Francie traces her hand along the pilling fabric of the Ektorp couch, and then continues down the maze, pausing to check the price tag on a rocking chair upholstered in fake white leather. She pats Will’s bottom and checks her phone. Colette had a meeting with the mayor this afternoon, and she’d agreed to look inside Midas’s file, to see if there’s any information about Archie Andersen. Francie is hopeful that after her visit to the police station yesterday, Mark Hoyt has realized they’ve overlooked something crucial. They should have located Andersen’s whereabouts and brought him in for questioning by now.
Francie wanders toward the bedroom furniture. This is her fifth trip to IKEA in two weeks. Lowell has finally installed the window AC unit in their living room—a secondhand one she bought off the Village classifieds—but it’s a piece of junk, blowing out putrid, lukewarm air. She’s desperate for some relief from the worsening heat, but she can’t stand to turn it on—who knows what toxic fumes it might emit? She’s been trying to make the best of it, seeking refuge at the library, music classes, and here at IKEA, which Will seems to like. Perhaps it’s the shock of fluorescent lighting, or the cavernous feel, as if they’d entered a vast, well-lit womb, but he calms down as soon as they enter, affording her at least forty minutes of relative quiet, allowing her thoughts to calm, a crack of light to open in her brain.
Will begins to fuss in the pillow section, and she picks up the pace, heading to the café. The air is steeped in the stench of meatballs, and she angles a chair toward the window, reaching in her bag for the bottle of water and a packet of formula. She pours the powder into the bottle, and as she shakes it, she notices a young mother sitting beside a stroller, forking a glob of pink salmon into her mouth and staring at the packet of Enfamil on the table in front of Francie.
Francie averts her eyes, feeling the rise of shame and embarrassment as she nudges the nipple into Will’s mouth, trying to ignore the woman’s stares. She wishes she had the courage to explain to her that she knows breast milk is better, but her milk is gone. Her body can no longer feed him.
Will is nearly finished with the bottle when her phone rings. It’s Colette. “Oh good,” Francie says, feeling a wave of relief. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Well?” Francie says. “What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Are you sure?”
“Listen, Francie. You have to stop texting me about this. I can’t tell you how much trouble I’ll be in if anyone here finds out what I did.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But I don’t get it. Did you look in the file?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And there’s nothing on the Archie guy.”
Francie lets out an irritated sigh. “Nothing? How is that possible? Is Mark Hoyt not even slightly interested in doing his job? Is he really not going to find him and question him?”
“It doesn’t mean he hasn’t. It just means it’s not here, in this file. This isn’t everything. Shit. Francie, I have to—”
“Okay, but wait. What about the guy Winnie was talking to in the bar? Is there anything on him?”
“There’s nothing new in the file.” Francie can hear voices in the background. “I have to go,” Colette says and ends the call.
Francie is on the brink of tears as Will finishes the last of the formula, and when she stands, she feels faint. She was too upset to eat this morning, and she considers ordering something, but the thought of the food here turns her stomach. She walks out of the café toward the exit before realizing that she’s gone the wrong way. Retracing her steps, she’s caught in the complicated grid, unsure which way is out. Will begins to cry, and Francie walks quickly toward the rug section, where she gets caught behind a woman with a stroller who is taking up the entire aisle, walking too slowly.
“Excuse me,” Francie says, trying to hurry past, but then she sees the woman’s face and stops. “Scarlett.”
Scarlett looks at her with a confused expression, and Francie is overcome with awkwardness. Scarlett doesn’t recognize her. “It’s me, Francie.”
Scarlett lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Of course. I’m sorry. My brain froze there for a second. I’d say pregnancy brain, but I guess I have to stop using that excuse.” Scarlett glances down at Will, who is wiggling in the carrier, his cries growing louder. “How’s the clogged duct? Did the potatoes work?”
“Yes,” Francie lies, unable to cope with another piece of advice at the moment.
“I’m so glad. And still no caffeine?”
Francie hesitates. “No, none. Not in a week. How are you?”
“Tired. Between the baby and this move, I haven’t had a moment to myself.” Scarlett glances under the blanket on top of her stroller and lowers her voice. “He’s been sleeping for nearly two hours, thank God.”
“Two hours? Will has never napped for two hours.”
She knits her brow. “Never? Do you make sure he’s eaten enough before you put him down?”
“Yes,” Francie says. “I think so.”
Scarlett nods, and Francie can’t help but notice a smugness to her expression. “I’ve been lucky with this little guy. He’s always been a good sleeper.”
Francie nods. “Are you shopping for the new house?” she manages.
“Yes.” Scarlett fingers the fibers of a nearby rug. “My husband keeps telling me the stuff here is junk. I know he’s right. I should really shop somewhere in the city.” Francie bounces Will, who has begun to cry more loudly. “How are you? I miss seeing everyone.”
“Me too,” Francie says, her voice cracking. “It’s been hard since what happened to Midas—”
Scarlett closes her eyes. “I’m sick about it. I just can’t imagine what Winnie must be going through.”
“I know.” Before Francie can help it, the tears escape. “To be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed right now. The baby’s been up at night a lot, and it’s difficult, because Lowell needs his sleep. Our apartment is so small.” She laughs. “Certainly no four-bedroom house in the suburbs. And then even after he falls asleep, I stay awake, thinking about Midas. There’s got to be some explanation for what happened, right? How they got in, or why someone would want to take a baby.” She knows she should stop talking, but the words tumble out. “The police have done such a terrible job, don’t you think? Detective Hoyt. He just doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. I refuse to believe Midas is not alive. Colette just called. We’ve been doing all that we can to figure this out.” She wants to tell Scarlett that Colette was her last hope in finding Archie Andersen, that she’s searched the Internet so many times to locate him—to see if he ever served time in jail, if he still lives in New York, if he might have been anywhere near Winnie’s house that night. Francie pulls a wipe from her diaper bag and blows her nose. “I probably haven’t been eating enough, either. Do you want to go get some food, or at least a coffee? I’d love some company—”
When Francie looks back at Scarlett, her body floods with embarrassment. Scarlett is watching her, a horrified expression on her face. Francie glances at the floor, humiliated. How I must look! she thinks. Standing in IKEA, wearing a stained and wrinkled top she pulled from the laundry basket, her hair a mess, growing hysterical in the rug section.
“I’m sorry,” Francie says. “I don’t mean to burden you with—”
“It’s fine,” Scarlett says. “I’d love to get a coffee.” She smiles wanly, her eyes shadowed with pity. “But the movers are coming in an hour to give an estimate.”
“Of course,” Francie says. “I understand.”
“Lunch this week, in the park maybe?” Scarlett says, starting to walk away. “We’re back and forth between Brooklyn and the new house for a few more days. I’ll e-mail you.”