Chucky knows who Bad Mommy iz. Chucky knows what Bad Mommy didz.
She cannot let Jon know about Chucky. That was—is—her secret. Her dark secret. Wives on occasion need to do certain things in order to keep their marriages intact, to keep their lives on track.
Besides, if she mentions terrible comments even in a generic context, he’ll insist she shut the account down. Daisy can’t bear shutting off her Instagram space. What would she have left? She’d have no daily connection, no love, hearts, validation. She needs it all so badly just to keep going. Her life would be so empty. Lonely. Why can’t she be more like the old schoolgirl-teen Daisy? What happened to that strong, snarky Daisy? Her mind loops back to the condescending bitch in the $6.7 million condo. Daisy wants that feeling back—that sense of sticking in the knife and twisting just so.
The bistro doorbell jangles, and she jumps. A group of young people enters. Flushed and joyous with bright fall scarves and windblown hair. Their exuberance is unnerving. Like the dead leaves skittering along the sidewalk are unnerving. Where’s Vanessa? She checks her watch. Vanessa should be here by now.
Daisy flicks her gaze over the other patrons again. They sit close, talking animatedly, intimately. Some laughing. Drinking their pumpkin spice lattes and eating harvest soups with fragrant fresh bread. One man sits alone with a newspaper. Daisy eyes him. Fear rises in her belly.
I’m safe here. I did not post that I was coming here to the bistro. Did I?
She opens her Instagram account again and checks her recent post.
#BidingTimeTillBistroLunch
Panic flicks through Daisy. She did mention it. Anyone following her account would already know she loves the Pi Bistro, which is near Rose Cottage. How could she be so stupid? Hurriedly, she deletes her morning selfie completely.
The bell over the door jingles again. Vanessa breezes in with a rush of cool air from outside. She smiles broadly. Her cheeks are pink.
Relief cuts through Daisy like a knife. As usual Vanessa is perfectly presented. Her long hair has been blown out—brown with honey highlights. Her dress fits, which is more than Daisy can say about her own clothes at the moment—even her special pregnancy clothes. Vanessa wears boots with small heels—no hastily bought discount sneakers for her. Daisy makes a mental note to go shopping for comfortable boots so she can throw the hideous sneakers away.
“Sorry I’m late,” Vanessa says as she unwinds her scarf and slides into the chair opposite Daisy. Her hazel eyes are bright, but as Vanessa settles into her chair, her eyes narrow. “Are you okay, Daisy? You look—is everything all right with the baby? Did the scan and doctor’s appointment go okay?”
Daisy smooths down her hair, fighting the urge to blurt everything out to her friend. “I’m good.” She forces a shaky smile.
But Vanessa’s gaze lasers into Daisy’s. “Are you sure?”
Daisy nods.
“You ordered yet?”
“I—I was waiting for you first.” Daisy secretes her phone under the napkin at her side as she speaks. Vanessa watches Daisy’s hand, then her eyes meet Daisy’s again.
“I was thinking about trying the butternut soup special,” Vanessa says.
“Yes, yeah, that’s fine with me. Soup,” Daisy says.
Vanessa regards her. “Are you certain you’re feeling okay?”
“Fine,” she snaps. Then quickly she dials it back. “I’m hungry, I guess.” She feigns a laugh. “Or hangry, I should say. My mood dips if I don’t eat on schedule.”
Vanessa motions for a server. They place their orders and Daisy asks for a glass of water. As soon as the server retreats, Vanessa leans forward, lowers her husky voice, and says, “Okay. Spill. What’s the matter? Is it the baby? Because I can see something is going on.”
Daisy glances out the window as she clasps her hand around the diamond pendant at her throat. She desperately racks her brain for an excuse for her jittery behavior. Instead, something crumples inside her chest, and she cannot hold it in any longer.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” she says, meeting her friend’s warm gaze. “I’m this crazy roller coaster of emotions. One second I’m sky high, next I’m at the bottom of despair. I feel nervous, scared, even paranoid. And so forgetful—my memory is totally screwed. I can’t regulate my own body temperature. I’m craving food all the time. I feel fat. My skin’s breaking out. I feel ugly.” Emotion blurs her vision. “Look at me. I can’t control a damn thing. I’m going to sit here bawling into my harvest soup.”
Vanessa covers Daisy’s hand with her own. “It’s okay. It’s normal, Daisy.”
“Not for you. Christ, look at you. You’re—”
“Oh, believe me, I’m having my moments. I even spoke to my ob-gyn about it. She told me that during pregnancy and postpartum periods, a lot of women experience at least some degree of cognitive change. Colloquially it’s known as ‘pregnancy brain.’ My ob-gyn said the most common symptoms are forgetfulness, memory disturbances, poor concentration, increased absentmindedness, difficulty reading and concentrating. Pregnancy can even make you fearful, or paranoid. She gave me some material to read. I can pass it on if you like.”
They sit back in their chairs as the server arrives and places the soup bowls and glasses of water in front of them. When the waitress leaves, Vanessa says, “My doc tells me it’s the body’s way of preparing for motherhood, for nesting, becoming biologically primed to protect your baby at the exclusion of everything else in the world. You become afraid of things that you were not scared of before—to keep yourself and your baby safe.” She laughs. “Pregnancy can literally make you a stupid, fearful beeotch.”
Daisy smiles halfheartedly and picks up her soup spoon.
“Don’t worry so much,” Vanessa says, taking a sip of water. “It’ll pass—it’ll all pass.”
“I don’t know.” Daisy stirs her soup. She glances up. “I think I’m being watched, followed. I’m pretty sure I am.”
“What?”
She’s done it—she’s said the quiet part out loud; now she has no choice but to follow through. She inhales deeply. “Someone has been watching our house from the lane behind our yard. And while we were at yoga the other day, there was this guy in black lurking up on the sidewalk.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Well, I did, and I’m sure he was watching us—me. And I . . . I’ve had some weird text messages via my apps—texts from unknown numbers that disappear. And—”
“Disappear?”
She can see the doubt in her friend’s face.
“Yeah, you know those self-destruct texts? You can program them to vanish after a set time. And then today, for the first time, I got a bunch of really horrendous—threatening—comments on my Insta post.”
“What did they say?”
“They said they wanted my baby to die.”
Vanessa goes pale. “Can I see them?”
“I—I deleted them. Right away. Just reflexively killed them all on the spot. And a DM with a horrible GIF.”