“I’m sorry,” Winnie says to the women as Francie walks over, her new daughter Amelia, two weeks old, asleep inside the Moby Wrap at Francie’s chest.
“You’re here,” Francie says. Winnie detects the relief in Francie’s voice. “I’m really glad you came.”
Winnie follows her to the blankets. “We lost our tree,” Colette says, smiling up at her.
“Replaced by younger women,” says Nell. “Good thing none of us have any experience of what that feels like.” She shakes her head at Colette, who is pulling napkins and plates from a bag. “For the fifth time, would you let me do that?”
Colette waves away Nell’s hands. “I can lift napkins,” she says. “In fact, Poppy and I both had our last physical therapy appointments yesterday. She’s exactly where she should be, and”—she places her palm on her side, over the site of the wound—“I’m getting closer to feeling like myself again.”
Francie is watching Winnie. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? You getting out of the house?”
On the paved path beyond the trees, a couple flashes by on Rollerblades. “A little.”
Colette pops open the lid of a large cake container.
“You got a cake with an . . . orange square?” Nell asks her.
“It’s supposed to be a house.” Colette licks icing from her finger. “I made it myself.”
“You’re kidding. I never would have guessed.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Francie says. “That house is pretty much drawn to scale. Lowell keeps telling people it’s a three-bedroom we bought, but unless he thinks someone is sleeping in a closet, he’s exaggerating. It’s so nice of you guys to do this for me.” She pulls a napkin from the stack. “These hormones. I’ve forgotten how emotional everything feels with a newborn.” She blows her nose. “I’m going to miss you guys.”
Nell laughs. “Francie, you were born to move to Long Island. You’ll be the mayor of that town by Christmas. Although at the rate you’re going, you’ll probably be a mother of six by then.”
“Out, Mama.” Midas is looking up at Winnie, squirming under the restraint of the straps and pointing at the other children. Winnie unbuckles him, and he slides to the ground, running to join them in the dirt.
Colette doles out the cake, and they eat in silence for a few moments. “I don’t know if we want to talk about this,” Colette says. “But I’d rather get it out of the way. I watched the show last night.”
“I thought you would,” Nell says. “So did I.” She glances at Winnie. “Are we talking about this?”
Winnie smiles. “It’s okay.” She watched it too: Baby Midas: A Tale of Mayhem and Modern Motherhood, with Patricia Faith. A two-hour prime-time special, aired on the anniversary of Midas’s abduction.
Daniel showed up at her place late yesterday afternoon with a bag of hamburgers and a six-pack. “I don’t know if you want to watch it,” he said. “But if you do, I’ll stay and watch it with you.”
She knew most of the details already. Mark Hoyt paid a visit to her house a few days after Midas came home, and told her everything that Scarlett had admitted to. The stillbirth. How, after coming home from the hospital, she’d spend hours sitting in her darkened apartment, watching Winnie through binoculars, fantasizing that Midas was her baby. How she’d lied and told the May Mothers that Winnie had confessed to feeling depressed, and had paid a young locksmith $300 to get inside Winnie’s car, claiming it was hers, stuffing Midas’s baby blanket into the tire well.
“She interviewed Scarlett,” Colette says. “It’s heartbreaking.”
Francie stops chewing. “You’re kidding. I couldn’t bear to turn it on.”
“She visited her in prison. Scarlett’s still being held in the psychiatric ward, and yet they allowed Patricia Faith to sit her down in front of cameras for an hour. Patricia Faith, apparently, made a sizable donation to the prison.”
Nell shakes her head. “Does Scarlett not have anyone looking out for her?”
“I’m doing my best not to think about it anymore,” Francie says. “All during Amelia’s birth, I kept picturing her. Can you imagine? Lying there, not knowing what’s happening. Where they’ve taken your baby. And then being told—”
“No,” Colette says. “I can’t.”
“When they handed Amelia to me, I kept asking the nurses, Is she okay? Is she breathing? They had to tell me several times that she was fine. It was only then that I allowed myself to believe that she was real.”
“She told Patricia Faith her biggest regret is that she survived the stab wound, that day we found Midas.” Colette’s gaze is on the circle of new moms under the willow tree. “And that she used to take that doll to playgrounds and music classes, keeping it in the stroller. Nobody ever noticed.”
Winnie moves the cake around on her plate with her fork.
Do you ever feel delusional, Winnie?
Ever have any visions of hurting yourself?
We’ve looked at your medical records. You suffered from severe anxiety after your mom died. We hate to ask you this, Winnie, but have you ever thought about hurting Midas?
“I couldn’t watch the whole thing,” Nell says. “Those stories about her abusive father. And that therapist that got her pregnant? What a horrible human being.”
They kept telling her to go out—the May Mothers, Daniel, the pediatrician—everyone arguing that it would be good for her to have a break from taking care of Midas for a few hours. But she didn’t want a break. “I found this app for your phone,” Daniel said, over sandwiches in the park the day before. “It’s called Peek-a-Boo! You can keep an eye on him. I think they’re right, Winnie. You could use a break.”
But then she left the phone on the table, her key inside. A deep swell of regret builds inside of her. She closes her eyes, seeing herself at the bar, ordering another iced tea. Lucille had called Daniel, saying Autumn wouldn’t stop crying and he needed to come home, and then that guy approached, leaning in too close, resting his hand on her waist. His rancid breath, the punch of the music, the pressing crowd of young men and women.
She needed to get out of there.
She knew. She was leaning against the tree, the notebook in her lap, watching the fireworks across the lawn, when she heard the police sirens. She knew, the same way she’d known the moment she looked in the eyes of that policeman who’d appeared at her front door twenty years earlier.
“Something’s happened.”
She searched for her phone in her purse, frantic, needing to hear from Alma that Midas was okay. She can feel the sting in her heels, her shoes chafing her skin, as she climbed the stony path, sprinting down the sidewalk, the sound of her feet on the pavement thunderous inside her head. The door was open and the police were there and Alma was sobbing, and then they were asking her questions. Where was she? Had anyone seen her leave the bar? Did anyone, as far as she knew, want to hurt Midas?
“Anyway,” Colette says, “enough of that. I brought you all something.” She takes three spiral-bound stacks of paper from her bag and hands one to each of them. “My novel.”
Nell snatches one. “You finished?”
“Two months recovering from surgery leaves lots of time for writing,” she says.
Nell flips through it. “I can’t wait. What did Charlie’s editor think?”
“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, but she likes it.” Colette’s eyes shine with excitement. “They want to publish it.”
The wind picks up, and Francie squeals as Nell pops the cork off a bottle of champagne. “I should have gotten two of these.”
Nell pours them each a plastic flute, and they touch their cups together as a roar of laughter erupts from the new mothers under the willow tree.
“I have that exact same thought, constantly,” says a woman in a red sundress. “I was getting a manicure yesterday, and I panicked, thinking I’d left the baby on the sidewalk in the car seat. She was at home with my mother-in-law. I ruined my nails. I think I’m going crazy.”