“Her family?”
“And the others. It’s like a ... group.”
“Right. There are multiple dwellings on the land. Is it your understanding that this is some kind ofcult?”
Gwen flinches at the word, thinking of every horrifying Netflix documentary on the topic. She does not want Detective Steele to think she is someone who would pursue a cult.
“No, not a cult, per se.”
Gwen bounces June in her lap, and she squeals happily, oblivious to her mother’s angst. Pools of sweat gather in Gwen’s armpits; beads of it dot her forehead.
“A commune?” Gwen ventures. “Maybe that’s more like what it is.”
Communedoesn’t sound great either, but it conjures more images of hippies than of serial killers.
“A commune. Okay. And you had never met Ms. Luna before?”
Ms. Luna. It sounds absurd. That can’t be her real last name.
“No,” Gwen says, staring at the back of June’s head, the whorl of her hair. “I just, um, followed her on social media.”
Followed. Like a stalker.
Detective Steele lets out a deep breath that tells Gwen she might be here longer than she thinks. The detective pulls out the chair across from Gwen, the feet of it screeching against the linoleum floor for what seems like a purposefully long time, and sits.
“Ms. Fisher,” she says. Not Gwen, never Gwen. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Gwen hands June a teething ring, hoping it entertains her long enough for Gwen to attempt to explain.
Chapter 1
Gwen
Gwen doesn’t remember the exact day she started following Angeni Luna. It was during her pregnancy with June, though the real obsession didn’t take hold until June was born, when Gwen turned to her phone for companionship during the lonely nighttime breastfeeding sessions.
The sessions were long in those early days—up to forty-five minutes. Gwen had tried reading novels, a favorite pastime in her pre-baby life, but could not focus enough to follow the simplest plot. So she went on social media to wade through a deluge of advice and advertisements preying upon her new motherhood. Each night felt a hundred years long, and she felt so alone, though another human was quite literally attached to her. She should have told Jeff about those hours of despair, but she didn’t want to deviate from The Plan.
When she was pregnant, she and Jeff had had a weekly “State of the Union”—meaning their marital union. Gwen had gotten the idea from an Instagram account called @conscious.co.official. The “.co” was supposed to stand forcouples, but over time, it began to seem like it should stand forcompany. They sold all kinds of workbooks and webinars to “elevate your relationship.” A previous version of Gwen would have found this eye-roll-inducing, but pregnant Gwen was tapping the little heart icon on several of their posts each week. Shewanted her and Jeff to thrive as parents as much as they’d thrived as a romantic pair. The Conscious Couples people made it seem like this would take a significant amount of work, since “adding a child to the bond is essentially creating a love triangle.”
During their State of the Union meetings, she and Jeff discussed how they would divide household tasks during the early days, when Gwen would be physically exhausted and recovering, all while establishing a feeding rhythm with their daughter. They decided that Jeff would act as a support to Gwen and manage anything that did not involve the baby—the laundry, the dishes, the cooking, the cleaning. Gwen would sleep with the baby in the guest room so that Jeff could get a good night’s sleep and be rested enough to tend to his duties during the day, when Gwen would attempt to take the entire world’s advice and “sleep when the baby sleeps.”
Gwen thought this arrangement made logical sense, and “logical sense” was her religion. She and Jeff had met in law school. When she’d gotten pregnant, they’d both been on partner tracks at their respective firms. They prided themselves on being logic-based people. The thing is, nothing about a newborn is logical. The best-laid plans, et cetera.
At some point during her pregnancy, the Instagram algorithm realized she was pregnant, because she was suddenly following a bunch of accounts about motherhood, and suggested she check out @mother.nurture.official. Like a good social media citizen, she tapped right on over, scrolled through a few posts, determined that they resonated with the kind of mother she wanted to be, and became a follower. Soon after, she discovered that the Mother Nurture account was a sister account of Conscious Couples. Members of these communities would call thisalignment, and she was all about it.
The basic gist of @mother.nurture.official was that motherhood is the most important role a woman can ever have. As a mother, a woman is birthing and raising the future of humanity, and if we want a kind, loving collective, we must give as much love and kindness to our children as we can. This involves a steadfast connection that is best fostered withan attachment parenting style. Co-sleeping, long-term breastfeeding, and skin-to-skin bonding are good; separation, authoritarian discipline, sleep training, and formula are bad. A good mother is one who is tuned in to her child’s every emotion and bowel movement. A good mother is one who is willing to set herself aside to tend to her child’s every emotion and bowel movement.
Gwen wanted so badly to be a good mother.
Gwen chose the name June for their baby the week after they found out they were having a girl. They were not the whimsical types who wanted to wait to know the sex; they were planners. June was Gwen’s grandmother’s name, and she liked the idea of infusing some family legacy into their child’s identity. Plus, the baby was due in June—right in the middle, June 15. So if she was born a couple of weeks early or a couple of weeks late, the name would fit. It felt fated, perfect. As the baby grew in her belly, Gwen called her June Bug.I can’t wait to meet you, June Bug.She was smitten.
Then her water broke on May 20.
She had just come back from a three-mile run. She’d been running a few times a week throughout her pregnancy. Her obstetrician, Dr. Blake, an exceedingly relaxed man who had been a “baby catcher” (his words) for thirty years, said, “Pregnancy is not a medical ailment. If exercise feels good, do it.” When she asked him if he was sure, he looked at her over the top of his glasses and said, “You are very type A, aren’t you?”
Gwen had been a track star in high school and then a Division I runner at the University of Washington. Everyone has their thing, and running was hers. When it became physically uncomfortable—not painful, just weird feeling, as she told her OB—she got one of those belts to wear around her middle to help support the weight of her belly.She slowed her pace, reduced her mileage, and felt grateful every day she got out the door.
She wanted to be one of those women who go for a run on the day they deliver their baby. She thought it would be particularly spectacular if her water brokewhileshe was on a run. She imagined posting an Instagram story:Gotta cut this run short. Water broke!She’d already thought up captions to accompany the expected photo of her holding June against her chest in the delivery bed—The greatest finish line of my lifeorI’ve run many marathons, but nothing quite like thisorLabor is the ultimate endurance event, and my daughter is the ultimate prize. The Instagram comments would roll in, many of them with that flexed-bicep emoji. She would relish all of it.
