Where They Found Her Page 7

  Barbara hadn’t meant to mention anyone by name, certainly not Will. The last thing she needed was Stella getting wind of that. But Will was something new in Cole’s life. He’d been over to Will’s house several times in the past few weeks, each time, at Stella’s insistence, without Barbara. Barbara had probed for details afterward. What did you eat? Where was Will’s mother? What did you play? But Cole was only five. God knew what he’d left out.

  “Barbara, I know this is confusing and unexpected. But there’s no need to panic. I’ll speak to Kate’s parents, let them know what happened. They’re very sweet. I can’t imagine them wanting to pursue the matter.” There was such unbearable pity in Rhea’s voice. It was making Barbara light-headed. “For now we’ll just take some basic precautions.”

  Precautions? Like Cole was some kind of animal. As though people should be getting inoculated. This made no sense whatsoever. A child could not go from being essentially perfect to dangerously disturbed, not overnight. Barbara knew that. But right now she just needed some air. She went to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I—”

  Rhea reached out and put a hand on Barbara’s arm. She tilted her head to the side and smiled warmly. Barbara stared down at Rhea’s fingers pressed against her skin. How had she become this woman, this mother in need of a steadying hand?

  “Watchful waiting is our best approach,” Rhea said. “These things do so often pass, vanish as quickly as they cropped up. But if you feel you need to do something in the meantime—and sometimes I feel that way—I have the name of someone.” Rhea stood, then walked over to her desk, returning with a business card pinched in her fingers. Barbara took the card reluctantly. Dr. Peter Kellerman, Developmental Child Psychologist. “He comes very highly recommended.”

  Barbara didn’t breathe again until she was halfway down the hall, the business card crushed in her fist. Then she felt a wave of heat followed by cold. Worried she might pass out, Barbara ducked into the girls’ bathroom at the end of the hall.

  Locked in one of the narrow stalls, she squatted fully clothed on the small toilet. Under the stall next to her, she saw a girl’s feet shuffle back and forth in worn pink sneakers. They were the glittery kind Hannah had begged for in elementary school and Barbara had always refused to buy. She could no longer remember precisely why.

  Barbara stared down at her own much bigger shoes in front of that small toilet. What was she doing, getting so upset? So what if there was something Cole needed to work on? Sooner or later, each child had a weakness. Besides, like her own mother had always said, a mother needed happy children, not perfect ones.

  But there was still a loud sob creeping into Barbara’s throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth so it couldn’t make it all the way out.

  Barbara waited until the girl in the pink sneakers had washed her hands and left before she pulled her hand off her face. When no sound came, Barbara forced herself to her feet and tried to smile a little. But there was still that sucked-out feeling at the bottom of her stomach.

  When she stepped out of the stall, Barbara smoothed her blond hair, cut these days into an elegant bob, and straightened her crisp white blouse. Then she caught sight of her reflection in the long bathroom mirror. She smiled, but her face looked so ashen and afraid in the fluorescent light. Like someone she no longer recognized. Like someone she didn’t even want to know.

  Molly Sanderson, Session 7, March 29, 2013

  (Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

  Patient Knowledge and Consent)

  Q: Have you spoken to your father about what happened to the baby?

  M.S.: You’re joking, right?

  Q: I wasn’t, no. That would be a joke, talking to your father?

  M.S.: We barely know each other. And before you go off on a tangent, no, I don’t blame him for that. Okay, maybe I blame him. But I just—I don’t care anymore. Or I don’t care now. After we lost the baby, he sent me a sympathy card and made a donation to my work—or my old work—like we asked people to. But there’s only so much that a stranger can do in a situation like this.

  Q: And that’s okay with you? That your sole surviving parent is a stranger?

  M.S.: What difference does it make whether I’m okay with it? It’s the way things are. I have enough problems right now without dredging up ancient history. I had a rough childhood and a cold, angry mother who died when I was eighteen. I can’t change any of that now.

  Q: But you could acknowledge that not having parents makes this harder for you.

  M.S.: Because feeling sorry for myself is going to make me feel better?

  Q: It might. And what about Justin’s parents? What’s your relationship like with them?

  M.S.: Justin’s mother came and stayed for two weeks right after. I don’t know what we would have done without her help.

  Q: But it doesn’t sound like you’re exceptionally close.

  M.S.: Are we supposed to be? Justin’s parents are just— They’re intimidating, I guess. His mother told me once that I was different from Justin’s other girlfriends. More spirited, that’s what she said. I think she meant it as a compliment, that I kept him in better line than his other girlfriends or something. But it made me feel like a horse. That’s what they’re like: well-intentioned, but always off somehow.

  Q: Have you and Justin spoken about trying to have another baby?

  M.S.: How could I have another baby? I can’t take care of the one I have.

  Q: I didn’t mean now. Eventually. Sometimes making plans like that for the future can be helpful.

  M.S.: I can’t do that. Not yet.

  Q: Have you told the NAPW that you’re not coming back?

  M.S.: Yes, I told them. They said I could have more time off, as much as I needed. But I don’t want more time. I want to know that it’s over. That I never have to go back there.

  Q: What will you do if you don’t go back to work?

  M.S.: Try to survive. Right now that feels like more than a full-time job.

  Molly

  I headed straight from the police station to the Black Cat Café on the far side of the chilly green. Gray had overtaken the sky, turning it from the front edge of spring back into the tail end of winter. I pulled my coat tighter around me and lifted my bag on my shoulder.

  I was glad I’d brought my laptop with me. There wasn’t much time before everyone would have the story, which meant I’d have to go for basic in my second post. I’d save my crime statistics and the background on Simon Barton. As it was, I would have barely anything to add in the print follow-up. I’d already called the ME’s office and, as expected, I had gotten a curt “No comment pending our official results.”

  Despite my initial vertigo, I was no longer conflicted about staying on the story. I wanted to, needed to write about it, and with an intensity that even I had to acknowledge was somewhat disconcerting. I could only imagine what Justin would say if he knew what I was feeling, which was why I didn’t plan to tell him.

  Can you have coffee? Justin texted before I’d gotten all the way across the green. He was checking up on me. Acting like he was sure I’d be fine, but wanting a peek with his own eyes to be sure.

  Great. Black Cat? Thirty minutes?

  By then I’d be done with the Web update.

  Wouldn’t miss it.

  It was warm inside the rough-hewn Black Cat, the air rich with the ten varieties of free-trade coffee beans on offer. It was my favorite café in town, the place I went when I didn’t want to write at home, which was most of the time these days. That was the thing about not being able to get out of bed for weeks on end. Once you finally could, you developed a real phobia of being at home.

  The Black Cat was a true university hangout—professors and students—complete with wobbly wood tables, faded concert posters, and bathrooms that didn’t lock properly. The moms in town all went to Norma’s around the corner, which had brightly hued art deco throw pillows on its long benches and lavender soap in the bathroom. It also had an o
rganic juice bar, two kinds of vegan muffins, and wine from four o’clock. Meanwhile, the Black Cat didn’t serve decaf and refused to stock skim milk or artificial sweeteners. The first time Stella came in with me, she got lippy when they scoffed at her request for stevia. The argument between her and the barista got so heated, I thought for sure he was going to throw his skateboard at her.

  But I liked the Black Cat. It reminded me of the unapologetic cafés around Columbia that Justin and I had frequented when we first started dating.

  I ordered a full-fat latte and sat in the window. In fifteen minutes, I had a decent draft. It was short, under a hundred and fifty words. My interview with Steve had been exclusive because it was first. That didn’t mean he’d given me much new to say.

  I read through the post one last time. Satisfied, I emailed it off to Erik with a note: Extended print story to come. But extended how, exactly? I was pondering how I’d flesh it out as I headed to get another latte. I ran smack into Nancy on her way out the door.

  “Oh, hi, Molly,” she said, smiling, but with none of her usual ease.

  Her face was drawn and her eyes were puffy. Her long dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that looked slept on. She seemed very much like somebody in the midst of a family crisis.

  “It’s terrible what’s happened with that baby,” she said, sadness and sympathy flicking across her face. “Erik told me that you’re covering it.”

  I couldn’t tell whether Nancy was upset for herself or concerned for me. We’d never spoken about the baby I’d lost, but I could tell she was thinking about it. And after all she and Erik had been through—three miscarriages, followed by two rounds of unsuccessful IVF, one larcenous surrogate, and an already arduous and still unsuccessful adoption process—a dead baby must have triggered all sorts of strong emotions for her, too. I wanted to ask if she was okay. But everything I thought about saying felt presumptuous and awkward.

  “I’m trying,” I said, feeling myself well up. It was that caring look in Nancy’s eyes. It did it to me every time. “It’s terrible. I feel terrible for—well, everyone involved.”

  Nancy nodded, then mercifully looked away, toward the Ridgedale town green. But she lingered while I waited in line, as if she wanted to say something else. After a while, it started to feel uncomfortable with her standing there, not saying anything.

  “I hope everything is okay with your family,” I said, compelled to fill the void.

  Nancy turned sharply in my direction. “What do you mean?”

  Dammit. Why had I said anything? There I’d gone, hooking myself on all that invisible barbed wire again. What if Erik was off somewhere on a bender or something that Nancy didn’t know about? Elizabeth told me once that she’d spotted Erik at Blondie’s, a dive bar downtown. But she added that she’d been very drunk herself—“totally wasted,” as if she were sixteen instead of twenty-six—so I hadn’t taken it seriously. But judging from the look on Nancy’s face, there was something complicated going on.

  “I’m sorry, I thought Erik said he had to go out of town for something family-related. I may have misunderstood. This story has me pretty distracted.”

  “No, no, you’re right,” Nancy said quickly. She smiled again, even less convincingly. “It’s Erik’s cousin. There was a fire at his house, bad wiring. No one was hurt, but the family lost everything. Thank you for asking.” She looked around as if searching for someone or something to grab on to, but she came up empty-handed. She checked her watch. When she looked back at me, her eyes had softened, filled with compassion, not pity. She squeezed my arm. “I should probably be going. You take care of yourself, Molly. And don’t work too hard.”

  “I won’t,” I said, turning away so she didn’t see the tears that had rushed crazily to my eyes. “Thanks, it was nice to see you.”

  I watched Nancy’s tired face disappear past the front windows and Justin appear in her place. I scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to rub away the incriminating weepiness as Justin stepped inside. He was wearing jeans, Vans, and an untucked, slightly wrinkled button-down—a young literature professor’s uniform.

  “Hey there.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and leaned over to kiss me. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes.” I tried to smile. “And no.”

  He nodded sympathetically. And he didn’t know the half of it yet. “Why don’t you go sit? I’ll get your coffee for you,” he said. “A latte?”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  I went back and sat down, watching Justin’s quick back-and-forth with the girl behind the counter. She had a plain square face and an athlete’s sturdy frame. She laughed too loudly at whatever Justin said as he motioned to the baked goods. Preternaturally charming—men, women, old, young. Justin couldn’t help himself.

  I’d known that since the day we met. I was at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, an old-school no-frills café near Columbia, studying constitutional criminal procedure, listening to Justin a couple tables away, chatting up the sixtysomething man sitting near him. Apparently they shared an intense interest in collecting. In the older man’s case, it was mechanical banks; for Justin, it was bottle caps.

  “Do you collect anything?” Justin had asked me once the man was gone.

  “No,” I said, trying not to notice just how good-looking he was.

  “Me, neither,” Justin said.

  “I just heard you telling that man—”

  “See, I knew you were listening,” he said with a sly smile that made him even better-looking. “Anyway, no. No collecting. I was just making conversation.”

  “So you were lying,” I said.

  According to my law school friend Leslie, a cheerful guy’s-girl soccer player who never had a shortage of boyfriends, this was why men never called me for a second date: I was a hard-ass. Too serious, too exacting. Humorless. I needed to let some of their harmless male bullshit flow over me; men didn’t want to be called out for every little thing. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this. My whole life, friends—men especially—had been telling me how much luckier in love I would be if I’d lighten up. Sometimes I wanted to defend myself, to ask how many of them had grown up like me. Because the truth was: I would choose alone any day over angry like my mother.

  As it turned out, Justin fell in love with my sharpest edges. He genuinely valued my willingness to call him out on his particular brand of bullshit.

  “I’d say I was just being friendly,” Justin had said that day in the café. “But I guess that depends on how you see the world.”

  And as much as Justin valued the clarity of my black and white, I’d been intoxicated by his world of grays. By his fearlessness and his freedom and his very modest sense of entitlement. Justin had never believed that he needed to be right 100 percent of the time to be a decent person; he didn’t need to be perfect to be loved. As it turned out, I wanted to feel that way also, much more than I’d ever let myself believe.

  No doubt it had been easier for Justin with Judith and Charles, his generous parents, celebrating every milestone big and small in his picture-perfect house in New Canaan, Connecticut. With his accomplished and loving sister, Melissa, at his side, Justin had played lacrosse and swum competitively. He spent summers on the Cape and winter holidays in Vail. He had a golden retriever named Honey. And thank God for the relentless optimism those things had given Justin. Without that, I never would have had the courage to forge ahead with him on a family of our own.

  “Not everything about where you’re headed, Molly, has to be about where you’ve been,” he’d told me once when we’d been deep in the throes of debating getting pregnant the first time.

  And I’d believed him, proof of just how much I’d loved him.

  “It’s a baby,” I blurted out when Justin returned with our coffees. So much for playing it cool. He hadn’t even sat down.

  “What?” Justin looked confused.

  “The body they found,” I said. “It’s a baby.”

  His face was stiff a
s he lowered himself into the chair across from me. “Well, that’s a completely upsetting turn of events.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He turned his coffee cup in his hands. His face was tighter. He was trying hard not to overreact, but he was worried. It was obvious.

  “Do they know whose it is?”

  I shook my head and willed my tears back. “Somebody terrified, I’m sure.”

  I knew that much from my years at NAPW. I’d never handled the criminal side of things; my focus had been on legislative change, drafting amicus briefs and working with lobbyists. But I had spoken to colleagues who had clients with pregnancies that had ended in tragedy. Almost always, the women had been abused themselves or worse. They were usually poor and alone, always terrified and overwhelmed. Assigning blame in these circumstances wasn’t nearly as simple as some people liked to believe.

  Justin reached forward and put a hand over mine. “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged, then nodded and again tried hard not to cry. Because as much as I wanted to pretend I was upset about what the poor mother of this baby might have been through—assuming she was responsible—I was thinking more about myself. I was thinking about what I had been through. What I was still going through, at least enough that I wasn’t ready to contemplate trying for another baby. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that. But I had to be careful. If I seemed like I was slipping under again, Justin wouldn’t let me out of his sight.

  “Obviously, it would be better if it weren’t a baby,” I said, trying to smile. It didn’t feel convincing. “But I can handle it.”

  Justin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was quiet for a long time, then turned to stare out the window. “Are you sure you should do this story, babe?” He had this expression on his face when he looked at me again: tragic, as though I were the tragedy. “I know it’s an opportunity, and that’s important. But maybe it’s not worth it.”