“Winnie? I don’t understand. Is this about the e-mails you’ve been sending me?”
“Yes. You didn’t write back. You left me no choice but to come here.” There’s an alarming edge to Francie’s voice and a wild look in her eyes, and then the thought strikes Colette. Where is Token? Why didn’t he alert them that Scarlett had come home?
“To be honest, Francie, if I was going to write back, it would have been to ask you to stop. The number of e-mails you’re sending me. It’s a little disturbing.”
“I saw you the other day, on your balcony, when I was at Winnie’s.”
“On my balcony? What do you mean? We’ve been away.”
“No, I saw you,” Francie says. “You had a watering can.”
Scarlett is shaking her head. “Okay—”
“Winnie confided in you,” Francie says. “That’s what you told us, at the last meeting. She admitted she was depressed.”
Scarlett’s baby releases a soft cry of hunger, and she begins to bounce him. “Yes, and—”
“And you were home that night, right?” Her voice is rigid. “With your in-laws?”
“I spoke to the detectives about everything I know.” Scarlett shifts her gaze from Francie to Colette and Nell. “I’m sorry, but whatever it is you’re doing—the incessant e-mails. And now this, coming here, breaking into my apartment—it’s completely out of line.” Her voice is taut with anger. “Not to mention against the law.”
Colette feels the heat of embarrassment at her neck. “Scarlett, we’re sorry. We were going to just leave a letter—”
“How did you even get in here?”
“Your door—it was unlocked,” Francie says.
“My door was unlocked?” Her face flushes. “How stupid of me.”
“We didn’t plan to—” Colette tries to steady her voice. “We—”
“It wasn’t our intention to come inside,” Nell says, walking to place a hand on Francie’s elbow. “How about we just go and leave you to your day?”
Scarlett’s baby cries louder. She turns to walk down the hall toward the kitchen. “Good idea.”
Colette lets out her breath. “Come on.”
Nell leads Francie toward the door, but Francie wrests her arm from Nell’s grip and walks back toward the desk.
“Francie,” Nell hisses. “This is no longer funny. Come on.”
Francie silently takes a stack of papers from the top drawer of the desk and holds them up.
“Natural Remedies for Clogged Ducts.” “Six Sleep Cues You Can’t Miss.”
“Francie, come on—”
Francie shows them the next pages, printouts of an online article.
Gwendolyn Ross Arrested in the Disappearance of Her Son
Lachlan Raine Admits Affair with State Dept. Intern Ellen Aberdeen
Francie flips again. It’s the e-mail from Nell. The Jolly Llama. 8:00 on July 4. Everyone come, and especially Winnie. We won’t take no for an answer.
Francie’s hands are trembling as she holds open a notebook, and they read the page together.
What if they don’t believe me? I finally spoke that question out loud last night. 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.
Francie flips to the next page, and a handful of folded papers falls onto the floor at their feet. Nell picks them up and unfolds them.
Token’s mug shot. Three copies of it.
Colette closes her eyes, hearing only the sound of the rain pulsing against the skylight above them.
“Oh my god,” Nell says under her breath.
Colette opens her eyes. Go, Francie mouths.
Scarlett is standing by the door. The baby is crying harder.
“He sounds hungry,” Francie says. “Can I do something to help?”
“You can leave,” she says. “My husband is parking the car and will be back any second. Trust me, he’s not going to be so understanding.”
Colette walks toward Scarlett. She pictures herself running down the stairs, out on to the sidewalk, sprinting through the rain, back to Charlie and Poppy, none of this real. But then her gaze meets Nell’s and then Francie’s, and she feels herself taking a few steps toward Scarlett.
“What are you doing?” Scarlett says, her hands at the baby’s head.
Colette reaches for the rain hood. Scarlett pulls away, but Colette catches a glimpse of his hair, and then his face.
“Midas,” Francie says from behind Colette as Scarlett walks brusquely into the kitchen. Colette follows, her legs weak.
His screams grow louder as Colette reaches Scarlett. She forces her hands inside the carrier and hooks them around the baby. She feels Scarlett pitching toward the sink, and sees the knife locked in her fist.
In an instant, she becomes aware of a searing flash of pain in her side. She hears the sound of Nell’s voice. She sees Poppy’s face.
And then it all goes black.
I place the knife on the table.
Francie is standing motionless. Nell is kneeling beside Colette, who has fallen to the floor. The baby is screaming at my chest. “Now look what you’ve done,” I say, gazing down at him. “You’ve upset Joshua.”
“Scarlett, what have you—” Francie is walking closer to me. “Give him to me. Give me Midas.”
“Midas? Midas is dead. This is Joshua.” I see the terrified look in his eyes, and whisper into his ear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re going to be all right.”
The room begins to twist. The air glistens with dust. They’re here to visit.
I’m hosting a May Mothers Meeting.
Nell is crying and holding her phone to her ear. I have to think quickly. I walk over and snatch it from her hand.
“No! Give that to me.” She’s frantic. “We have to get her help.”
I calmly place her phone in the sink, turning on the faucet. “No phone calls during our meetings, ladies. It’s rude.” I turn to Francie. “You too.”
“Me too?”
“Yes.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
Francie reaches for the back pocket of her shorts, the same, pea-green, milk-stained, ill-fitting Old Navy shorts she wears to every meeting, the poor girl. “My phone? I didn’t—”
I step over Colette and spin Francie around, my nails digging into her soft bicep, and grab the phone from her pocket. I toss it in the sink next to Nell’s and squeeze a stream of blue gel over the phones, watching them disappear under a cloud of bubbles. I catch my reflection in the cabinet glass, noting the dark bags under my eyes, the state of my hair. I look awful.
I pinch pink into my cheeks and fluff up my hair. I really should have put more effort into looking good for this meeting. I know how much these women care about that.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning back to Francie. “I don’t mean to be rude. Joshua has been a little moody and it’s starting to get to me. But you guys know how that is, right?”
I walk to the apartment door, twisting the dead bolt into place, stringing the chain lock. Kneeling down, I summon the strength to slide a stack of packing boxes in front of the door. I’m a little dizzy when I stand. “No point in going to the park in this rain,” I say, walking to the refrigerator. “Let’s just meet here. It’s more comfortable. And I have to feed this baby.”
I take a bottle of breast milk from the freezer, nearly the last of the stash I was able to pump before my supply dried up. I know I should have been more disciplined about it, setting my alarm for the middle of the night to keep pumping, taking more herbs, drinking that awful lactation tea. Once again, I’ve failed.
“Sit down,” I tell Francie, sticking the bottle into the microwave. “And please don’t tell me microwaving breast milk destroys all its good properties. I am aware of that. I’ve read the same books. And I’m choosing to adhere to my own parenting philosophy. It’s called Mothers: Fuck All of You.” I laugh and glance down at Colette, who is leaving a pool of blood on the kitchen tiles. “Maybe you should ghostwrite a book about that,” I tell her.