by Aimee Molloy
I’ve also been keeping these journals, like Dr. H recommended. “I think you should write things down,” he’d say. “It’ll be a place to help process your feelings. A way to feel centered.”
I’m doing it, and trying to adopt the right attitude, but I don’t like it. I don’t want to be writing these things down. I want to be talking to him, on the soft leather couch in his office, a mug of peppermint tea between my palms, a breeze blowing the sheer curtains, the drone of the white noise machine soothing my nerves. I wish he could lead me through the exercises he’d do when I felt particularly anxious, the ones where I close my eyes and envision a happier place.
I want to tell Dr. H where I am and how I’ve been feeling, and that, honestly, I never meant to kill anyone.
But of course I can’t do that. I’ve looked into it—he’d have to report me to the police. That would be awful for both of us. I want to tell him about the voices I hear at night among the call of the cicadas and crickets. Mark Hoyt, badgering me with questions. Where were you that night? What do you know?
It depends on what you mean by where.
Physically: I thought I knew, but I can no longer remember. The night is gone, like it no longer exists. Like it never happened.
Emotionally, spiritually: that I know. I was in hell. Lost. Tortured. Having no idea how to get through this. How to handle it. The overwhelming sadness. The failure. The guilt of being such an imperfect mother.
I need to get ahold of myself. The best thing I can do right now is figure out where we’re going next, and hurry up and leave. We obviously can’t stay here any longer.
Not with what I’ve just done.
Chapter Thirteen
Day Seven
To: May Mothers
From: Your friends at The Village
Date: July 11
Subject: Today’s advice
Your baby: Day 58
Still swaddling your little one? It might be time to stop. While swaddling a newborn can help him feel safe and snug, swaddling is also believed to lead to a higher incidence of SIDS as children become more mobile and learn to roll over. So while the baby may fall asleep in seconds in that swaddle, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Colette’s palms are sticky on the stroller handle and the sun singes the back of her neck, even now, not yet seven in the morning.
“I’m dying,” Nell says, red-faced and sweaty. “I can’t believe you actually run this.”
Colette slows to stay in step with Nell. “We’re almost there.” They make it over the hill and head down the shaded path, under the arch, the wheels of their strollers crunching over the pebbles.
“Do I look any slimmer?” Nell asks when they stop in the large open plaza where a group of toddlers from a summer camp, wearing bathing suits and bright yellow vests, clutch each other’s hands and make their way into the park. “Sebastian is expecting me to get naked in front of him again. I’d like my ass to be only one stone heavier than he’s accustomed to when that happens.”
“Turn around. Let me check.”
Nell laughs and turns her backside to Colette, but her expression darkens as she sees something in the distance. “Oh my god,” Nell mutters. “Look.”
It’s Midas.
His face is printed on a banner held by two older women trying to work out how to fix it to the stone wall bordering the park. Colette walks closer, approaching a very overweight woman with gray hair held in a high ponytail. She rests her forearms on the metal bars of a walker. Nearby, a small group of women lay pink carnations in a circle on the hot pavement.
“What are you doing?” Colette asks.
The woman cranes her neck to get a closer look inside the stroller at Poppy, who is sound asleep, her arms raised over her head, tucked close to her ears. “How precious,” the woman says. “We’re holding a prayer vigil for Baby Midas. It’ll begin in an hour or so.” Nell appears beside Colette, and the woman hands them each a flyer from a stack on a plastic folding table behind her.
A Prayer for Midas
Can a woman forget her nursing child,
that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?
Even these may forget yet I will not forget you.
—Isaiah 49:15
Colette sees what’s printed below the words—Child Neglect is a CRIME—and then the photograph. The one Patricia Faith first showed, of Nell and Winnie from the Jolly Llama. The image is merciless: Nell, a drink in her hand, her stomach bared. Winnie, peering into the camera, a vacant look on her face, her eyes half closed.
Colette returns the flyer and takes Nell’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You should join us,” the woman says. “This baby needs all the prayers he can get. And we have a special guest coming.” She leans toward them, speaking just above a whisper. “Patricia Faith.”
“I don’t think so.” Colette steers the stroller with one hand, propelling Nell forward with the other. Nell is on the brink of tears by the time they reach the sidewalk outside the park. A young man with a dark beard and—despite the heat—a slouchy winter hat on his head gets out of an idling van at the corner, carrying a television camera.
“That photo.” Nell’s words are choked. “It’s not— It makes us look—”
“Let’s go to my apartment,” Colette says.
“I have to get ready for work.” Tears build in Nell’s eyes.
“Just for a few minutes. Charlie’s not home. I’ll make us coffee.” Colette takes Nell’s arm, and they begin to walk faster.
“Who are those people?” Nell says as they approach Colette’s building a few blocks away. Alberto opens the door for them, and they prod their strollers into the elevator. Nell looks down at the flyer, still clutched in her hand. “What are they asking for?”
“Scarlet letters, I think.”
The apartment is quiet. Colette puts on the water to make coffee and cuts the lemon cake she made earlier this morning, after getting up with the baby at five. Nell sits on the couch, clutching Beatrice to her chest. “What is happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is bad. You can feel it. They’re going to blame her.”
“Yeah, I know.” Colette takes a seat at the kitchen island. Her head is throbbing. “I’m just surprised it’s taken this long.”
“It’s rubbish.” Nell’s breath comes out in a cascade. “All we did—all she did—was go out for an evening.”
“Nell, stop. We didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t even—”
“You’re watching this all, right? You can see where Patricia Faith is steering it? Her show yesterday, she kept playing that video of Winnie, the one from the day after Midas was taken, examining every gesture, asking why she hasn’t said a word since.”
“Yes,” Colette says. “We both have to stop watching this crap.”
“There’s no way Winnie could have—”
Colette presses her temples. “I don’t know.”
“No, don’t say that. She couldn’t have done something so evil. We know her.”
Colette looks at Nell, hesitant. “Do we? Do any of us really know each other?”
“At least enough to know if there was a psycho in our midst. I know how much everyone loves to blame the mother, but I refuse to believe she’s responsible for this.” She spreads the tears on her cheeks with both hands. “I read this awful article yesterday. It was all about Winnie and the so-called Medea complex, from Greek mythology. The daughter of a king, she avenged her husband’s betrayal by killing their children.”
“Stop reading this stuff, Nell. I’m serious. No good will come of it.”
“The things people wrote about Winnie in the comments. The collective outrage, saying she shouldn’t have left her baby with a stranger to go get drunk. That even if Midas is found, he should be taken away from her, that she’s not fit to be a mother.” Nell stifles a sob. “Don’t they know how hard this all is? The pressure of just keeping these babies alive. The ta
sk of loving someone like this, and how easy it is to fuck this up, the way we’re sure our mothers did.” Her voice breaks. “Some days I honestly think I’m going to fall apart. I’m so bloody tired. I know it happens, but can you even imagine? Hurting your own child?”
Colette peers down at Poppy, asleep in the stroller beside her.
“Why did I do it?” Nell says. “Deleting that app. And then I lost her key. I can’t—”
“Nell, stop. Don’t let these people get in your head. You didn’t do anything wrong. None of us did. Even if you did drop her key, it’s not like someone found it and said, ‘Here’s Winnie’s key. I guess I’ll use it to get inside her apartment and take her baby.’ Whatever happened, it was planned.”
Nell nods. “I keep telling myself that, but by whom? Why don’t they have any leads? Why haven’t her phone and key turned up?” She looks away. “I have to tell you something.”
The tone of Nell’s voice makes Colette uneasy. “Okay.”
“I drank too much.”
A quick laugh escapes Colette. “Nell. No shit.”
“I said that I had only—”
“Nell, I know. You weren’t the only one who drank too much that night. We were out. Away from the babies. It’s not a crime to—”
“It was weird,” Nell says. “I had a few drinks, but then, suddenly—well, there’s a huge chunk of the night I can’t remember. That’s not like me. Getting that drunk, forgetting things. That doesn’t usually happen.” She hesitates. “And my shirt was ripped, at my shoulder. I noticed it the next morning. I’m worried something happened that I can’t remember.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. It’s a sense I have—someone around me, touching me. Maybe whoever has Midas was there that night, looking for her, and took her phone and key from me, and I don’t remember. But then I think, no. It can’t be. I would remember that, right? I don’t know what’s true anymore. I’m afraid I’m going crazy.” Nell glances at Colette. “And why was she looking at her phone all night, at Midas in his crib? Have you wondered about that?”
Colette nods. “It was like she was waiting for something.”
“I want this to be over with,” Nell says. “I want to be told that Winnie was somewhere that makes sense. To know that he’s alive.” She begins to cry harder. “If he’s dead, I’ll never—” She stops herself and takes a baby wipe from the container on the table and blows her nose, leaving a milky film that glistens on her skin. “I want to know she didn’t do this.”
“Yeah,” Colette says softly, glancing toward the couch in the living room. She stands up. “So do I.”
Nell slides a stool closer to the island, Beatrice draped over her shoulder. “How long have you had this?”
“Three days.”
“And you haven’t looked at it?”
“No.” Colette ties her hair back with the band from her wrist, and then inserts the flash drive in her computer. A folder appears, with several files listed. “I shouldn’t have taken it. I’ve convinced myself not to look, to just put it back the next time I see Teb.”
She clicks open the first file, and a video fills the screen. “Oh my god,” Nell says. “It’s me.” Nell is sitting on a couch next to a man Colette assumes is Sebastian. Her face is pale and her eyes are bloodshot. Colette hits play.
“You okay with us recording this?” The voice is Mark Hoyt’s. “It’s a new protocol at the department.”
“Sure. Can I get a glass of water before we start?”
“This is that first morning, when they came to my place.” Nell leans toward the screen. “God, am I really that fat?”
“Rough night?”
“Every night with a newborn is a rough night.”
“Can we please see what else is on here?” Nell asks. “I can’t look at myself.”
Colette closes the video and clicks open the second file. The video player opens again.
“It’s Scarlett,” Colette says. “They must have interviewed everybody.”
Stephen Schwartz appears from behind the camera and takes a seat across from Scarlett.
“I understand you didn’t go out last night.”
“No. My husband’s family is visiting. I can’t believe it. This is awful.” Her face is dark with worry. “I just can’t imagine. Do you have any idea what happened?”
“That’s why we’re asking questions of people who know Winnie. This man in your group.” Schwartz looks down at his notebook. “Token, I believe you call him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him well?”
“No, not really. I attended the meetings a lot while I was pregnant, but we’re moving and I’m so busy now. To be honest, I always thought the nickname was childish.”
“Ugh,” Nell says. “Can we keep going?”
Colette closes the video and opens the third one on the list. “Yuko,” Colette says, quickly closing it and going to the next: Gemma sitting at a dining table. A man is standing behind her, holding their son. “I got there close to eight twenty, I think. I can look at my phone. I texted James when I arrived to check on the baby.”
Colette’s stomach sinks. Is her interview with Mark Hoyt on here? Does Teb already know she was there that night? She clicks on the final file in the list, bracing to see herself. She hears Nell’s gasp.
It’s Winnie. She’s at home, sitting in the corner of the sectional couch. Her hair hangs limp at her shoulders, and her eyes are swollen. She stares vacantly at the camera.
“Did you get any sleep?” It’s the voice of a woman this time.
“Some.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” The woman appears from behind the camera. She wears black pants and a pink sleeveless blouse. “I have just a few follow-up questions and then I’ll be on my way. First, I understand you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist.”
The woman pulls up an ottoman and takes a seat across from Winnie.
“That doesn’t sound like a question.”
The woman softens her voice. “You mentioned it to Detective Hoyt last night.”
“Did I?”
“You don’t remember?”
“You’re all asking me so many questions. It’s hard to keep everything straight.”
“How long have you been seeing this doctor?”
“A long time.”
“For?”
“Depression.” She shrugs. “Camaraderie. My father sort of forced me to do it, after my mother died.”
“And when was the last time he treated you?”
“A few months ago.”
The woman raises her eyebrows. “Not since giving birth?”
“No.” The detective begins to speak, but Winnie cuts her off. “I was feeling good after Midas was born. Better than I felt in years.”
“Okay. I want to also ask you a little bit about Daniel.”
Winnie shifts in her seat. “Daniel? Why?”
“You dated in high school. Why did you break up?”
A cloud crosses Winnie’s face. “I couldn’t deal with anything at the time. Including Daniel.”
“But you stayed close?”
“Yes. He was my first love.”
“After he got married. Did you ever have an affair?”
“An affair?”
“I know this is uncomfortable, but I have to—”
“No, we never had an affair. I’m not really sure what—”
Colette hears the sound of a key being inserted into the apartment door.
“Who is that?” Nell whispers.
The door opens and Charlie walks in, balancing two coffees in a carryout tray and a white paper bag.
“Oh, hey,” he says, removing his earbuds.
Colette closes her laptop. “Baby, hi.” She tries to keep her voice from faltering. “You’re back early.”
“Turns out they’re doing a sing-along at the coffee shop now. I got run out by babies and nannies.” He peeks inside the stroller at Poppy, and then back at Colette.
“What are you guys watching?”
Colette unclenches her hands in her lap. “A video. About sleep training.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, you know,” Nell says. “Put the kid in his cot with a can of soup. Lock the door. Come back in a few weeks.”
Charlie laughs. “After the night we had, I’ll buy the soup.” He walks to the kitchen island and sets the coffee and bag on the counter next to Colette’s laptop. “I got you an almond croissant and a coffee. And Nell, if I knew you’d be here—”
“I’m fine. Have to leave for work now, actually.”
Charlie kisses Colette’s forehead. “So do I. See you later.”
Colette waits until Charlie closes the door to his office. When she hears jazz coming from the room, she reduces the volume and hits play.
“No, we never had an affair. I’m not really sure what you’re getting at with that question.”
“I’m sorry, Winnie. I know this is difficult, but we have to ask you these questions in order to get a full picture of the situation.”
Tears leak slowly from Winnie’s eyes. “Daniel has been nothing but a good friend to me.”
“I understand.” The detective hands Winnie a Kleenex and then leans forward in her chair, her notebook dangling from her hand. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me, if you don’t mind, about where you were last night. After you left the bar.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Well, you told Detective Hoyt. But I’d like to hear it myself.”
Winnie closes her eyes. “I went to the park.”
“The park.”
“Yes. It was my first time alone since giving birth. And that bar—it wasn’t where I wanted to be. I went outside and decided to keep walking. I ended up at the park.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“On the way there, maybe? Or inside the park? Did you pass anyone, or speak to anybody?”
