Maybe she was right. Maybe I’ll never learn. The truth is, this is all so much harder than I expected. How stupid of me to think I could simply steal away and be happy. For one thing, I’m bored to death. There’s nothing to do here. Nothing to occupy my thoughts. And god knows that boredom doesn’t suit me. Idle hands and all that.
Joshua is the same way. He’s happiest when we’re out, walking into town for a turkey sandwich and ice-cold beer from the little shop near the library, or at the secluded swimming hole we discovered, under the bridge, down the wooded path, stretched naked on a rock afterward, drowsy and pink with sun. But I told him today I don’t feel safe doing those things any longer. There are people around—walking their dogs, delivering mail—and they’re starting to ask me how I’m doing. That’s the problem with these country people. They’re so nosy. Go back inside, I want to tell them. Go back to your cross-stitch and frozen macaroni and cheese and your twenty-four-hour cable news. I’ve been practicing my responses; going over my story again and again with Joshua, trying not to trip up, to come to believe my own lies.
I should be a pro at this by now. I’ve been lying my whole life.
My mom’s not feeling well. It’s the flu. She’s sorry, but she asked me to call and cancel for her.
Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not asking you to leave your wife. I’m not interested in anything more than what we have.
Sperm donor, I’d say, leaning in, smiling as if this person—bad-mannered enough to ask me who the father was after I started showing at five months—was the only one I was trusting with the secret. Feeling the tug of motherhood, and I can’t wait around forever for the perfect guy now, can I?
But things aren’t quite so simple this time. The lies are more complicated, easier to get tangled in. So no more going out, no matter how bored we are. And no complaining about it either. I’m going to make the best of a bad situation. Like I did with dear Father.
I’ve started already. This morning, Joshua woke up moody and distant. Did I get mad? Did I demand to know what was wrong? Nope. I left him brooding in front of the television and went out into the sunshine, walking the property, collecting the wildflowers that grow near the brook. I brought them inside and pressed them between the pages of cookbooks, like my mom and I used to do. He was in a much better mood when I got back, and after breakfast we went through the house together, throwing away things we don’t like—those tattered throw pillows with the scratchy cases, the outdated curtains in our bedroom, the family photos I can’t bear to look at any longer—rearranging the place so it feels more like our home.
I’ve also been keeping these journals, like Dr. H recommended. “I think you should write things down,” he’d say. “It’ll be a place to help process your feelings. A way to feel centered.”
I’m doing it, and trying to adopt the right attitude, but I don’t like it. I don’t want to be writing these things down. I want to be talking to him, on the soft leather couch in his office, a mug of peppermint tea between my palms, a breeze blowing the sheer curtains, the drone of the white noise machine soothing my nerves. I wish he could lead me through the exercises he’d do when I felt particularly anxious, the ones where I close my eyes and envision a happier place.
I want to tell Dr. H where I am and how I’ve been feeling, and that, honestly, I never meant to kill anyone.
But of course I can’t do that. I’ve looked into it—he’d have to report me to the police. That would be awful for both of us. I want to tell him about the voices I hear at night among the call of the cicadas and crickets. Mark Hoyt, badgering me with questions. Where were you that night? What do you know?
It depends on what you mean by where.
Physically: I thought I knew, but I can no longer remember. The night is gone, like it no longer exists. Like it never happened.
Emotionally, spiritually: that I know. I was in hell. Lost. Tortured. Having no idea how to get through this. How to handle it. The overwhelming sadness. The failure. The guilt of being such an imperfect mother.
I need to get ahold of myself. The best thing I can do right now is figure out where we’re going next, and hurry up and leave. We obviously can’t stay here any longer.
Not with what I’ve just done.
Chapter Thirteen
Day Seven
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 11
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 58
Still swaddling your little one? It might be time to stop. While swaddling a newborn can help him feel safe and snug, swaddling is also believed to lead to a higher incidence of SIDS as children become more mobile and learn to roll over. So while the baby may fall asleep in seconds in that swaddle, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Colette’s palms are sticky on the stroller handle and the sun singes the back of her neck, even now, not yet seven in the morning.
“I’m dying,” Nell says, red-faced and sweaty. “I can’t believe you actually run this.”
Colette slows to stay in step with Nell. “We’re almost there.” They make it over the hill and head down the shaded path, under the arch, the wheels of their strollers crunching over the pebbles.
“Do I look any slimmer?” Nell asks when they stop in the large open plaza where a group of toddlers from a summer camp, wearing bathing suits and bright yellow vests, clutch each other’s hands and make their way into the park. “Sebastian is expecting me to get naked in front of him again. I’d like my ass to be only one stone heavier than he’s accustomed to when that happens.”
“Turn around. Let me check.”
Nell laughs and turns her backside to Colette, but her expression darkens as she sees something in the distance. “Oh my god,” Nell mutters. “Look.”
It’s Midas.
His face is printed on a banner held by two older women trying to work out how to fix it to the stone wall bordering the park. Colette walks closer, approaching a very overweight woman with gray hair held in a high ponytail. She rests her forearms on the metal bars of a walker. Nearby, a small group of women lay pink carnations in a circle on the hot pavement.
“What are you doing?” Colette asks.
The woman cranes her neck to get a closer look inside the stroller at Poppy, who is sound asleep, her arms raised over her head, tucked close to her ears. “How precious,” the woman says. “We’re holding a prayer vigil for Baby Midas. It’ll begin in an hour or so.” Nell appears beside Colette, and the woman hands them each a flyer from a stack on a plastic folding table behind her.
A Prayer for Midas
Can a woman forget her nursing child,
that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even these may forget yet I will not forget you.
—Isaiah 49:15
Colette sees what’s printed below the words—Child Neglect is a CRIME—and then the photograph. The one Patricia Faith first showed, of Nell and Winnie from the Jolly Llama. The image is merciless: Nell, a drink in her hand, her stomach bared. Winnie, peering into the camera, a vacant look on her face, her eyes half closed.
Colette returns the flyer and takes Nell’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You should join us,” the woman says. “This baby needs all the prayers he can get. And we have a special guest coming.” She leans toward them, speaking just above a whisper. “Patricia Faith.”
“I don’t think so.” Colette steers the stroller with one hand, propelling Nell forward with the other. Nell is on the brink of tears by the time they reach the sidewalk outside the park. A young man with a dark beard and—despite the heat—a slouchy winter hat on his head gets out of an idling van at the corner, carrying a television camera.
“That photo.” Nell’s words are choked. “It’s not— It makes us look—”
“Let’s go to my apartment,” Colette says.
“I have to get ready for work.” Tears build in Nell’s eyes.