“That’s a good idea.” Lowell sits on the sofa and opens a beer. “And how’s your mood?”
Francie puts a fresh pair of cotton socks onto Will’s feet. The article said it was best to surround oneself with sheepskin, but she didn’t dare spend the money on the rug she found online, knowing these Carters’ cotton socks will have to do. “My mood? Fine. Why?”
“What do you mean why? Can’t I ask my wife how she’s feeling?”
“Well your mom told me this afternoon she thinks our floors are unhygienic. And that I should wash them with bleach.” Francie keeps her voice low. Barbara is in the bathroom, soaking in her nightly bath, her face set in a mud mask, listening to talk radio on her iPod.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing. But I can’t use bleach on these floors. Bleach? Around a baby? I feel like she’s finding fault with our apartment. With half the things I do.”
“Francie.” His face clouds. “She doesn’t think that. You’re imagining it.”
Francie sips the tea, trying to force back the anxiety. She doesn’t want to talk about Barbara, she wants to talk about Winnie, about their conversation earlier. But she can’t, not with Lowell. She didn’t tell him what happened, knowing how angry he’d be at her for bringing Will to Winnie’s apartment. To make matters worse, Barbara stayed home all afternoon, her hair in furry plastic curlers, whispering into the phone in their bedroom. Francie assumes she was calling friends back in Tennessee, asking if they heard that Lowell was mentioned in the news, telling them she’d been right all along about the dangers of New York City. Barbara emerged from the bedroom only after Lowell came home, and by then Francie was too afraid to say anything at all.
“France, come on. She means well. Things were different when she had kids. She just—”
“Oh my god!” Barbara’s yell from the bathroom startles Francie, and she spills a few drops of hot tea onto Will’s arm. He begins to wail as Lowell jumps to his feet, bumping the table and spilling his beer, extinguishing two of the candles. He rushes down the hall toward the bathroom and knocks on the door.
“Mom!” He tries the handle but it’s locked. “Mom! You okay?”
“I knew it!” Barbara’s voice is triumphant. “I said it from the beginning.”
“What are you talking about?”
The door bursts open and Barbara steps into the hallway, wrapped in a towel, her face a tight sheet of gray, bubbles sliding from her shins to the floor.
“They’re bringing her in for official questioning,” Barbara says, her mask cracking. “That friend of yours. The mother. I knew she was hiding something.”
Chapter Nineteen
Night Eleven
I have an image of someone cutting me.
A long, thin knife penetrating my stomach, just below my navel, an easy slit, a straight line to my heart. I’m empty inside. As black as ash, my organs like dust. One touch and my heart crumbles into a million sooty specks, black powder left on the floor, leaving dark footprints wherever I walk.
I’ve always been this way. A bad little girl. My father said it all the time. “Leave her alone,” my mom would yell at him. “Do better,” she’d whisper to me when he wasn’t around. “Stop giving him reasons to be mad.”
I thought becoming a mother was going to change me, but I was wrong. The baby just made everything worse. And now everyone is going to know the true me. It was inevitable, right, that they’re on to me? Francie, that nosy, meddling twit.
Midas’s blanket. Why didn’t I take care of that earlier? Why
Why
Why why why
My thoughts are unraveling. I have to remain calm. I hear a booming voice in my head, as if it’s speaking through a megaphone. I can picture the voice. It’s mustached and wears a large top hat, circular wire glasses, and emerald shoes that curl up at the toes.
Hey lady, it yells through its megaphone. You must remain calm. This is no time to get hysterical.
(Ha, guess what, voice? I’ve done it. I’ve become exactly what my father said all women become. Hysterical.)
We’re going to disappear. I know I keep saying that, but this time I mean it. Tomorrow. The problem is, well . . .
The cash is almost gone. I’ve been too afraid to look, but I did. Yesterday. $743.12. That’s it.
I had no choice but to tell Joshua.
“But don’t worry,” I said last night, keeping my back to him so I wouldn’t see the shock and anger in his eyes. “Not all of it.” (For the first time in months I’m happy Dr. H isn’t around. “I said it a million times: be careful with that money,” he would say, his expression a study in disappointment, as if I were still a teenager.)
Then today Francie showed up, distracting me from the money, reminding me we have bigger problems. What if they don’t believe me? I finally spoke that question out loud. What if they see through the story we’ve created?
What if I go to jail?
But Joshua just turned away from me. I know even the mention of it terrifies him. Later, as we ate our dinner in silence, I was well aware what he was thinking.
Little Miss Clever can’t get us out of this predicament. Miss Tenth-Grade Math Whiz, and you still haven’t figured out a solution to a very simple equation of where to go?
I can’t waste any more time. Not with the way they’re closing in on me. Tennessee. Montana. Alaska. We’ll drive until we find where we want to be, or run out of gas. We’ll settle down. I’ll get a job. We’ll rent a cabin. Joshua is hoping for something remote and private. Land on which we can lose ourselves, start over. Somewhere we can never be found.
I want that too. I think I do, at least, when I try to picture it. A garden in the back. Maybe some chickens.
A gun nearby for protection. Just in case.
Chapter Twenty
Day Twelve
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village Date: July 16
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 63
It’s been nine weeks since you gave birth, and it’s time to talk about BALANCE. We know how it is. Taking care of the baby. Buying groceries. Getting back in shape. For some of us, preparing to go back to work. It’s not easy. The best thing you can do for yourself—and your baby—is to strive for the right balance in your life. Maybe you hire a mother’s helper a few hours a week, or ask a friend to babysit so you can go to the gym. Maybe you spend a little extra money having your groceries delivered. Find what works for you. After all, a happy mother, a happy home.
Nell’s body feels as if it’s made of cement, her legs cast in plaster. She hears the crying, but it’s muffled. The baby is calling to her from under water. She tries to move, but she doesn’t have enough strength.
“Nell.”
She smells the trace of vanilla in her mother’s hand lotion and opens her eyes. Margaret is standing over her.
“Am I late for work?” Nell asks.
“No. It’s not yet seven.” Her mom crouches beside her. “I hate to wake you, but you need to see something.”
Nell notices the look on her mom’s face. She sits up. “Is Beatrice okay?”
“Yes, sweetheart. She’s fine. She’s sound asleep. Sebastian just left for work. But come out to the living room with me.”
Nell lifts herself from the warm sheets and follows her mom down the hall. Margaret arrived yesterday evening, leaving work immediately after Nell called, driving the four hours from Newport to Brooklyn without stopping. She slept on an air mattress in the living room, the monitor beside her, tending to Beatrice so Nell and Sebastian could have their first full night of sleep since the baby was born.
The television is on in the living room, and Nell sees that Mayor Shepherd is standing at a podium, stepping aside to give Rohan Ghosh a place at the bank of microphones.