That she had lied about formula feeding, or at least perhaps implied that she didn’t, only made me feel sorry for her, that she’d been embarrassed enough about her choice that she’d tried to hide it. Because there was nothing wrong with formula feeding at all—I knew that, absolutely—and yet I wondered if I, too, would deny it, or just not mention it, when I made the switch. There was so much judgment around the whole issue, and most mothers I met were so quick to mention that they were nursing. That dreaded “Breast is Best!” chirp—who came up with that? I’d like to smack whoever did.
But her apparent close friendship with Isabel felt like a big omission. That day when we visited Isabel’s house, it seemed to me like we were each somewhere between acquaintances and friends with Isabel, that we both weren’t totally sure if we really belonged there. And Vanessa had only lived in New York City for a few months—how could they be close enough for Isabel to be crying in her arms? And days before disappearing, no less. Isabel had obviously confided in her about something—what could it have been? Was she simply feeling overwhelmed by new motherhood, as Vanessa’s nanny had assumed? Or could it have been something else, and if so, could whatever it was be related to her disappearance?
I couldn’t answer any of these questions without logging some more time with Vanessa. I resolved to do that, as soon as possible.
I quickly switched Clara from right boob to left and, with my free hand, rattled off a quick text to Vanessa. Hey! How are you? I know you’re working, but let me know if you have any time this week. Would be great to get a drink or have the babies play （or both）。
I saw three dots appear right away and then disappear just as quickly. I imagined her at work: crisp, fitted black dress under her white coat, hair in a low bun, red lipstick, smiling and laughing with patients, putting them at ease as she scraped moles, injected cysts, and prescribed creams, making even these routine, unappealing tasks seem somehow glamorous.
Her response came through after Clara and I had finished her feed and were walking up Eighty-Sixth Street toward home. Yes! Let’s do it. I actually finish at 1 today. Would you and Clara want to come over this afternoon, maybe around 3? I know it’s super last minute so if today doesn’t work we can definitely find another time!
Tim and I had dinner plans that night: of all things, it was our anniversary. I had a babysitter coming over for the first time. But I’d made a late reservation, to allow for me to put Clara down to sleep myself, so I figured I could still easily squeeze in this afternoon playdate. I didn’t even know if we were still on for dinner, anyway, considering where we stood right now. Regardless, I was invested in learning more about Vanessa and trying to gain some understanding of what I’d overheard. I responded that Clara and I would be there, and could we bring anything? （A question women are legally obliged to ask, though the answer is always “Not a thing!”）
Clara beamed at me from her stroller, and despite everything going on, I instantly felt warmer. Whenever she smiled at me, I felt （albeit briefly） like maybe I wasn’t doing such a terrible job, after all. “Are you my assistant detective?” I asked her in a voice I’d once told myself I would never use. “Yes you are!”
June 27
Dear Baby,
I’m not sure if I can form sentences here, because I am so freaking fried, but I’ll try.
Let me start by saying that you are perfect. You really are. So if it seems like I’m complaining about you, I really don’t mean to. Am I having a hard time right now? Yes. But the easiest part of all of it, the only easy part, actually, is loving you. That part is no problem.
But wow. I thought I was prepared. I had the diapers, the bassinet, the onesies. I’d read a few books. But I had no idea how much babies needed. You’re out of my body, technically, yes; but you still need some part of me all the time, at all moments of the day.
When I look in the mirror, I wonder what the hell happened to Allison. I see a different person now. A very tired one.
And I think the sleep deprivation is doing something to my judgment, because I did something that I really shouldn’t have done.
I called his wife.
Ugh. I know. Crazy, right?
But you know what? I think your birth sort of reignited my anger at your father, at what he did, and at the utter lack of consequences he faced and will ever face.
And I just felt like I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a woman if I let her continue to go on in her life, oblivious to what her husband was out there doing with and to other women. Because I highly doubt what happened to me was an isolated incident.