But I did it, and I did it alone. And if I can do that, then I can do this, too. I can be your mom. I know it. Whatever I had to go through to get you here—labor, and what happened with him, your father—it was worth it.
I have to confide something—in the midst of all of this, I can’t stop thinking about his wife. Your father’s. Here you are, in the world—proof of what he did—and she probably has no idea who he really is. I feel terrible for her. But I know the best thing is to just try to put them both out of my head, forever.
We’re home now, and it hasn’t been an easy week. Little sleep, lots of crying. From both of us. I’ve never been this tired. Everything hurts. But then you stir and reach for me, make some unknowable expression in your sleep, and I know it’s all worth it. I can’t stop kissing your fingers and your lips. You are so, so amazing. And, happily, you’re all me—your eyes, your cheeks, your chin—you’re my girl. No doubt about that.
Right now you’re sleeping, and I know I should be, too, but I just can’t stop looking at you. My little girl. I’ll always be your mom, and you’ll always be my daughter. You’re the best part of my life. For the rest of it, that will remain true.
You and me against the world, girl.
Love you forever,
Mommy
Chapter Twelve
Monday, October 5
By the time Selena stormed out, it was already getting dark; my dressing-down had apparently gone on for quite a while. As soon as she left, I helped myself to the chardonnay in the fridge like I’d planned to, though I hadn’t anticipated how badly I’d need it. I was mortified about everything I’d said. And about everything she’d said. All I could do was look at Clara and say, “You still like me, though, right?” But I also knew that me wallowing in embarrassment did nothing: I vowed to apologize to Selena for real and to be more mindful of and curious about her experiences as a Black mother going forward. To try to earn my place as a real friend. And certainly, to stop trying to get her to join me in attempting to snoop around Isabel’s house. Seriously, what is wrong with me?
Tim got home shortly after Selena left, but had to duck right into our bedroom for a Zoom call. I remembered he’d mentioned that he had an afternoon meeting in the neighborhood, so he had probably decided not to return to his office afterward.
After an hour of trying to play with Clara but actually just mentally replaying everything both Selena and I had said and cringing, I poked my head in to say hi to Tim and see how much longer his call would be, Clara on my hip. He smiled at us, laptop open in front of him, but held up his finger to indicate he wasn’t off the call yet. I bounced Clara to the kitchen and poured myself another glass of wine.
I grabbed my phone and prepared to commence my new search routine—instead of browsing Instagram, I scanned Google hits on Isabel for news items, my Google Docs to make sure the note I’d written was still deleted, and my calendar app to see if our alleged plans had somehow reappeared. Although what I’d apparently written remained safely deleted, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was terrified it would resurface somehow. I checked my Google Alerts next. Nothing new; still the same half-hearted single-paragraph coverage on West Side Rag. Search Continues for Missing Mom, it offered, though the article contained no new or meaningful information. Clara started wailing from the play mat. Six thirty p.m.: time to eat. I decided to give her a bottle; I was nearly done with my second glass of wine, after all. Besides, maybe a bottle would fill her up more, resulting in a longer stretch of sleep.
I put the refrigerated bag of milk in warm water and cleaned an already-clean Comotomo bottle, which I’d felt shamed into ordering after our most recent moms’ group meeting—the meeting that Isabel hadn’t shown up to—despite the absurd price tag. So far, it seemed like any other bottle.
Clara nosed around my chest while I tried to give her the bottle. She made several scrunched, dissatisfied expressions as I put the bottle near her mouth but started drinking reluctantly nonetheless. Once she had some momentum and seemed settled, I again reached for my phone to continue my Isabel searching, finding it nearly impossible to maneuver my phone, the bottle, and Clara’s head all at once; maybe breastfeeding was easier in some ways, after all.
I entered her name into my text messages, ready to reanalyze our group messages, looking for clues that I’d missed. Instead, my search came back completely blank. Where was our group text? Had I deleted that, too, somehow?
I went to my call log instead and entered her name once more, distracted by Clara’s fidgeting. I tried burping her while holding and squinting at my phone, confused. There was one outgoing call to and one incoming call from Isabel Harris; both were from a few weeks ago. I didn’t explicitly remember ever talking to her on the phone, but these calls were placed in early September, shortly after I’d joined the moms’ group. So perhaps we’d communicated about logistics of a meeting. How many conversations and interactions could I be forgetting, though?