“It’s work,” Elizabeth said as she coaxed Madeline to take the bottle.
“Whatever you want to call it,” Mrs. Sloane said.
“I’m a scientist,” Elizabeth said.
“I thought Mr. Evans was the scientist.”
“I’m one, too.”
“Of course, you are.” She clapped her hands together. “All right, then. I’ll get going. But now you know—whenever you need a spare pair of hands, I’m across the street.” She wrote her phone number in thick pencil directly on the kitchen wall just above the phone. “Mr. Sloane retired last year and he’s at home all the time now, so don’t think you’ll be interrupting anything because you won’t; in fact, you’ll be doing me a favor. Understood?” She bent down to retrieve something from her shopping bag. “I’ll just leave this here,” she said, removing a foil-wrapped casserole. “I’m not saying it’s good, but you need to eat.”
“Mrs. Sloane,” Elizabeth said, realizing she did not want to be alone. “You seem to know a lot about babies.”
“As much as anyone can ever know,” she agreed. “They’re selfish little sadists. The question is, why anyone has more than one.”
“How many did you have?”
“Four. What are you trying to say, Miss Zott? Are you worried about something in particular?”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice from wavering, “it’s…it’s just that…”
“Just say it,” Sloane instructed. “Boom. Out.”
“I’m a terrible mother,” she said in a rush. “It’s not just the way you found me asleep on the job, it’s many things—or rather, everything.”
“Be more specific.”
“Well, for instance, Dr. Spock says I’m supposed to put her on a schedule, so I made one, but she won’t follow it.”
Harriet Sloane snorted.
“And I’m not having any of those moments you’re supposed to have—you know, the moments—”
“I don’t—”
“The blissful moments—”
“Women’s magazine rot,” Sloane interrupted. “You need to steer clear of that stuff. It’s complete fiction.”
“But the feelings I’m having—I…I don’t think they’re normal. I never wanted to have children,” she said, “and now I have one and I’m ashamed to say I’ve been ready to give her away at least twice now.”
Mrs. Sloane stopped at the back door.
“Please,” Elizabeth begged. “Don’t think badly of me—”
“Wait,” Sloane said, as if she’d misheard. “You’ve wanted to give her away…twice?” Then she shook her head and laughed in a way that made Elizabeth shrink.
“It’s not funny.”
“Twice? Really? Twenty times would still make you an amateur.”
Elizabeth looked away.
“Hells bells,” huffed Mrs. Sloane sympathetically. “You’re in the midst of the toughest job in the world. Did your mother never tell you?”
And at the mention of her mother, Sloane noticed the young woman’s shoulders tense.
“Okay,” she said in a softer tone. “Never mind. Just try not to worry so much. You’re doing fine, Miss Zott. It’ll get better.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Elizabeth said desperately. “What if…what if it gets worse?”
Although she wasn’t the type to touch people, Mrs. Sloane found herself leaving the sanctuary of the door to press down lightly on the young woman’s shoulders. “It gets better,” she said. “What’s your name, Miss Zott?”
“Elizabeth.”
Mrs. Sloane lifted her hands. “Well, Elizabeth, I’m Harriet.”
And then there was an awkward silence, as if by sharing their names, they’d each revealed more than they’d planned.
“Before I go, Elizabeth, can I offer just one bit of advice?” Harriet began. “Actually no, I won’t. I hate getting advice, especially unsolicited advice.” She turned a ruddy color. “Do you hate advice givers? I do. They have a way of making one feel inadequate. And the advice is usually lousy.”
“Go on,” Elizabeth urged.
Harriet hesitated, then pursed her lips side to side. “Well, fine. Maybe it’s not really advice anyway. It’s more like a tip.”