The Perfect Mother

by Aimee Molloy

  Nell closes Francie’s profile and skims others, surprised at some of the things she’s reading; at how little she really knows these women. Yuko clerked for a state supreme court judge before having her son. Gemma is from Nell’s hometown in Rhode Island; she went to the rival high school.

  The sudden ringing of her desk phone surprises her, and she closes the website. “Hi, this is Nell Mackey.” There’s heavy breathing on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Nell, it’s me.”

  She pushes away from her desk. “Colette?” There’s silence, and then Nell hears Colette crying. “Colette, what is it? Are you okay?”

  “I’m in the copy room at the mayor’s office,” she whispers. “I think someone’s outside.”

  “What do you mean? Are you all right?”

  “No.” She pauses. “I went into the police file. I saw something. It hasn’t been reported. I don’t know—”

  “What, Colette? What is it?”

  “They found a body.”

  Francie traces her hand along the pilling fabric of the Ektorp couch, and then continues down the maze, pausing to check the price tag on a rocking chair upholstered in fake white leather. She pats Will’s bottom and checks her phone. Colette had a meeting with the mayor this afternoon, and she’d agreed to look inside Midas’s file, to see if there’s any information about Archie Andersen. Francie is hopeful that after her visit to the police station yesterday, Mark Hoyt has realized they’ve overlooked something crucial. They should have located Andersen’s whereabouts and brought him in for questioning by now.

  Francie wanders toward the bedroom furniture. This is her fifth trip to IKEA in two weeks. Lowell has finally installed the window AC unit in their living room—a secondhand one she bought off the Village classifieds—but it’s a piece of junk, blowing out putrid, lukewarm air. She’s desperate for some relief from the worsening heat, but she can’t stand to turn it on—who knows what toxic fumes it might emit? She’s been trying to make the best of it, seeking refuge at the library, music classes, and here at IKEA, which Will seems to like. Perhaps it’s the shock of fluorescent lighting, or the cavernous feel, as if they’d entered a vast, well-lit womb, but he calms down as soon as they enter, affording her at least forty minutes of relative quiet, allowing her thoughts to calm, a crack of light to open in her brain.

  Will begins to fuss in the pillow section, and she picks up the pace, heading to the café. The air is steeped in the stench of meatballs, and she angles a chair toward the window, reaching in her bag for the bottle of water and a packet of formula. She pours the powder into the bottle, and as she shakes it, she notices a young mother sitting beside a stroller, forking a glob of pink salmon into her mouth and staring at the packet of Enfamil on the table in front of Francie.

  Francie averts her eyes, feeling the rise of shame and embarrassment as she nudges the nipple into Will’s mouth, trying to ignore the woman’s stares. She wishes she had the courage to explain to her that she knows breast milk is better, but her milk is gone. Her body can no longer feed him.

  Will is nearly finished with the bottle when her phone rings. It’s Colette. “Oh good,” Francie says, feeling a wave of relief. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Well?” Francie says. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Are you sure?”

  “Listen, Francie. You have to stop texting me about this. I can’t tell you how much trouble I’ll be in if anyone here finds out what I did.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But I don’t get it. Did you look in the file?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s nothing on the Archie guy.”

  Francie lets out an irritated sigh. “Nothing? How is that possible? Is Mark Hoyt not even slightly interested in doing his job? Is he really not going to find him and question him?”

  “It doesn’t mean he hasn’t. It just means it’s not here, in this file. This isn’t everything. Shit. Francie, I have to—”

  “Okay, but wait. What about the guy Winnie was talking to in the bar? Is there anything on him?”

  “There’s nothing new in the file.” Francie can hear voices in the background. “I have to go,” Colette says and ends the call.

  Francie is on the brink of tears as Will finishes the last of the formula, and when she stands, she feels faint. She was too upset to eat this morning, and she considers ordering something, but the thought of the food here turns her stomach. She walks out of the café toward the exit before realizing that she’s gone the wrong way. Retracing her steps, she’s caught in the complicated grid, unsure which way is out. Will begins to cry, and Francie walks quickly toward the rug section, where she gets caught behind a woman with a stroller who is taking up the entire aisle, walking too slowly.

  “Excuse me,” Francie says, trying to hurry past, but then she sees the woman’s face and stops. “Scarlett.”

  Scarlett looks at her with a confused expression, and Francie is overcome with awkwardness. Scarlett doesn’t recognize her. “It’s me, Francie.”

  Scarlett lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Of course. I’m sorry. My brain froze there for a second. I’d say pregnancy brain, but I guess I have to stop using that excuse.” Scarlett glances down at Will, who is wiggling in the carrier, his cries growing louder. “How’s the clogged duct? Did the potatoes work?”

  “Yes,” Francie lies, unable to cope with another piece of advice at the moment.

  “I’m so glad. And still no caffeine?”

  Francie hesitates. “No, none. Not in a week. How are you?”

  “Tired. Between the baby and this move, I haven’t had a moment to myself.” Scarlett glances under the blanket on top of her stroller and lowers her voice. “He’s been sleeping for nearly two hours, thank God.”

  “Two hours? Will has never napped for two hours.”

  She knits her brow. “Never? Do you make sure he’s eaten enough before you put him down?”

  “Yes,” Francie says. “I think so.”

  Scarlett nods, and Francie can’t help but notice a smugness to her expression. “I’ve been lucky with this little guy. He’s always been a good sleeper.”

  Francie nods. “Are you shopping for the new house?” she manages.

  “Yes.” Scarlett fingers the fibers of a nearby rug. “My husband keeps telling me the stuff here is junk. I know he’s right. I should really shop somewhere in the city.” Francie bounces Will, who has begun to cry more loudly. “How are you? I miss seeing everyone.”

  “Me too,” Francie says, her voice cracking. “It’s been hard since what happened to Midas—”

  Scarlett closes her eyes. “I’m sick about it. I just can’t imagine what Winnie must be going through.”

  “I know.” Before Francie can help it, the tears escape. “To be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed right now. The baby’s been up at night a lot, and it’s difficult, because Lowell needs his sleep. Our apartment is so small.” She laughs. “Certainly no four-bedroom house in the suburbs. And then even after he falls asleep, I stay awake, thinking about Midas. There’s got to be some explanation for what happened, right? How they got in, or why someone would want to take a baby.” She knows she should stop talking, but the words tumble out. “The police have done such a terrible job, don’t you think? Detective Hoyt. He just doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing. I refuse to believe Midas is not alive. Colette just called. We’ve been doing all that we can to figure this out.” She wants to tell Scarlett that Colette was her last hope in finding Archie Andersen, that she’s searched the Internet so many times to locate him—to see if he ever served time in jail, if he still lives in New York, if he might have been anywhere near Winnie’s house that night. Francie pulls a wipe from her diaper bag and blows her nose. “I probably haven’t been eating enough, either. Do you want to go get some food, or at least a coffee? I’d love some company—”<
br />
  When Francie looks back at Scarlett, her body floods with embarrassment. Scarlett is watching her, a horrified expression on her face. Francie glances at the floor, humiliated. How I must look! she thinks. Standing in IKEA, wearing a stained and wrinkled top she pulled from the laundry basket, her hair a mess, growing hysterical in the rug section.

  “I’m sorry,” Francie says. “I don’t mean to burden you with—”

  “It’s fine,” Scarlett says. “I’d love to get a coffee.” She smiles wanly, her eyes shadowed with pity. “But the movers are coming in an hour to give an estimate.”

  “Of course,” Francie says. “I understand.”

  “Lunch this week, in the park maybe?” Scarlett says, starting to walk away. “We’re back and forth between Brooklyn and the new house for a few more days. I’ll e-mail you.”

  Francie says good-bye and walks in the opposite direction, dropping the package of pink paper napkins she was going to buy in a bin full of plastic salad tongs, eventually finding her way to the checkout lines, weaving between people trying to navigate heavy trolleys overloaded with long cardboard boxes. Out on the steaming sidewalk, she spots a bus idling at the stop across the street and runs for it.

  She takes a seat in the back, her head pressed to the window, tamping down the shame. Why on earth did she do that? Scarlett is so put together, so confident—a house in Westchester. Buying new furniture. Yet another mother with an easy baby and a seemingly ideal life. And here she is, sobbing in IKEA with a baby she can’t control and a husband who won’t agree to buy a new air conditioner for the living room, or a new stroller, even after the brake on the one his aunt bought for them stopped working two days ago. Francie was having visions: losing control of the stroller, Will inside it, seeing it careen down the hill, too fast for her to catch it, and into the street. When Lowell called her from the office yesterday afternoon to check in, she worked herself into a panic, demanding he stop at Target on the way home from work and buy a new stroller immediately. He refused.

  The motion of the bus helps to settle Will, and she roots inside her bag for the warm bottle of Diet Coke from this morning and drains it, wondering if she should consider what Lowell suggested last night. They were lying in bed, Will between them, when Lowell told Francie she should go see her doctor. “It was my mom’s idea,” he said. “I called her today. She thinks there might be something you can take for how anxious you are, and how much you cry now.”

  “I don’t need a pill,” Francie said. “I need them to find Midas. I need to help that baby get back with his mother.”

  A man takes the empty seat beside her and she moves closer to the window. She doesn’t want to think anymore—not about Lowell, or Scarlett, or her mother-in-law’s judgment. Taking her phone from her bag, she checks the weather—it’s going to reach the high nineties for the next few days—before opening Facebook. Her gaze snags on the post at the top of the page—the standing invitation to view “A Night Out,” the album Yuko created for the Jolly Llama get-together. Francie still hasn’t had the stomach to look, but she clicks on it now, eager for any distraction, and scrolls through the photos people have added. Yuko and Gemma standing at the rail of the deck at the Jolly Llama. Nell and Colette clinking glasses. Francie’s breath catches when she comes across a photo of Winnie. She’s sitting at the table, her chin resting on her hand. There’s another of her, watching the crowd, the sun setting behind her, a strange, almost dreamy expression on her face.

  And then Francie sees it, in the background: the splash of bright crimson.

  She spreads the photo larger with her fingers. The red baseball cap.

  It’s the guy Winnie was talking to. He’s standing by himself, holding a drink. He’s in another photo too, his face clear in the background. And he’s not just standing there. He’s staring at them, watching them, looking directly at Winnie.

  “Excuse me,” she says to the man beside her fifteen minutes later when the bus pulls up to her stop. She steps over his legs and hurries from the bus and toward her building, flush with anticipation. The front door is slightly ajar. Francie has asked Lowell at least four times to fix the latch, which hasn’t been catching. It’s not safe. Inside, the mail is stacked on the wobbly wooden table in the small foyer, and she sees a credit card bill and a large envelope with her name written across it in green block letters. She tucks the credit card bill into her diaper bag, knowing she has to figure out a way to pay for the $100 in baby clothes she ordered from Carter’s before Lowell found out he didn’t get the renovation job, and ignores the other envelope—the handwriting vaguely resembles her mother’s, and she doesn’t want to deal with that now, assuming it’s the stupid christening dress her mom insisted on sending. She sprints up the three flights of stairs, finally locating her laptop under the recipes she printed earlier this morning. Toeing Will’s bouncy chair, she opens Facebook and goes to Yuko’s photo album.

  Yes.

  It’s him. The guy Winnie was talking to. Francie examines every photo, seeing if she can spot him in the background. As she does, she can’t help but study the photos of Winnie one more time. The faraway look in her eyes. The way she’s captured in one photo looking down at her phone. It’s strange, but Francie tries not to think about it. She tries to stay focused on the good news.

  She now has a plan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Day Eight

  To: May Mothers

  From: Your friends at The Village

  Date: July 12

  Subject: Today’s advice

  Your baby: Day 59

  Chances are, you still have a few extra pounds to lose. Don’t let that remaining baby weight get you down. Instead, get up! Grab your stroller (and maybe a few members of your mommy group) and take a brisk walk around the park. Choose vegetables and fruit for snacks. Chew your food slowly. Stay away from carbs. You’ll be zipping up those old jeans in no time at all.

  Colette sits at the kitchen island, Charlie’s hands on her swollen breasts. “Charlie, come on,” she says, nudging him away. “Not now. You know I have to work.”

  “I do know that,” he murmurs. “But the baby just fell asleep in the stroller, and you were up late working again. You’ve earned your state-mandated fifteen-minute coffee break.” He glides his hands down her stomach, finding his way into her cotton pajama bottoms, cupping her inner thighs. “Don’t make me report a secret employee of the mayor for violating labor laws.”

  She squirms out of his grip. “Please, Charlie, stop. I need to finish this chapter.”

  He stands up, sighing. “Baby, you’re killing me. It’s been three months.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ve gotta turn this around.”

  She swivels toward him, trying to mask her irritation. “Charlie, I know. But this minute? I’m working. I don’t come into your office when you’re writing and try to seduce you.”

  He laughs. “You know what, sweetheart? If you ever feel even slightly inclined to come into my office and seduce me while I’m writing, you should act on it. Immediately. Even if I’m on the phone with my editor. Even if my parents are there. Even if I happen, for whatever reason, to be hosting a meeting with the pope. I will stop the discussion, and I will pleasure you right then and there, in a wholly spectacular fashion.”

  Colette smiles. “That’s good to know.”

  He nods toward his office down the hall. “You wanna give it a shot? See if I’m telling the truth?”

  “Is the pope in there?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not interested.” She stretches her legs and places her toes on top of his. “I’m sorry. I need to focus. I just used the thesaurus for the word went. It’s not going well.” He extracts his feet, walking to the refrigerator for the bottle of breast milk she prepared earlier. “You leaving?” she asks him.

  “Yes.”

  “Where you taking her?”

  “Running.”

  “I’ll take her when I get back. Th
is meeting should be quick.”

  Charlie nods.

  “Take the yellow sun hat,” Colette says. “The others are too big for her.”

  “Yep. Know that.”

  “You have the sunscreen?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s supposed to get even hotter today.”

  “Yep.” Charlie closes the fridge, keeping his back to her. “I know how to take care of my daughter.”

  “Are you annoyed with me?”

  “Yep.”

  He turns, exasperated. “This is frustrating.”

  “Are you going to divorce me?”

  He can’t help but snicker. “Yes, Colette. I am.”

  “Will you leave me the espresso machine?”

  Charlie drops the bottle on the counter and walks over to her. “Nope.”

  “The French press, at least?”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “You love me?”

  “A lot. But god, you’re stubborn.” He leans down and kisses her forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

  Colette pours a fresh cup of coffee and brings it to the window, peering down at the street, queasy with exhaustion. She spent most of the night on the glider, catching moments of sleep in between nursing Poppy, knowing she should put the baby in her crib, force her to get accustomed to falling asleep on her own, like every expert recommends, letting her cry for a few moments if necessary. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Every instinct told her to stay with her baby, let Poppy sleep in her arms all night if that’s what she needed.

  The visit to the pediatrician had not gone well. “She’s behind,” the doctor said. “It’s clear. She’s having some muscle weakness in her upper body, a little more pronounced on her right side. And I’m concerned about the way she’s holding her head.”