The Other Mother Page 3

  Afterward I walked back to the parking lot with Laurel. I was kind of hoping she’d suggest a playdate but then I realized she expected me to have a babysitter already. She gave me the name of one and said maybe we could have a playdate next week. I was feeling really good about that but then when I got home I found Peter sitting outside on the porch. I was terrified! It was like that moment in cop shows when the woman opens the door to policemen and knows her husband is dead. For one thing, ours is not a porch anyone sits on. It’s a place for seasonal decorations and packages to shelter from the rain. He was sitting on a straight-backed chair he’d pulled out from the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked right away. “Where’s Chloe?” I tried to get past him into the house but he blocked my way.

  “She’s fine,” he said, holding up the baby monitor. “She cried for two hours straight. I had to come out here for air.”

  “You left her when she was crying?”

  “There wasn’t anything I could do for her, so yes.”

  “Did you try feeding her?”

  He just looked up at me, clearly exasperated. “I would have,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to a child, “but you didn’t leave any bottles or formula.”

  I knew that couldn’t be true—I remembered carefully preparing two bottles and leaving them in the refrigerator—but still I felt a hot flush of shame at the thought that I’d left my baby without any food. What kind of mother does that?

  Of course I immediately ran inside and opened the refrigerator, only where I thought I’d left the bottles was a container of yogurt and a half-eaten banana, which I remembered putting back after my breakfast. There were two bottles in the sink, but they were dirty and caked with curdled formula. When I opened them the smell of spoiled milk hit me in the face. They couldn’t have been the bottles I made up before I left the house.

  I looked in the cabinets and the pantry for formula. Hadn’t I just bought a new case? It was true that I hated buying formula. I had wanted to breastfeed but because Chloe was born early the doctors said she would expend too many calories nursing. I’d tried pumping milk for a while but my nipples cracked and bled and by the time Chloe got out of the NICU she was already used to formula and the bottle.

  Peter had been really nice about it. “This way I get to feed her too,” he’d said. And he’d been true to his word, getting up in the middle of the night for her two A.M. feeding even when he had to be at work in the morning. I knew that the least I could do was remember to buy the formula and keep the house stocked with clean bottles.

  I went into the nursery. Chloe was sleeping on her stomach in the crib, her face red and tear stained, her playsuit damp. I wanted to pick her up but I didn’t want to wake her before I’d made up a bottle for her. I looked under the changing table and found a sample of powdered formula that had come with some diapers. It wasn’t the brand we used but it would have to do.

  I went back into the kitchen and started scrubbing the dirty bottles. Peter followed me in, leaned against a cabinet and stared at me.

  “Why didn’t you drive to the store and buy formula and bottles?” I asked, concentrating on washing the bottles to keep my voice steady. I never knew what might set Peter off. He’d told me once that his mother had been very critical and that whenever anyone criticized him he heard her voice. It was why he’d decided to run his own business instead of working for a company.

  When he didn’t answer right away, I looked over and was shocked to see that he was crying. “She was crying so hard, I didn’t want to take her out,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Peter cry. He had cried when Chloe was born. He really loves her, I’d thought. To be honest, I’m a teensy bit jealous of that instant attachment he made to her. There are even times when I wonder if he loves her more than I do.

  I felt so bad that I kept my eyes on my hands in the sink. They were red from the hot water. “I’ll bring her next time,” I told Peter. “Some of the other mothers do, with their nannies.”

  Well, that was the wrong thing to say! Peter’s face got as red as my hands.

  Peter snorted. “Their nannies? Now you want a nanny?”

  “I could hire a girl from the college for a few hours. Laurel says—”

  “Laurel?”

  Of course he wanted to know who Laurel was, so I told him she was one of the mothers from the group and that she had given me the name of a babysitter she used sometimes.

  “Did she say who was going to pay for this babysitter?”

  “It’s not expensive,” I said.

  “You have no idea what our financial situation is,” he snapped back.

  That was true, sort of, though it was also because Peter didn’t involve me in our financial decisions. When I first met Peter I thought he must be rich. Not that it mattered that much to me, although I was tired of the twentysomething hipsters who wore flannel shirts and thought grabbing a falafel from a stand was a date. Peter was older. He wore suits and took me to nice restaurants, places I’d never be able to afford on a school librarian’s salary. He was the first man I dated who talked about wanting children. When he told me he ran a hedge fund I was sure he must be rich. Of course, that’s what everyone thinks. But it turned out that his fund was small and he said he didn’t charge a big commission because he wanted his investors to earn as much as they could so they’d recommend other investors. In time it would all pay off and we would be rich, but in the meantime it was important to look like we were doing well but not to spend unnecessarily.

  I didn’t want to hear this lecture again or start an argument about money. I just wanted to hold Chloe and feed her. Leaving Peter behind, I went back into the nursery. I changed her first. Her diaper was heavy and her playsuit was soaked through. She started screaming while I changed her, holding her limbs rigid with rage. I was always afraid I would drop her when she threw these tantrums so I sat on the floor with her. She wouldn’t take the bottle right away and then when she did, she drank so fast she choked and spit up.

  I really didn’t know what to do then. Should I get up to clean her? But then I was afraid that Peter would say something about how I’d made Chloe sick. So I just used my shirt to clean her off. I rocked her until she fell asleep. I knew I should put her down in the crib. The books say you shouldn’t let them fall asleep while drinking because the formula pools in their mouths and rots their teeth. They’ll wake up with gas later and they’ll always need to suck to fall asleep. But I knew that when I put her down I’d have to go into the living room and face Peter. We’d have to talk about why I had forgotten the bottles. This wasn’t the first time I’d had a lapse like this. Since Chloe was born I’ve been so forgetful. I can see Peter watching me, worrying that I’m not fit to take care of Chloe. Sometimes I think he might be right.

  But the big surprise came when I finally put Chloe down and came out of her nursery. Peter was in the dining room setting the table with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine. I’m not supposed to mix alcohol with my medication, but I didn’t care. The wine was his way of apologizing. He has a hard time saying he’s sorry. My mother used to make me stand up in front of everyone to make a formal apology whenever I made the smallest mistake. One of the reasons he wanted children, he’d told me on our first date, was that he wanted to be a better parent than his parents had been. I understood that all too well.

  So really what this whole episode has taught me is that I should be grateful for having a husband who cares so much about being a good father. Some of the women in the group said their husbands won’t even change a diaper. I should have apologized for forgetting to leave the bottles. I should have told him that it wasn’t the first thing I’d forgotten and that maybe there is something really wrong with me—but before I could say any of that he held up the big shapeless woven bag I use both as a baby bag and my handbag. I hadn’t gone anywhere without Chloe for so long they’d become one and the same.

  “Loo
k what I found in your bag,” he said holding it open for me to see.

  I didn’t need to see. I could smell it. Sour formula. I’d put the two bottles I’d made up in my bag instead of leaving them in the refrigerator. As I leaned over the open bag I could see myself doing it. Preparing the bottles and putting them in the bag as I’d do when I was taking Chloe to the park or a doctor’s appointment.

  I looked up at Peter and saw he was grinning. “I guess this was your subconscious telling you that you didn’t want to leave Chloe behind.”

  “I guess . . .” I was going to tell him there’s something wrong with me, that maybe I shouldn’t be on my own with Chloe, but then he held up a piece of paper. It had Laurel Hobbes’s name on it and the name and number of the babysitter she had recommended.

  “I called your friend’s babysitter. She’s going to come with you to your next group meeting. If you like her, maybe we could see about having her come a few days a week.”

  For a moment I just stared at him, wondering if he’d called the babysitter because he knows that there’s something really wrong with me and he doesn’t want to leave me alone with Chloe. But then I realized I was just being paranoid. He was trying to do something nice for me, to take off some of the pressure of being a new mother. And a babysitter will help. I won’t have to worry about being on my own with Chloe and I can spend time with Laurel. I need a friend—another mother—to talk to. Which reminds me—I should set up that playdate!

  LATER.

  Like I said, this afternoon has been a real roller coaster. I went from being so scared when I saw Peter on the stairs to being angry at him that he left Chloe to cry, to ashamed that I’d left him without bottles. Esta says it’s normal to feel these emotional swings postpartum. It’s just hormones. Well, hormones or not, now I feel really happy. I texted Laurel to thank her for recommending the babysitter. I added (casually) that I hoped we could hang out after group next week. She texted me right back with three emojis: a crying baby, a glass of wine, and a happy face. I think that means yes!

  Chapter Three

  We both sleep through the night. It’s the longest I can remember sleeping since giving birth—since months before, actually. I’d started having trouble sleeping when I was pregnant. The books said that was normal; pressure on the bladder, hormone surges, anxiety about the birth could all be causes. But the books hadn’t said anything about feeling invaded, as if an alien vampire were sipping the blood from my veins. And I didn’t feel comfortable saying that to my obstetrician, who’d already prescribed me antidepressants when Peter told him I cried all the time.

  After Chloe was born I was afraid if I really gave myself up to sleep I would wake to find her dead. That’s how all the stories I read on the Internet went—I had my first good sleep since the baby was born and when I went into the nursery she wasn’t breathing—

  Shouldn’t I be worried about that now?

  But I’m not. Even though in the dim light I can’t really see her color, or hear her breathing over the patter of rain on the windows, I believe that Chloe is breathing. She seems . . . heartier to me, less vulnerable, and I suddenly realize why. It’s because I’m thinking of her as Laurel’s Chloë and I don’t think anything bad could happen to her.

  Chloe stirs and opens her eyes, blinking at me as if I’m the stranger, her mouth working. Before she can cry—I don’t want Sky Bennett awoken the first morning to a crying baby—I snatch her up. “It’s all right, baby, let’s get you changed.”

  She seems startled to be swept up into the air. I sway-walk her into the sitting room and balance her on my hip while I mix the formula and microwave her bottle. While the bottle is warming I take her on a tour of the sitting room. There’s not much to see: a faded overstuffed chintz couch, a rocking chair, a coffee table strewn with a few local magazines with names like Cabin and Country clearly meant for weekenders from the city. I try to sit down in the rocking chair but abandon it as Chloe begins to squirm. This room is suffocating; she needs fresh air.

  I grab the bottle out of the microwave and open the door—and am startled as the facing door swings open at the same time.

  The first thing I notice about the woman in the doorway is her size. She’s easily six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. In her plaid flannel shirt and jeans she could be a lumberjack, but no lumberjack on the planet would have that haircut. It’s a horrible cut for a woman of her size—or for any woman over six years old, for that matter. Chopped to a point that falls between chin and ears, fanning to the sides like the pages of a waterlogged book, and clipped back in two strips that show gray streaks and dark roots beneath a cheap orangey dye. She is not what I would have imagined when Sky said she had a housekeeper named Mrs. Williams, but that must be who she is because she’s stretching out her arms toward Chloe while making a high-pitched sound meant, I think, to be encouraging.

  I tighten my grip on Chloe and remember an image from a dream. Not my dream, but one Laurel said she had repeatedly when Chloë (her Chloë) was born. I’m in a mental hospital and they’ve come to take Chloë away from me. A nurse stretches out her arms and they keep growing, moving toward me even as the nurse herself stays perfectly still, it’s just those awful rubbery arms coming to snatch Chloë away from me. And I know once they do, I’ll never see her again.

  The woman has the air and capable, no-nonsense manner of a nurse, and I have the horrible thought that she has come from the mental hospital to take Chloe away from me because I am unfit. It’s all I can do to keep myself from backing away and slamming the door in the woman’s face. Instead I say, “She’s a little shy of strangers.”

  “Oh, she won’t be shy of Billie,” the woman—Billie, I’m guessing—croons. She comes closer and scoops Chloe right out of my arms. I brace myself for a scream but Chloe only stares up at the big woman. “There, you see!” Billie’s looking at Chloe but clearly talking to me. “Babies love me. And I bet you need a bit of a break after the long drive up here.”

  She tears her eyes away from Chloe to give me a quick once-over. “Why don’t you have a nice soak while I give little missy here her breakfast.” She plucks the bottle out of my hand, efficient and bossy like the nurses in the NICU when Chloe was born. “Miss Bennett will be waiting upstairs for you in the library when you’re ready.”

  Without waiting for an answer Billie turns and leaves me standing in the doorway, my arms empty and curiously light.

  BILLIE IS RIGHT that I need to clean up, but when I go into the bathroom I’m startled to see that the big claw-foot tub has no shower attachment. I don’t really like taking baths—have avoided them since I fell asleep and nearly drowned in one once—but there’s no choice. I turn on the taps and watch the water rise with a sick sense of apprehension, as if the water might leap over the edge of the tub and drag me down into its depths.

  It does feel good, though, when I finally lower myself in. I soak away all the days of grime and fear, scrubbing at my skin with the brand-new loofah and rosemary-mint soap that’s been left for me. The only scary moment is when I tip my head back to wash my hair and my ears fill with a roaring that sounds like someone screaming. For a moment, I can’t move. My limbs feel frozen. I’m convinced I’ll drown in here.

  I come up gasping for air, splashing water over the rim of the tub. I use a chipped China ewer to rinse my hair after that. I pour scalding-hot water over my head again and again until my hair is clean and the last echo of that scream is gone.

  Only when I’m wrapped in a towel do I remember that all my clothes are still in the trunk of the car. I can’t bear the thought of putting my discarded dirty clothes back on, so I wrap myself up in a terry robe that’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door. There’s a pair of slippers too. I feel like I’ve come to a spa, one of those places that Laurel was always talking about. We’ll get the husbands to watch the babies and go to Canyon Ranch for a weekend.

  When I come out into the living room I find that my suitcase and stroller have be
en brought in. Which means I forgot to lock the car last night.

  I have a moment of panic. Was there anything in the car that would give away my identity? I borrowed the suitcase from Laurel, so it has her monogram on it. LSH. Laurel Sutton Hobbes. The car is registered in my name but I’ve hidden the registration, along with my license and passport, at the bottom of Chloe’s diaper bag inside a package of Huggies.

  I look for the diaper bag and realize it’s gone. Billie must have come in and taken it. Of course she’d need diapers for Chloe. How could I have been so stupid! If she uses that pack of Huggies, she’ll find Daphne Marist’s driver’s license, registration, and passport—along with the packet of papers I took from Peter’s desk. God knows what she’d make of that! She’ll take it all to Schuyler Bennett, who will only have to make a few phone calls to determine that the woman sleeping in her guesthouse isn’t who she says she is. She’ll kick me out and probably call the police.

  I’m starting to sweat under the terry robe. I strip it off and get dressed. The clothes I packed only a few days ago feel foreign to me—creased and stale smelling and too big. I must have lost weight since I packed, I tell myself, but still they feel like they belong to someone else. Someone who actually thought she could get away with this preposterous ruse.

  I look at my watch and see it’s nearly ten. Should I go up to the second floor to keep my appointment with Sky Bennett or should I grab Chloe and get the hell out of here? But where on earth will I go? Back to Peter? He’ll take Chloe from me. He’ll sue for divorce and full custody. He’ll have me declared an unfit mother. He could even have me arrested for kidnapping.

  So I climb the spiral stairs, around and around, like a rat on a wheel. When I come up into the second floor of the tower I find Sky Bennett sitting at the table, a china teacup at her elbow and papers spread out in front of her. I’m so certain I’ve been found out that I fully expect to see my own license and passport and the packet I took from Peter’s desk, but when I get closer I see that these pages are yellowed with age and the photos scattered among them are sepia-toned. They’re from a past older than mine.