I got dressed. I remember that. I remember choosing the dress that cinches me at the waist like a strong pair of hands. I remember walking into the bar, spotting them, tired eyes rimmed in kohl liner, black circles tempered under too much concealer, lips shimmering with the lipstick they hadn’t worn in months.
“Rebel Yell.” I sang along, danced, part of them, all members of the same exclusive tribe. I remember feeling ill all of a sudden, like I needed to get out of there. But then that guy appeared out of nowhere. Offering to buy me a drink, with his deep ocean eyes, his full lips. Guys like him: they’ve gotten me into trouble my whole fucking life.
I remember very little after that.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes and try to sleep, I can see myself walking along the park, staying in the shadows. I prayed.
Dear Lord, please give me Joshua back. I’ll do anything.
“Are you all right?”
I’d taken a seat on the bench, and a man was standing in front of me, a dog at his ankles, his face shadowed by the streetlamp behind him. I still don’t know if he was real, or another hallucination.
Why did he leave me? I wanted to yell at this man. I don’t deserve this, not after everything I did for him.
“I’m fine,” I told the man with the dog after he sat down on the bench beside me, his thigh touching mine, his arm draped across the bench behind me. “Thank you. I just need to talk to someone.”
That’s all I wanted to do. Really. Just talk to Joshua. Tell him that being with him is the only thing that’s ever mattered to me. Let him know about the letters I’ve been writing him, maybe offer to read one or two, so he’d know exactly how I feel, and how much I still want him. How sorry I am for anything I may have done wrong.
No, Detective, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you any of this.
Sorry, chubby Elliott reporter guy. I have nothing else to add.
My hand is shaking as I write this. I feel weak and confused. I tried so hard to be a good mother. I did my best, really I did.
My god, what have I done?
Chapter Seven
Day Three
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 7
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 54
Let’s talk tummy time! Placing your baby on her belly is critical—even if it’s just for ten minutes every few hours or so. Time on her tummy will help strengthen her stomach and neck muscles, and by now, while on her belly, she should be reaching for toys, your fingers, or even your nose. (Might also be time to invest in those baby nail clippers!)
Francie catches her crimped reflection in the brushed silver of the elevator doors, avoiding the way the straps of the Moby Wrap accentuate her muffin top; how short she is next to Nell, who stands next to her, at least four inches taller, pulling off the daring blond pixie, the sprawling tattoo. Francie smooths down her curls, wishing she’d had time to wash her hair, or at least apply a coat of mascara and lip gloss. But this morning has been particularly rough. Will woke up at five o’clock, crying for an hour, refusing to nurse.
Francie leans forward and peeks down her shirt, at the slices of potatoes she stuck inside her bra earlier this morning.
Nell glances at her. “You making hash browns in there?”
“No.” Francie adjusts the potatoes to cover the hot, red lump. “Scarlett told me to do this.” Convinced she had a clogged duct, Francie went to Scarlett for advice. She is one of those moms—the ones who seem to naturally know exactly what to do, always e-mailing the group with helpful tips: twelve chamomile tea bags in the bath to cure Yuko’s baby’s diaper rash, a review of the new swaddle on back order at the baby boutique near the Starbucks.
I’m glad you asked, because I have just the trick, Scarlett wrote to Francie last night, in response to her frantic request for help. First, NO CAFFEINE. Second, a layer of organic potatoes inside the bra for three hours each morning. I know it sounds odd, but it should bring immediate relief. It has been five hours of potatoes, though, and Francie’s breast still burns. She’s berating herself for going against her better judgment and buying the nonorganic potatoes early this morning, just to save three dollars. She should have heeded Scarlett’s exact advice and splurged. That’s probably why it isn’t working.
The elevator doors open, and they make their way to 3A, where Colette opens the door before they can even knock. Francie blushes at the sight of Colette, who is topless, her full breasts spilling from a lacy pink bra, her arms and belly a constellation of cinnamon freckles.
“Sorry,” Colette says, tying her hair back, the hard dots of fresh hair growth visible at her armpits. “The baby just spit up all over my last clean shirt.” She ushers them into the living room. “I folded clothes this morning, and when I went to put them away, Charlie told me I’d just folded two hampers full of dirty laundry. I could have murdered someone.”
“Really?” Francie says, but she’s too enraptured by Colette’s apartment to have heard what she said. Other than Winnie’s, she’s never been inside such a nice New York apartment. The shiny wood floors. The living room big enough to fit two couches and two armchairs. The dining table under the wall of large windows, with space to sit ten. This room alone is bigger than Francie’s entire apartment, which is so small they can’t have anyone over for dinner; where she has to keep the baby’s clothes in plastic bins in the corner of their only bedroom; where she has to nurse in the living room, in view of the residents of the luxury building that recently went up across the street. Lowell has been after her to consider a bigger place, farther out in Brooklyn, perhaps even Queens, but Francie won’t hear of it, not with the school district they’re in. They need to suck it up, for the baby, for the neighborhood, for the promise of a quality education.
“How’d it go?” Colette asks Nell.
Nell drops heavily onto the couch. “Awful.” She e-mailed them yesterday, saying she’d fired Alma and was dropping Beatrice off at her first day at Happy Baby Daycare, to get her used to it for a few hours today before starting there full-time in two days, when she returns to work. “Hysterical crying. It was a total scene. All the other moms were staring.”
“Did they know how to comfort Beatrice?” Francie asks.
“Not Beatrice,” Nell says. “Me.” She wipes her nose with the wet, crumpled Kleenex in her fist. “I made a bloody fool of myself.”
Colette sits beside Nell and puts an arm around her, but Francie feels frozen in place. How can Nell do this? Leave her baby, all day, in the care of total strangers? The best thing you can do, for at least the first six months, is to hold the baby as much as possible. A day-care worker or nanny isn’t going to do that. Sometimes, while feeding Will, Francie will get on her phone and read the most recent posts at isawyournanny.com, a forum for parents to post sightings of the things they witness nannies doing to children—ignoring them, yelling at them, talking on their phone while the child plays alone.
“It’s going to be fine, right?” Nell asks, digging in her purse for a clean tissue. “They won’t break her?”
“Of course it’ll be fine,” Colette says. “Millions of women do this every day.”
“I know.” Nell nods. “And for what we’re paying at that place, I expect I’ll return later this afternoon to find her with buffed nails, cucumber slices on her eyes, a chalice of milk at her elbow.” She wipes her eyes, leaving a smear of black mascara along her right cheek. “I feel so bad about firing Alma, but what was I supposed to do? She’s being hounded by journalists. I don’t want Beatrice around that.”
“It’s disgusting,” Colette says. “Charlie brought home the paper this morning. There’s a photo of her at the playground with her daughter. They ran her out of the place.”