KATRINA

Katrina

SIX DAYS BEFORE

I was fifteen minutes early to meet Doug. Force of habit, the punctuality. Yet another thing about me that started irritating Cleo no end by the time she entered middle school. As if bringing her someplace a few minutes early was something I was doing to her. It wasn't cool to be early. Of course, for her entire childhood before that, God forbid we were three seconds late.

When things between us first started going south and I blamed myself, it was my best friend, Lauren, who insisted that Cleo's resenting me was normal, healthy even. It was her way of individuating, and a sign that I had built a safe-enough place for her to do so.

But I had also done things wrong, hadn't I? Things I regretted. And not only with the Kyle situation. My mistakes as a mother had been accruing over time, as Cleo grew from little girl to teen and, increasingly, needed me simply to love her, and not to try and fix everything. But instead, I panicked. Because I was excellent at doing. I wasn't so good at feeling. And I was absolute shit at uncertainty.

I think that's why I made such an issue about the clothes, and the terrible black makeup, and, God, all the piercings: They were one thing I could still control, at least in theory. And, boy, did I try. Aidan was right about that.

But the worst was when Cleo came to me about losing her vir ginity. It was as if I was following instructions from a What Not to Do as a Mom textbook. I said all the wrong things. Actually, I said awful things. The kind a mother should never say to her daughter. It broke something between us—I'd seen it in Cleo's eyes.

"Can I get you another?" the bartender asked, pointing toward my empty wineglass.

She was a very pretty brunette with a nose ring, her left forearm covered in vibrant tattoos. She didn't look much older than Cleo but seemed so much more at ease in her own skin—probably because she had a mom who made her feel loved no matter what she wore or how she chose to express herself.

"Sure, another drink would be great," I said, checking my phone again.

"This one's on the house," the bartender said, winking before putting down the full glass.

My face felt warm. She'd assumed I'd been stood up. At my age, I probably looked like a person that happened to. But Doug had been nothing if not dependable until now, always sending a text if he was running even a few minutes late, calling hours ahead the one time he'd had to cancel.

"Kat?" came a surprised high-pitched female voice behind me.

When I turned, there was Janine, Annie's mom—chic as always in an emerald green jumpsuit, hair piled elegantly on her head, and absurdly tall heels that she wore like flip-flops. Janine was a stay-at-home mom who managed to be fashionable but also approachable and earthy. She was host of the best Park Slope holiday party and had the chicest Halloween décor. Her equally attractive—but, okay, chilly—husband, Liam, was a dashing British architect who, like Aidan, traveled constantly. Annie and Cleo were born only weeks apart, and so Janine and I, already neighbors, had become fast friends in those bleary-eyed baby months.

But with my maternity leave limited to four months, our friendship always felt like it had an expiration date. I'd also always been keenly aware that Janine was much better at being a mother than I was. She handled even those early weeks the way she'd handled everything since—with calm confidence, Pilates abs, and flawless red lipstick. She didn't seem the least bit bothered that Liam wasn't there, maybe because she was a full-time mom. Still, I'd felt intimidated by her ease in those days when neither of us was working. Janine wasn't overwhelmed by taking care of Annie alone. In fact, she seemed … delighted. Meanwhile, I'd been an unqualified mess, precisely as I'd anticipated, which was why I'd never planned to have children in the first place.

It was hard to believe in your maternal instincts when you'd never had a mother.

My parents had disappeared when I was four and a half. After that, I'd bounced from foster home to foster home until I was nine. An "unlucky sequence of events," according to one social worker, explaining to yet another prospective family why I still had not been adopted by the age of ten. But no one wanted a tween no matter how innocent the explanation, certainly not one who'd been in the system for years.

As for my mom these days? Anything was possible. Long ago, I'd promised myself that was one door I'd leave forever closed. Maybe she was dead—OD'd, killed in a drug deal gone wrong, a car accident while she was high. Or maybe she'd cleaned up her act and was living a quiet, productive, and happy life without me. Maybe she'd even gone on to have more babies, to be a good mother to a different little girl.

After all, I'd gone on to have a baby despite my doubts. And at only twenty-six no less. I'd gotten swept up in Aidan's conviction that I would be a great mother despite everything, his belief that having a baby would transform me. I'd wanted so badly to believe that was true. In many ways it had been, from the time Cleo was two until she was maybe about twelve—those brief years between the terrifying life-and-death stakes of babyhood and the terrorizing uncertainty of parenting a teen. In those middle years, I was an excellent mother, consistent and steady and patient. I followed all the schedules, provided the right food, limited screen time, and maximized sleep. But as Cleo got older, it was like my navigation system started faltering, and my doubt quickly fed on itself. Soon I had lost my way entirely, and I was doing the opposite of what all the guides advised: holding on too tightly.

It did not help that I felt so alone.

When Cleo was two weeks old, Aidan had gone to Paris to interview a famous French bioethicist for his first documentary, about shrinking ice sheets. I remember standing in the dark nursery holding a screaming Cleo in my arms, trying to make it through my fifth sleepless night, when Aidan called. I started to cry as soon as I heard his voice.

"You just need to relax, Kat," he'd said, sighing. "She can feel your stress."

"I can't do this, Aidan," I'd whispered, even though what I'd really meant was I can't do this alone.

"Of course you can do it," Aidan had said, and went on to describe how beautiful it was outside his hotel window, the sun rising over the Eiffel Tower. "I'm right here to help."

And I'd thought, What's wrong with me? I was so lucky—a kind, supportive husband, a beautiful baby, a good job, a gorgeous home, money—things I never dreamed of having back when I was growing up at Haven House or even later, after I'd gone to live with Gladys in her beautiful Victorian home in Greenwich. And yet, there I was with so much to be grateful for, but I felt miserable and terrified all the time. Even a little angry, if I was completely honest—at Aidan, but also at Cleo, who was just a tiny, helpless baby.

Aidan was off filming for much of Cleo's early years. He missed her colic and the four times she needed stiches and the months of night terrors and the potty training and the time her impossible third-grade teacher made her cry. He was there, though, for the bright patches in between—the holidays and the parties and the awards. For the part where you say this is why people have a family. To run a single finger through the icing on the cake of domesticity that I baked daily from scratch. But I was there for all of it despite my grueling work hours, which required the use of two nannies in separate shifts. Because you could outsource caregiving, but you could never outsource being a mother.

And now here was Janine making a beeline for me, ready to remind me of all the ways I'd screwed up in the end anyway.

"Janine!" I called back, my voice high-pitched and frantic instead of cheerful like I'd intended.

I'd forgotten entirely that I'd actually heard of this restaurant from Janine—I was still on an old group email that occasionally went out, Park Slope moms, pooling recommendations. It had not occurred to me that I might risk running into her here with Doug. Of course, Janine didn't know Aidan and I were separated. I couldn't risk Annie finding out and spilling it to Cleo.

"Oh, my goodness, Kat, how are you?" Janine asked with an easy laugh and a wave of her small silver clutch. She looked around. "Is Aidan here?"

"No, I'm meeting a client."

Janine's eyes flicked up mischievously. "A client, huh? This place is awfully cozy for that."

"Is it?" I looked around now myself.

She raised her eyebrows, but I could see her decide not to press.

"Well, a friend of mine from college works at Tom Ford, and we had way too much wine at their show. So now we're going to pretend to eat something and try to sober up. Or maybe we'll have more wine." Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy. Then it was like she remembered something. "Oh … How is Cleo, by the way?"

"Cleo?"

"Oh, sorry. You look like a deer in headlights." Janine barked out a laugh, then leaned in conspiratorially. "I know things have been a little … dicey with that, you know, boy situation …" She rolled her eyes. "Boys are always the problem."

Were Annie and Cleo back in touch? Or … had Cleo reached out to Janine to talk? Cleo had always been enamored with Janine. For an unfortunate second, I pictured the two of them cozying up across the street, having the kind of mother-daughter chats that we hadn't had in years.

"Yes, Kyle …"

Janine grimaced. "Right. Anyway, I think you did the right thing."

But it sounded like maybe she thought the opposite.

I forced a smile. "Not sure Cleo agrees."

"What do they know?" Janine shrugged. "The real problem is that we agreed to let them go to college so close to home. Annie is back asleep in her childhood bedroom a couple times a week. I mean, I love the kid, but come on. Out of the nest already!"

Of course Annie would be home too much. Annie and Janine were always inseparable, having coffee on their stoop on weekends or heading to yoga class, giggling. And this was back when Annie was in high school. What teenager wants to hang out with their mom?

"Come on!" Janine's girlfriend called out. "They have our table!"

"Gotta run." She leaned in and pressed her cool, smooth cheek to mine. "You hang in there now. And don't worry about Cleo. They drive us insane, but that's so they can be fine. It's like the circle of life. Or Darwinism. Or something." She walked a few steps, then turned back. "And, hey, come across the street. Have a glass of wine and vent. It's been too long."

I nodded and smiled. "Sounds great."

My phone buzzed in my bag just as Janine disappeared into the crowd. Shit. Vivienne—that was my thought as I groped for it. A couple hours ago, the New York Times reporter had left word, officially requesting comment on the story the paper intended to run. The clock was now ticking. We were going to need to respond.

But the text wasn't from Vivienne.

Hi, Kat. It's Jules. Can we talk privately? it read. Away from the office?

I stared at the unfamiliar number. Jules and I were in constant contact—we were never really off the clock; even on weekends she fielded my calls. But this number wasn't programmed into my cell, and I had all of hers: home, cell, her sister. I was suspicious, of course. I was always suspicious. Texts, emails—you never really knew who they were from. Say little, assume the worst. That was my policy in general.

New number? I texted back.

Oh, sorry, my work cell is dead. Can we meet?

Sure, I wrote back, still not convinced. How about tomorrow afternoon? We could step out for coffee?

This was a surefire double check, since I knew that Tuesdays didn't work for Jules. She was a single mother to a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter with significant developmental delays that required a vast array of therapies: speech, OT, PT. Jules had somehow been able to keep most of the weekly appointments contained to a single afternoon—Tuesdays.

Okay, she wrote back. That's fine. I can have a friend pick up Daniela and take her to therapy.

It certainly sounded like Jules.

Or maybe we should talk now on the phone? she added. I'm a little worried about waiting …

Not wanting to wait until the next day? Talking outside the office? It must be a personal problem.

Please, Kat. It's important; otherwise, I wouldn't ask.

Will call in two seconds. Let me step outside.

Out on the sidewalk, I texted Doug, in case he somehow arrived without my noticing. I'm outside on a call. Be done in a minute. You close? I waited a beat. No reply. Even now, he was only a couple minutes late, but even that wasn't like him. What if he really was standing me up?

Jules answered right away.

"Thank you," she said. "I didn't—I wasn't sure who else to call."

"Jules, what's wrong? Oh, wait, did Vivienne unleash on you? I'm sorry, she can be a lot—"

"It's not Vivienne."

Her voice was quavering.

"Whatever it is, I'll try to help." There was a crackling, tinny sound on the line. "Shoot, Jules, I think you're breaking up."

"I don't hear anything," she said. "You hear something?"

"Oh, maybe it's me. I'm—"

"What do you hear?" Jules demanded. "Exactly."

"Oh, it's just … It's gone now. It sounded for a minute like the call was breaking up."

"You know what, Kat—I'm sorry," Jules said. Her voice had turned crisp. "I'm actually okay for now. I think I was overreacting."

"Jules, come on … I can tell you're not fine. Talk to me."

"I've got to go. Daniela needs me," she said. "I'm sorry I bothered you, Kat."

And then she was gone. When I called back, it went straight to voice mail.

I heard the ping of a text coming in as I was leaving a message. "Oh, that's probably you texting. Call me back when you can, though? I want us to talk."

I hung up to read the text, also from a number I didn't recognize, an unfamiliar 332 area code.

It's your past calling. Almost all the way caught up to you.

I hit the side button on my phone and closed my eyes as the screen went black. No. I'd misread that. I'd misunderstood. And yet, my mind still flashed to the small pocketknife I carried in my bag all these years later for protection. I resisted the urge to dig it out.

And then I was there again, all those years ago, washing my hands again and again in the icy water in Haven House's downstairs bathroom, trying to scrub clean the beds of my nails. It had been all over my clothes, too, soaked through my gauzy pink shirt. The blood was everywhere.

I bolted awake the next morning at the ping of a text. I was hoping it was Doug, explaining why he'd never shown up, but I was afraid it might be another ominous, anonymous message. Sent from, I'd since figured out, New York's newest area code. Or, more likely, some kind of burner app. I'd seen enough client-related texts to know that the apps generated similarly random numbers, always brand-new area codes.

But it was Lauren. Call me when you're up.

I dialed her right back.

"Don't worry, I'm okay now," I said groggily. I'd called her on my way home the night before. I'd ranted for a while about Doug and Janine, leaving out the part about the anonymous message.

"Kat, I have some … I think I know why Doug didn't show up last night."

"Because he's a jerk?" I said.

"No. Are you sitting down? It's not good." Lauren's tone was somber.

"What?"

"You can … Maybe you should read it for yourself. I'll send you the article."

Three little dots appeared and then a link to the morning's New York Post: "Bronxville Pharma Executive Dies in Tragic Accident." I clicked on it and then cupped my hand to my mouth. Fifty-two-year-old Doug Sinclair's car had smashed into a tree on Midland Avenue near the Yonkers-Bronxville border. His twenty-year-old daughter, Ella, a junior at Amherst, was now an orphan. The pictures of the mangled car were horrifying. And so was the unavoidable truth: Doug was dead.