by Aimee Molloy
“Not that I remember.”
“Are you having trouble remembering things?”
“No.” Winnie stares at her hands in her lap for a few moments, but then abruptly jerks her head up. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“It’s Midas.”
“Midas?”
“Shhhh, listen.” Winnie stands, listening to something in the distance. “There. Did you hear that?”
“No, what are you—”
“He’s crying.” Winnie walks off camera. “I can hear him crying.”
“Winnie—”
She appears on the screen again. “He’s quiet now.” She looks down the hall, toward the nursery. “But where is it coming from?”
“Winnie, listen. I want to call your doctor. We think you should make an appointment—”
“I don’t need a doctor.” She runs her fingers through her hair, gripping it in her fists. “I need you to find my son. He’s crying right now. He wants me. And you’re sitting here, asking me the same questions again and again. Why are you even here?” She walks to the terrace door and opens it. “Why are you not out there, searching for my baby?”
The detective stands and walks stiffly toward the camera. “Let’s take a break.” The rest of her words are undecipherable, before the screen goes dark.
Colette is aware of the silence around them and a heavy ache in her chest. “Oh my god,” Nell says. “She’s lost her mind. Do you . . . Did she—”
Nell sits on the toilet seat, attached to the pump. She looks down at her phone and, against her better judgment, closes the photo of Beatrice and types in the address of Patricia Faith’s website. The television host is, as Nell expected, broadcasting a live-feed from the park plaza, under the large banner headline: A Prayer for Midas.
Nell hesitantly opens the video, and her screen springs to life—an image of Patricia, in a tight floral dress, calling out to a woman walking behind a double stroller. “Excuse me,” she calls. “Do you have a minute?” The woman stops, and Patricia scuds gingerly toward her on her three-inch heels. Behind her Nell sees the circle of women, pink carnations in their hands, their heads bowed in prayer. “I’m Patricia Faith, host of The Faith Hour.”
“Yes,” the woman says. “I know.”
“We’re here today, talking about what some people are calling the Jolly Mama phenomenon.”
“I think you’re the only one calling it that.”
“So you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes,” the woman says. “Unfortunately.”
“Wonderful. You’re a mother, obviously. You look like someone who loves her child.” Patricia raises her eyebrows. “What do you think about the idea of mommy groups meeting at bars, drinking alcohol? Some even do this in the afternoon, bringing along their children, I hear.” She discreetly wipes the perspiration from her eyebrow with her finger and points her microphone at the woman.
“I think who gives a shit.”
Patricia Faith peeks at the camera and grimaces.
“The kids are not the ones drinking. You do understand that, right, Patricia?”
“Yes, but the parents are. With all the places there are to meet, isn’t it irresponsible? The night that Midas Ross was taken, his mother was at a bar.” She shows the woman the flyer in her hand, with the photo of Nell and Winnie. “Have you seen this? This is the night—”
Nell shuts down the phone and flips off the pump, silencing the droning motor. She hasn’t gotten nearly as much milk as she’d hoped, but it’s hot and stuffy in the bathroom, and she needs to get back to work. She buttons her shirt, packs the bottle, and waits until the bathroom is empty before making her way out of the stall. She needs a coffee—she’s felt unsteady since she left Colette’s apartment, that image of Winnie caught in her mind.
Heading down the hallway, she’s surprised to see Ian waiting for her, his hands along the top of her door frame, his cowlick curling like a question mark from his forehead—a feature Nell has heard that many of the company’s young female employees find irresistible. His belt today: pink flamingos embroidered over a sky-blue background. “Hey,” he says as she walks into her office, setting the pump under her desk. “Got a second?”
“Sure.” He’s with a young woman Nell has met a few times in passing, someone from editorial. She’s in her mid-twenties, and she wears a white lace dress over black jeans and orange ballet flats. Her hair is arranged into a perfectly messy bun, and she holds a folder in her hands.
“You know Clare?” Ian asks. Nell nods and straightens her back, aware of the pull of her shirt and the way it puckers between the buttons. She still hasn’t found the time to shop for clothes that fit. Ian saunters to the window and perches on the sill, moving aside some of the framed photographs of Beatrice that Nell placed there earlier this morning. “Second day back, huh? How’s it going?”
“Brilliant, thanks.”
“Yeah? It’s okay? Being back at work?”
He’s wearing two different-colored socks, which Nell assumes is deliberate. “It’s an adjustment. But I’m happy to be back.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
She smiles. No, he doesn’t. He’s a forty-four-year-old single man, rumored to be dating one of the assistants of Wedded Wife, the company’s bridal magazine. What does he know about leaving a baby, practically still a newborn, at a day care for nine hours a day?
“I have to say, I’m glad you’re back,” Ian says. “We’ve lost so many good people to their babies since I’ve been here. They take their maternity leave, tell us they’ll be back, and then, wham!”
Nell raises her eyebrows. “Wham?”
“Yes, wham. A few days before we expect them to show up at the office, we get the call.” His voice gets a little smaller. “‘I can’t do it. I can’t be away from the baby.’ I’m glad that’s not you.”
The image flashes in her mind. Knocking this wanker to the ground, straddling him, grinding his face into the carpet. “Thanks a million, Ian.”
“Sure. And now, Clare and I need some help.” He gestures at Clare to come forward. “We’re disagreeing on a cover and decided to come straight to the expert.” Clare removes two printouts from her folder and lays them side by side on Nell’s desk. They’re mock-ups of this week’s Gossip!—the company’s largest magazine—showing the actress Kate Glass, who recently gave birth. She stands on a beach in two different poses, wearing a bikini top and shorts, holding the American flag, under the bold headline How I Got my Body Back.
“What do you think?” Ian asks Nell.
“What do I think?” Nell is aware that Clare is looking at her expectantly.
“Yeah. As a new mom, how does this resonate with you?”
“Lemme see.” Nell picks up the images. “Well, I’m very pleased to hear this.”
Ian’s head is tilted. “Which part?”
“That she got her body back.”
“Crazy, right?” Clare says. “This is just five weeks after she had a kid.”
“Wow,” Nell says. “That must have been terribly difficult for her. Trying to care for an infant, and all without a body.” Nell addresses Clare. “So what happened? Had someone stolen it? Were those abs recovered at a CrossFit in Cleveland by a search party?”
Ian laughs. “Told you she’s hilarious,” he says to Clare, his gaze on the printouts. “It can be a little silly, I know. But these postpregnancy covers kill it every time. Women love this stuff.” He studies the two samples, side by side. “I’m wondering if we should photoshop out that flag she’s holding.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
Nell can’t help herself. “No. All new mothers typically remember to pack their American flag for a day at the beach.”
He laughs again weakly. His impatience is apparent.
“Sorry,” Nell says. “It’s just . . .” She glances at Clare. “This particular magazine. Not my favorite among the ones we publish.”
“I know, I know. But
remember. If we didn’t have the ad revenue from Gossip! we could never publish Writers and Artists.”
“Okay, sorry. Let me give it another go.” She surveys the images again. “I like this one,” she says, holding up the image in her left hand. “And lose the flag. It’s ridiculous.”
Clare executes a soundless clap, her rose-painted fingernails just in front of her mouth. “I told you that’s the better photo.”
Ian nods as he collects the images, his face pensive. “I don’t know. I still think we’re making a major mistake.”
“A major mistake?” Nell waves her hand dismissively. Having a photo of yourself taken at a bar, drunk and overweight, wearing maternity pants two months after having a child, and then having that photo distributed to the residents of Brooklyn: that’s a major mistake. This is foolishness. “It’ll be fine. The photos are nearly identical.”
Ian is shaking his head again. “That’s not what I mean.” He returns to the window, gazing out at Lower Manhattan, to the Hudson River a few blocks away. “It’s a mistake not to go with a cover story on Baby Midas.”
Nell keeps her expression blank as Ian turns to look at her.
“But we’ve gone over it a million times,” Clare says. “Everyone will do a cover on that. We’re banking on getting all the readers who are having Baby Midas fatigue.”
“But nobody is having Baby Midas fatigue,” Ian says. “People don’t want to read less. They want to read more.” He looks at Nell. “Right? Don’t you want to read more?”
“No,” Nell says. “What is the point of constantly covering the story? Besides ad revenue, I mean. That family needs—”
“But who is Midas’s dad?” Ian is becoming more upset. “Why is she not saying anything about this?”
“I heard it is a sperm donor thing, and—”
“Fine, Clare, fine. But then why not come out and say that? Why not talk to Oprah, like so many moms in her situation have done before?”
“Oprah retired.”
“You know what I mean, Nell. It’s what we’ve come to expect, and Gwendolyn Ross knows that. She was raised in the press. Why is she being so silent? What is she hiding?”
“Remember, we’re doing six pages on her,” Clare says gently. “All we’re talking about is the cover.”
“I understand. But are readers even going to get to that story? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay focused on Midas? It’s time to get some answers. We have a stringer out in Queens, trying to get the nanny to talk. From what I hear, she never even saw a baby. She didn’t go into his room. But that stringer sucks. And this Jolly Mama phenomenon? We could do weeks on that.”
“I think we should rise above it,” Nell says.
He snaps his head toward her. “Rise above it? That’s not our job, Nell. Our job is to create it.”
She knows the argument is futile. “Well, either way, I still agree with Clare about the cover. I’d be more apt to buy the magazine with Kate Glass on it.”
Ian sighs. “Okay, fine. Hope you guys are right. Our numbers are down. The lady upstairs isn’t happy.” He rises from the sill. “Guess we should all get back to work.” He walks toward the door and then stops. “Oh, and jeez. I almost forgot, Nell. The other reason I came to talk to you. We’re sending you away.”
“Away?”
He laughs. “Don’t look so scared. I mean we need you to go on a trip at some point in the next two weeks. Four days. To”—he pauses for effect—“the Bahamas. They’re considering it for the new server facility, and they want you to go. Meet the key players. Part work, part perk. How does that sound?”
“Four days?”
“Yeah. It’s right on the beach.”
“Sounds great,” Nell says, forcing a smile. “I’ll pack my flag.”
Nell reads the same paragraph in the training manual for the fourth time, willing herself to concentrate, but the thought inches back in.
Four days away.
She can’t think about it. Sebastian’s first curated exhibit opens in three weeks. He’s been working late every night and won’t be able to get back to Brooklyn by six when the day care closes. Who will pick up Beatrice? How will Nell pump enough milk for four days? How will she stand to be away from the baby for that long? She pushes away the thought, the trip, her reality (maybe her mom can use a few vacation days, drive down from Rhode Island), and tries to concentrate, but she’s too distracted. She minimizes the pdf.
She’ll quit.
She’ll go down there, right now, to Ian’s office. Wham! she’ll say. At least I lasted two days.
No, she won’t go down there. She’ll go up there, to the eighteenth floor, to see the lady upstairs herself. Adrienne Jacobs, the thirty-five-year-old creative director of the Simon French Corporation, the former fashion blogger, the first woman and youngest person to ever head the ninety-eight-year-old company. The wife of Sebastian’s brother. Nell’s sister-in-law.
Nell can see it. Marching in there, past Adrienne’s assistants, into her windowed office with its pristine white walls, the two white couches, the white rug imported from Turkey that cost more than what Nell earns in a year. Wham!
And then what? They can’t afford their apartment on Sebastian’s salary, or his student loan payments, or the vacation they promised they’d take—their first in four years—over Christmas. For the first time since they began dating, they’re doing well financially. Far better than they ever imagined in London, when Sebastian was studying art and she was attending classes toward her master’s degree while adjunct-teaching a few classes in cybersecurity at a local college. When they used to eat ramen noodles a few times a week, sneak their own popcorn into the movie theater to save the four quid.
And it’s not like she can easily get another job. Not with her employment history, her background, the things she’d have to tell people about herself when applying for a new job.
She’s lucky to have this position. She’s been telling herself this since her first day at the Simon French Corporation eighteen months ago; since even before that, when Sebastian told Nell about the offer that chilly fall morning, when she walked into their London flat after a day of teaching, her arms heavy with groceries.
“You’re joking,” she’d said to him, frozen in place.
“No.” His eyes were bright with excitement. “Adrienne called here herself while you were out. She’s offering you the job. Vice president of technology. In charge of all their online security stuff.”
“Online security stuff? Is that the official description?”
“You can go back to doing what you love.”
“Sebastian, no. She doesn’t have to—”
“This isn’t an act of charity, Nell. Adrienne said it herself. ‘There’s nobody better than Nell.’ She wants you on her team. She said she’ll take care of everything.” He cleared his throat. “And I explained it all to her. That you’re going by Nell now.”
“I can’t work there.”
“Why not?”
“Because their main magazine is Gossip! And I have standards.”
Nell paces her office, remembering the look in Sebastian’s eyes. He’d recently been contacted by MoMA, offered the job he’d been dreaming about, and he was going to turn it down. They couldn’t relocate to New York City on what the museum offered, especially since he and Nell had just started trying for a baby. But could she really say no to him? After everything he’d done for her. Never judging her past mistakes. Accepting her for who she was, and not the person others declared her to be. And plus, this was a chance to move back to the United States. To go home. To be closer to her mom.
“Okay, fine,” Nell said. “I’ll talk to Adrienne.”
Sebastian was grinning as he crossed the room, kissing her before taking the bags from her hands. “Thank you. And don’t mention the trying-to-get-pregnant thing.”
Nell hears her e-mail ding with a new message. She returns to her desk, knowing she has to get back to her work. She clicks open her e-ma
il, seeing six new messages from the May Mothers. The group’s activity has begun to pick up again, following a few days of dormancy after the news about Midas broke, when nobody seemed to know what to say.
Yuko had written with a question. Hi mamas. I need some help. Nicholas woke up with a rash on his back. I’m attaching a photograph. Do I need to worry?
Nell scrolls through the responses.
Looks like a heat rash to me, Gemma replied.
Avoid the doctor! Scarlett wrote. They’ll give you something harsh and toxic when all you need for this is calendula cream.
Nell deletes the messages, wondering if Winnie is still receiving the May Mothers e-mails. She pictures her in that video interview, her face gaunt, her eyes flitting around the room. She hears Ian’s words.
Who is Midas’s dad? What is she hiding? It’s time to get some answers.
Nell closes her eyes. For the tenth time since watching the flash drive interview with Winnie, and the hundredth time since the night Midas was taken, the thought occurs to her: How secure is the Village website? How difficult would it be to get inside, take a look at the questionnaire Winnie filled out when registering for May Mothers—the same questionnaire they all had to fill out? Your name. Your partner’s name. Tell us a little bit about your family.
Nell stands and closes her office door. Back at her desk, she can feel her heart beating as she opens The Village website and begins to type, hacking her way into the administration page. It takes less than five minutes. It’s something she’s been a natural at since her first computer science class—an instinct, one professor later said, or, as she likes to think of it, her superpower. In college, she was the first freshman to win a national coding competition, which helped land her the prestigious internship—chosen from more than 8,000 applicants—at the US State Department, working directly for Secretary of State Lachlan Raine.
Nell sees Francie’s profile at the top of the list and clicks it open. The photo she’d included is exactly what Nell would have expected: a selfie with Lowell and their ultrasound picture. Nell quickly reads what Francie wrote—she and Lowell met in their hometown in Tennessee, and she followed him to Knoxville, where he studied architecture while she took photography classes and worked as an assistant at a portrait studio, freelancing in her spare time, taking photos of people’s cats. “We’re somewhat new to New York and I can’t wait to meet all the other mommies!” Francie wrote.
