Chapter 65

65

The second time I was nervous.

I’d bought the long, brown wig at a theater supply store. You would have described it as mousy, but mousy was the look I was going for. My heart raced as I tucked my blond hair into the silk cap. I wasn’t sure I looked different enough, but I couldn’t think of what else to do. I practiced a happier smile in the mirror, and then hung my head. You fool. You absolute fool. For wearing the wig, for thinking I’d get away with it, for believing you had answered me truthfully when I asked if she had a child—any one of those. All of those.

When I got there, Sydney, the unofficial leader of the group, was at the door handing out samples of natural diaper cream to whoever walked in. I touched the ends of my new hair.

“Hi! Is this your first meeting? Welcome!” She spoke slightly over my head, as though she were looking for someone better to come up behind me. I nodded and thanked her and put the diaper cream in my bag. There was a speaker setting up a presentation they were calling “A Natural Household, a Natural You.” The room was full of chairs. I got my wine and surveyed the crowd. I pretended to browse the bookshelves while I kept an eye on the door, watching as groups of women congregated, complimenting outfits and asking about one another’s kids. The brown strands blurred my periphery and made me want to swipe at the hair like pesky flies—I wasn’t used to being a brunette yet. The high-pony woman who had spoken to me last time sought me out from across the room. God, had she recognized me? My cheeks burned and I turned to find someone else to talk to, anyone, but everyone around me was in conversation. I slipped into a group of three women who were discussing a “no time-out policy” and smiled, about to introduce myself, when she tapped me on the shoulder.

“I’m Sloane. Here’s a card. Cupcakes are from Luna’s. Wine is from Edin Estates. Next week we’re having a sleep expert, she’s amazing. Are you on our Facebook page?” Relief. I took the postcard from her hand, again. I chatted with the small group and watched the door, but she never came in. Sloane called everyone to take a seat and the presenter began. I sat in the back row near the door, intent on leaving once I could duck out unnoticed. The wig was itchy and I had no interest in being there, if not for her.

Just as I was about to stand, I felt the cool air blow in from the door behind me. There she was, waving an apology to the speaker, tiptoeing to the bench as she unzipped her coat. I turned slowly back to face the front of the room and crossed my legs, holding my breath. There was an empty seat beside me. She slipped into it, a wave of her sweet perfume floating over me.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she knocked my leg with her purse. I smiled and kept my eyes on the presenter, although my heart was pounding so loudly that I couldn’t hear a word the woman said. I dropped my eyes to the side, looking at her ripped jeans, the boots they all wore, the expensive bag she’d put on the floor.

“I follow her online, she’s amazing.” Her whisper startled me. I nodded enthusiastically as she pulled out a small pink notebook with the word joy in gold foil on the cover. She jotted down notes about how to make spray bottles of nontoxic house cleaner while I pretended to care with an occasional nod. Her hands were long and beautiful. I folded mine, speckled with sunspots and hundreds of creases. I was forty—she looked at least a decade younger. She didn’t wear any rings. I sometimes still wore my wedding ring, but had taken it off that night.

The presentation seemed endless. When it finally wrapped, I turned to her.

“That was so good. She’s great.”

“Right? I have a friend who does literally everything she says, and I swear she is never sick.” She put the notebook in her purse and pointed to the table. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

I followed her while she touched various people hello along the way. A shoulder, an arm. Kisses and hugs. She poured two glasses and lifted her chin toward a clearing in the buzzing crowd. I followed her over. She released a huge breath.

“That’s better. It gets so crowded in here. I shouldn’t wear wool.” She pulled at the neck of her burgundy sweater and took the tiniest sip of wine. “Oh, sorry, I’m Gemma. I don’t think I said that yet.”

“I’m Anne.”

“How old are your kids?”

I had a plan for this part. I was a single mom with two young girls, a two- and a five-year-old. Red and blonde. Soccer and ballet. I had rehearsed their names out loud.

“I have one. He’s four. His name is Sam.”

The words echoed. I felt him bright inside me and my head became light, like I’d sniffed a drug I’d been off for years. I looked down, afraid for her to see my eyes. I pictured him at home having dinner with you and Violet, wondering where I was, if I’d be home in time to tuck him in. He would have been full of stories and silliness now. I love you to the big, big moon and back, ten thousand trillion times, Mommy.

“I have a boy, too. He’ll be five months tomorrow.” The echo of Sam’s name in my ears died and my eyes snapped up. She took another nonsip, just wanting the taste on her lips. Her breasts, I noticed then, were torpedoes. Filled with milk.

“Sorry, did you say five months?”

She jumped as wine splashed on her suede boots—I’d let my arm fall. I stared at the empty plastic cup in my hand.

“Oh, dammit.” She looked around for something to clean herself with. “I have wipes,” she muttered and looked through her bag while I stood frozen, silent. I watched her pull the wet wipes from the package as I ran through the calendar. It was November. I went back through the months. You had moved out in January. Almost a year ago.

“So he was born in June?”

“Yes, June fifteenth. . . . Let me just find some napkins, these aren’t working.”

“Shit, sorry.” I ran to the cupcake table and came back with a fistful of napkins and bent to pat her boots dry. She’d taken them off and was sitting in a chair, her feet turned in. I rubbed at the darkened suede and apologized profusely.

“I have this thing—this tremor in my hand sometimes.” It was remarkable how easily the lies came to me.

“Oh—that’s okay.” Her tone changed at the thought of my new disability—she put her hand on my upper arm, as I’d seen her do to the other friends she had made in the room. “Don’t worry one bit. They’ll dry.”

We both stood up. She was nearly a foot taller than me in her damp socks. I had to look up to speak to her.

“I—you—five months old, that’s so little!” I was amazed with myself for speaking. For holding it together. “You look great.”

“Thanks. I’m tired. He’s a terrible sleeper. I can’t wait to hear the sleep coach speaking next week. Or maybe you have some tips for me. Did you sleep train? The ‘cry it out’ method? I just don’t think I can do that. I can’t stand him to be upset.”

This boy she spoke about was yours. She had given birth to your son. You had been given another chance. And then it hit me—the thirty-eight weeks it takes to grow a baby from conception. That she conceived in September, the month before you were fired from your job. That you would have known she was pregnant well before the time I asked you to leave. You knew the whole time. You knew.

“Um, you know, he just sort of slept. I didn’t have to do much.”

“Oh, really? Like from how old?”

The room felt thick. I thought of her pushing the baby out. Of you watching your new boy come to life.

“Maybe four months or so? I can’t really remember.”

“I’m thinking of topping him up at night with some formula. They say that helps to fill their bellies. But I’m not really sure what kind—”

“And the father?”

“Sorry?” She leaned closer—she thought she hadn’t heard me correctly, the question was so odd.

“I mean, do you have a partner?”

“I do. He’s great. He’s a great father. He just sent this, actually.” She smiled and pulled out her phone. Her lips moved slightly as she searched for a photo to show me, as though she were talking to herself. She held the picture up and lifted her eyebrows, waiting for my reaction, like it might be a photo of a huge, unwieldy erection. The baby was swaddled, asleep in a crib. The sheets had stars and moons. I couldn’t see the baby’s face from the angle of the photo. I took the phone from her and stared at the wrapped-up human who shared our dead son’s DNA. “He can get him to sleep so easily. They really love each other.”

“Very sweet.” I handed it back and touched my hair, remembering the wig. I needed to get out of there—it was too hot, too loud all of a sudden.

“And you? Do you have a partner?”

“I don’t— I . . . he was never in the picture. So. Single mom.” I nodded, confirming the lie to myself, hoping she didn’t ask more.

“You know, Anne, you look familiar to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Maybe.” I turned toward the coat pile. I had to leave.

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Oh, a small place out west—”

“Do you do yoga?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s why. I’ve tried a bunch of different studios, so maybe we crossed paths?”

“No . . . I don’t think that’s it.”

I started making my way out. She followed.

“I’m out and about in the neighborhood a lot, maybe we’ve just—”

“Oh. Shit. I know.” She snapped her fingers. I held my breath and looked at the door.

“It’s just a resemblance—my spin instructor. You look a lot like her.”