From her bassinet, Opal squawks, her vocal cords too underdeveloped for an outright cry. My sutures tug as I stand, and I rest both hands on the side of her bassinet as I prepare my body for the task of lifting my daughter from her bed.
On the couch, I nestle Opal in my arms, angling her mouth toward my nipple. I should unswaddle her. I don’t have the energy to wrap her back up again and can’t remember why it’s so bad to let her feed cocooned like this. Gabe keeps calling, and I let the phone ring. Except it’s on vibrate, so it’s anticlimactic, just tremor after tremor on the couch beside me. At some point, Opal’s lips fall open, loosening their latch as her breath heavies with sleep. I use my last reserve of energy to place Opal into her bassinet, then flop back onto the couch. The list of names rests on the coffee table, and I scan it, unsure if I have the energy to place any more calls. One name pops out at me, someone I didn’t refer. It’s nearly impossible to get an appointment with Gabe. Women I barely know reach out to me. Maya Linsky didn’t. I never knew she was Gabe’s client.
Maya’s son is dead. Is there any reason for her to know the truth about his genetics? How will it help her? How will it help any of these women to know, to come forward and expose themselves at the center of a scandal? A scandal ripe for documentaries and headlines and urban lore. Barb was right. I need a better plan. I can’t call these women and implode their lives. I can’t do this to Maya, to any of them. Even though Gabe is the perpetrator, I’ll become the villain.
I lie supine, thinking back to that dinner when I told Gabe about Maya, the aroma of burnt coconut, what I thought I’d uncovered about Dan. Did Gabe choke when I said her name? Did he shudder? I don’t remember him having a reaction. Maybe he didn’t make the connection between my story and his client Maya. Maybe he’s had several patientsnamed Maya. Maybe he forgot about her, like he’s forgotten about so many of these mothers, such that a child’s death meant nothing to him.
A pounding wakes me up. I didn’t realize I’d drifted to sleep. I jump up faster than I should, my incision screaming like I’ve ripped a stitch. Is someone trying to break in? To crack the glass? The pounding continues. I scan the room, my heartbeat pulsating in my wound. Opal’s asleep in the bassinet. And Jasper? Where’s Jasper? I panic until I see him blowing raspberries against the glass door. I stumble over, my incision on fire. The alarm beeps when I open the door, and I limp over to the opposite side of the house, hoping to get to the keypad before the alert intensifies and wakes Opal.
“Someone didn’t want to get off the slide.” Barb helps Jasper inside. He trips on the lip of the door like he does every time. Today, he laughs, but as easily he could have burst into tears. Jasper runs to me, jumping on me, making the searing pain worse. I wrap him in my arms and flop to the floor, ignoring the tearing that burns. If my scar ends up crooked and raised, my abdomen shelved, forever puffy, my imperfect body will hold the marks of motherhood, of putting my children first.
Jasper spots a wooden peg puzzle and abandons me for its sea creatures, trying to force them into the wrong cavities. I shuffle back to the couch, wincing with every small step. I haven’t taken any painkillers since I left the hospital.
Barb sits beside me. “You okay?”
I can’t begin to answer this, so I ask her to get the bottle of Advil from the kitchen cupboard and then pop three. It’s the same as my ibuprofen prescription.
“You sure you don’t want anything stronger?”
“It’s all I have in the house. I’ll be fine.” I shift again, and it feels like the doctors have left a serrated knife inside me, its jagged edges sawing at the sutures holding me together.
Jasper starts to yawn. It’s past time for his second nap. I motion him off the floor, where he stares up at me, bleary eyed and obstinate, refusing to budge. I grunt as I stand to coax him up.
“Jasp, up now.” It comes out less forceful than I intend. He makes no gesture of heeding my weak command. I consider scooping him up, smothering him with kisses before he can protest, but I’m not supposed to lift him for another month. The prospect sounded heartbreaking when Gabe was here to help. Now, without him, it’s impossible.
“I can get him,” Barb offers tentatively, the longer conversation we still need to have sitting heavily between us. For now, she’s dancing around it, a polite little shimmy that lets me know how precarious the truth is for both of us.
Barb’s and Jasper’s footsteps disappear upstairs, their muffled voices vanishing along with a conversation about trucks. Through the French doors, I meet the gaze of the man who pushes his bike around the canal, his child’s seat always empty. He looks how I feel, eyes engulfed in deep purple, hair standing at odd angles. Clothes wrinkled, jaw hardened beneath an overgrown beard. He stares at me, sending a chill down my spine.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone fall asleep that quickly,” Barb says as she staggers down the stairs, trying to hide or ignore her limp. She keeps talking about Jasp and his impressive stuffed animal collection, all of which crowd his crib. My attention is fixed on the man, who continues to study me.
“Barb,” I whisper. When I sense her at my side, the man scuttles down the pathway, out of view.
“What?”
“There was a guy outside. Gave me the creeps is all.”
Barb unloops her purse from the back of a stool at the peninsula and tosses it over her shoulder.
“You’re leaving?” Suddenly, I’m breathless, afraid, dizzy. I’m not ready for Barb to leave, to do this on my own.
“I’m getting your prescriptions. It’s not up for debate. You don’t have to take them, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you hurtmore than you have to.” She digs through her purse, pats down her pockets, then asks, “Can I borrow your car?”
I hit Standby on the alarm, then wait at the door to the garage as Barb backs into the alley. It won’t take her more than twenty minutes. Still, it’s a reminder that at some point, she will leave for good.
I lock the door to the garage and punch the Away code on our alarm, Jasper’s birthday. All our passwords are variations of his birthday. That will have to change now that Opal’s here, now that it seems like favoritism. I’m about to press the Home button when Jasper shouts a string of gibberish from upstairs. I rush to the bottom of the stairs, then hesitate, waiting to see if he’ll fall back to sleep. He doesn’t cry again, so I retreat to the living room. The house is quiet, unsettlingly so. I don’t want to do this alone.
My breasts sting, the familiar pins and needles I haven’t felt since Jasper was nursing. My milk has come in. Already, I’m engorged, uncomfortably swollen. It’s a good problem to have, but it’s almost as painful as my incision, more nagging than clawing, just as fertile. Opal’s still asleep. While I don’t want to wake her, my body won’t be able to wait very long. I should pump. I hate pumping. It makes me feel animalistic in all the wrong ways. It’s necessary, though, if I want to keep my production up. I’ll pump in a few minutes. Let me just shut my eyes, gather my energy to pump or wake her.
I’m asleep before I can cycle through these limited options again.
I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep when something startles me awake. I jump up, causing that searing along my stitches to ignite again. The compression band around my waist cuts into my swollen stomach. Two sodden circles spotlight my breasts, full past capacity and tingling. My entire body stings, exacerbated by my racing pulse. Slowly, I shift my gaze to the French doors, certain I won’t see anything, that it’s just my mind, the canals, playing tricks on me.
Only, there’s a man at the door, hands against his forehead, peering in. We see each other, and he stands upright. It’s the man who rides his bike around the canal, the one with the bright-orange child seat.The man who looks how I feel, who so recently gave me the creeps. He reaches for the handle. I sigh in relief because I locked it after Jasper and Barb returned. He can’t get in. If he breaks the glass, the alarm will blaze. It may take a while for the police to arrive, but everyone along Linnie Canal will hear. Someone will help. I try to relax, to remind myself we’re safe. His hand starts to twist the handle. It’s locked. I know it’s locked. I know it won’t turn. As he pushes down, the latch releases and the door inches open.
I forgot to lock the door. The alarm—I wait for it to sound. It will blare. It will scare him away, alert some Good Samaritan. But the alarm isn’t on. I forgot to hit Home when Barb left. The man’s boots clap against the hardwood as he steps inside.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
