“I don’t know. Twenty minutes ago?”
Twenty minutes? Did Charlie have milk to leave her? Did he give her the sunscreen? Colette doesn’t know this woman’s phone number. She’s not even sure of her last name.
She turns and runs up the stairs, taking the steps two by two. She’ll call Charlie, disturb his meeting, demand he come home and help look for the baby. She hunts for her phone in her bag and enters the key into the lock.
Charlie.
He’s there, lying on the floor next to Poppy, who is reaching for her toes on the play mat at his side. Colette drops her bag and rushes to the baby, lifting her from the mat, kissing her face so eagerly, Poppy whimpers with annoyance. Charlie’s breath is raspy; he’s fallen asleep. Poppy nuzzles the warm skin of Colette’s chest, rooting for milk. Colette feels the full weight of her exhaustion, the room shifting around her. She closes her eyes, imagining lying down next to Charlie, curling against him, and telling him everything. About what happened on the subway, about losing the job. About the terror she’s been feeling, the desperate need to know that Midas is still alive. She wants to tell him about her guilt over being away from the baby, about how hard she’s been working trying to hold it all together. She wants to wake him up and tell him she can’t wait three months until Poppy’s next appointment to start worrying. She’s already terrified.
But she’s too afraid. Afraid that if she begins, she’ll start to cry and never stop, that she’ll be swallowed by her sadness, her fear, how overwhelmed she is, how certain she is that everything she has is slipping away.
“Do you have to do that right here, in front of me like that?” The sound of Charlie’s voice sends a jolt through her body. He’s awake.
“Do what?”
“That. Be all over her.” She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have the words to respond. “It’s not easy watching how affectionate you are with her when you pull away every time I touch you.”
“Charlie, no. Please. I thought—you have the—”
“I didn’t go.”
“Why?”
He stands and walks down the hall toward his office. “I knew how upset you would be if I left the baby. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
She follows him, reaching for his arm, but he pulls away. “Not now, Colette. I need some time.”
“Charlie. I’m sorry. Listen, there’s some things—”
But he’s already closed the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Eleven
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 15
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 62
We’ve all had a few particularly frazzled days, even moments of feeling sad and overwhelmed. Those feelings should be lifting by now as you and your little one settle into a routine. But if you—or someone you love—are beginning to wonder if what you’re feeling is more than the baby blues, don’t let embarrassment or pride keep you from talking to your doctor. Getting help for yourself can sometimes be the best thing you can do for your baby.
Francie strolls slowly through the narrow fiction aisle in the bookstore at the back of the Spot, Charlie’s debut novel in her hands, trying to convince herself that everything is going to be fine, that Nell will get through this. Francie had no idea about any of the things the newscasters were saying about Nell. She wasn’t even aware of the scandal—the presidential candidate who dropped out of the race after having an affair with a twenty-two-year-old State Department intern. Francie was sixteen when it happened, and her mom wasn’t the type to expose her family to political sex scandals (or anything to do with a Democratic politician, good or bad).
And then there is Token. The way he roughly led her out of his apartment two days ago without offering any explanation of his arrest, raising only more questions.
The worst, however, is what happened this morning. Francie walks to the front of the store to pay for Charlie’s book, feeling another wave of queasiness as she envisions the moment. Barbara was sitting on the sofa, watching television, waiting for Francie, who had offered to make Barbara the runny egg sandwich she ate every morning. Francie was doing her best to tune out her mother-in-law, who was going on about gossip from back home. How her friend’s niece just had her fourth child, a darling little girl. How there was a new nail salon that opened in town, where Barbara had gotten her nails done for the trip. How it was staffed by four women who were probably in the country illegally. Orientals.
Francie heard Colette’s name just as the toaster popped. She turned to look at the TV, seeing Colette on the screen, jogging down the sidewalk near her apartment building, red-faced and breathless. “Leave me alone,” Colette said, hurrying past the cameras, her arms shielding her face. “I have no comment.”
“Colette Yates is the daughter of Rosemary Carpenter, the well-known women’s rights activist,” the reporter said. “She’s also romantically involved with the novelist Charlie Ambrose, with whom she had a child two months ago.” Colette was one of the women with Winnie at the bar that night, the reporter went on to say, and while a source reported that Colette was close to Mayor Shepherd, he wouldn’t comment on the story. And then suddenly they were talking about her—Francie. They even had a photo of her, one from the night at the Jolly Llama, her face pressed against Nell’s.
The reporter added that Francie was a stay-at-home mother, and the moment that Lowell walked into the kitchen, Francie heard Barbara’s gasp. “Her husband, Lowell Givens, is one of the principal owners of Givens and Light Architects, a young Brooklyn firm.”
“This is awful,” Barbara said, ignoring Francie, looking straight at Lowell. “What is this going to mean for your business?”
Francie hands the money to the clerk, knowing she shouldn’t be buying Charlie’s book, that she should have waited to get it from the library. But the library doesn’t open until noon, and her apartment is so small, and she needed to get out, away from Barbara and the look on her face. The judgment. The disappointment.
Francie takes her change and turns to look for a table. And then she sees her, on the sidewalk outside.
She wears sunglasses and a long, shapeless jacket, and her hair is tucked under a baseball cap, but Francie knows it’s her.
“Winnie!”
The word escapes Francie more loudly than she expected, silencing the crowd waiting for their coffee. Francie careens through them, running out the door, out onto the sidewalk. “Winnie! Wait, Winnie!”
Pressing Will against her chest, she jogs awkwardly after Winnie, who is walking quickly up the hill. “Winnie, wait, please!” She doesn’t understand why Winnie isn’t stopping. Will begins to whine as Francie breaks into a run after her, reaching her just before she arrives at her building. Winnie is scrambling inside her bag for her keys. “Winnie, please. I need to talk to you. I’ve been so worried.” Francie tries to catch her breath. “Have you gotten my messages? I’m so sorry we—”