her pink smile seemed to float in her face, disembodied, as if it bore no relation to the wet, blinking blue eyes.
Was Janie dreaming? Was this actually happening?
“Tommy. Come here,” the other mother was saying. Her white arms were wide. “Come to Mommy.”
Noah gaped at her.
The woman crossed the small distance between them and pulled him up out of the chair, lifting his body into her arms like a rag doll.
But it couldn’t be, Janie thought. He had the same rash on his arms that she had on hers. She had held him moments after his birth upon her breast and he had suckled instantly, “like an old pro,” the nurse had said proudly.
“Oh, my baby boy.” Melissa started to cry into Noah’s hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh!” Noah said. His forehead was turning pink above her arms and the word emerged from him like a peep.
When he was pulled out of Janie’s body, the doctor had held him high up so she could see him. He was still attached by the umbilical cord, smeared with blood and traces of white vernix. His face was deep red, contorted, beautiful.
“I am so, so sorry, baby. I made a mistake,” Melissa said. Her voice was rough. The mascara started to roll down her face. “I know I messed up. I always check the latch. I thought I’d checked it. I messed up.”
Janie could barely see the top of Noah’s head. She couldn’t see his face. “Oh!” he peeped again. “Oh!”
“I left the latch open! I never do that. Oh, I messed up.” She clutched at his arms, which lay rigid on either side of him, and his skin mottled beneath her fingers, becoming as bright as his red Nationals T-shirt. “But why did you drown, baby? Why? You had swimming lessons!”
“Oh!” Noah said.
Only he wasn’t saying “Oh,” Janie realized suddenly. He was saying “No.”
“No,” Noah said again. He craned his neck to shake his head free, and she could see that his eyes were screwed tightly shut. He squirmed but could not get out of the other woman’s embrace. “No, no, no!”
“I didn’t know you’d go to the pool,” Melissa was saying breathlessly. “I never knew you’d do that. But you could swim! You could swim. Oh, God, I messed up, Tommy. Mommy messed up!” She reached up to wipe her eyes with her hands and Noah wrenched himself loose.
He backed up across the living room. He was shaking so violently his teeth chattered. Janie moved toward him. “Noah, are you okay?”
“Tommy.” Melissa reached out with her soft white arms.
He looked from one woman to the other. “Go away!” he screamed. “Go away!”
He moved as far away from both of them as he could, toppling the side table, spilling the cookies onto the floor. “Where’s my mama?” he shouted, turning to Janie. “You said I was going to see my mama! You said!”
“Noah—” Janie said. “Sweetie, look—”
But he shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears and began to hum loudly to himself.
Anderson rushed into the room, followed by John, holding the baby, who was wearing only a diaper. John took in the scene, looking first at Noah, then his wife, the tears like tire tracks down the sides of her face. “What have you done?” he said.