“See you.” He gave us a quick salute and me a wink, which struck me as a very strange way to end such a heavy conversation, and pivoted to face the bar once more. It was then that I noticed the twentysomething girl a few seats away from Connor at the bar, alone and swaying slightly, eyes blank and drowsy with alcohol. I felt a powerful urge to ask her if she needed help getting home, but I resisted, of course; we had to get home ourselves, and it would be completely overstepping in any event. She wasn’t a child; she was just living her young life. Maybe my brief flash of concern for her was just a sign that I was becoming a mother, after all.
We walked out of the restaurant into the night. I spoke first. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Tim said. “What is wrong with that guy?”
“Well, I guess he’s worried about his wife and dealing with it in all the wrong ways,” I said generously. “I meant about the bloody rings. That’s really scary. What do you think it means?” Surely, this latest news did not bode well for Isabel. Puddles of blood down Eighty-Eighth Street and now bloody rings by the river. This was turning into a grisly scene from which I could not imagine her emerging.
“No idea,” he said. “But like you said, she could still be alive.” He paused. “I did not like that guy, Jenn.” He looked truly angry. I wasn’t sure if I had ever heard Tim say that about anyone—he was so reasonable, so mild, the type to get along with everyone and always extend the benefit of the doubt—especially to someone who was going through a tragedy. “Let me know if you see him again, okay?” he added. I promised that I would, without being exactly sure why he was so fervent about it.
When we entered our apartment, Jackie was rocking Clara on the glider. “She woke up so I just settled her back down,” she said, smiling, as if settling Clara down were the easiest thing in the world. “How was dinner?” She wasn’t even trying to keep her voice down, but Clara was sleeping as soundly as she ever had, swaddled flawlessly and resting comfortably in Jackie’s strong, confident arms, having been coaxed back to sleep without any milk at all. Her face was perfectly serene. So was Jackie’s.
Before Jackie left, she put Clara back in her bassinet, transferring her in with apparent ease, a feat I’d managed only a handful of times. After we paid her （an exorbitant sum, though no more than she deserved, for keeping our daughter safe）， she said, “She’s a dream! So glad I got to spend a little time with her. Let me know if you ever need help again. I’d love to work with you guys.” Was Clara a dream? Was she just an easy baby who everyone else was better at handling than I was? Why was I so bad at this?
Predictably, Tim initiated sex that night. It was our anniversary, after all; if ever there was a night to be romantic, this was it. I was nervous; it had been over three months since we’d done it, and I felt like a different person. What if he could tell that I was no longer the woman he’d fallen in love with? But I was surprised at how good it was to be close to him again, to feel his familiar warmth. When it was over, we held each other for a few minutes before letting go.
After that, Tim was snoring within seconds, but I couldn’t fall asleep for at least an hour, thinking about Isabel’s body lying somewhere, yet to be discovered on the bank of the Hudson, and her husband angrily complaining about the inconvenience of her disappearance over drinks at the Milling Room. I thought ever so briefly, too, of the drunk girl at the bar.
But I also knew deep down that the reason I was lying awake thinking of Isabel and Connor was so that I could avoid thinking about the shameful fact that, while I was certain this had been Tim’s first time having sex since we’d had Clara, it hadn’t been mine.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, October 7
That night, in between feeds, I dreamed of severed arms and legs. That I was tripping over feet and wrists and fingers and elbows while running through the woods. There were rings and bracelets and anklets attached to them.
I wondered if any of the other moms knew about the rings. Maybe Vanessa, who was perhaps checking in more regularly with Isabel’s family. I considered texting them to tell them but decided it would be much easier to talk about it in person; it was too unseemly, too grim to write in a text. I was so relieved that we were meeting today—Vanessa had texted us all late yesterday afternoon, shortly after I’d left her apartment, to arrange an unscheduled meeting. It would be good to see each other, talk about everything, she’d said. It was the first time we’d all be together in person since learning of Isabel’s disappearance last week. Had that been only five days ago? It felt like a year had passed between then and now.