“Thank you. I won’t say anything,” I repeated, for good measure. “You can trust me.” And I meant it. I would keep her secret. But I couldn’t help but think, regretfully, of Selena’s stance that none of us even knew Isabel that well, that her disappearance wasn’t really ours to fixate on or explore, that it wasn’t our business, despite sharing time with her in our moms’ group. And now here was Kira, declaring that her encounter with Connor was moot, meaningless, not worth revealing to anyone. What if Kira had just handed me a key but then made me promise not to use it? Connor had cheated on Isabel and traumatized Kira. This went beyond his not knowing she was in a moms’ group. Surely, all of it meant something. He must have been involved in Isabel’s disappearance, in one way or another. What if we were capable of helping Isabel but instead we were all just standing aside?
Maybe Selena was right—maybe we weren’t really friends at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Wednesday, October 7
As I walked home from the bar pushing Clara, brooding over what Kira had disclosed, I couldn’t deny that there was something else upsetting me, too: a part of Kira’s story that stirred something in me I never wanted to confront again. I had worked so hard over the last month to shove that “something else” far beneath the surface of my being, to suffocate it, but Kira’s admission about her night with Connor brought it back to life: a bubbling, festering, infected wound.
When Clara was six weeks old—right before I joined the moms’ group—I went out with a couple of my teacher friends whom I hadn’t seen since having Clara. It was my first night out. Two hours tops, is what I had told Tim. I had almost canceled about ten times, especially while attempting to get dressed and finding nothing that fit. I was nervous about leaving Clara and was so tired, as usual, that I would have preferred to just watch TV for an hour and go to bed. But I forced myself to keep the plans. I didn’t want to be the person who was always canceling on everyone now that I had a child. Tim was all for me going, telling me it would be good for me, would make me feel like my old self again.
And it did, for a little while. I finally found an outfit that made me feel kind of sexy. A tight black dress that, with the help of SPANX, sucked my pooch in and accentuated my firm new milk boobs. I was happy to see my friends and catch up on school gossip, like how Mr. Getelman, a history teacher known for throwing kids’ phones out his third-floor window, had finally retired over the summer, and Mr. Fernandez, the assistant principal, had gotten engaged to Ms. Zanko, the speech therapist, even though they’d only been dating for four months. It was a little hard to hear about how normal my coworkers’ summers had been—lazy mornings, lots of reading, some travel—whereas mine had consisted of scrolling, strolling, getting pooped on, and being milked like a cow. But overall, it felt good to be out with them.
After two margaritas, I was feeling almost like a real human being again, not just Clara’s grouchy, slovenly mom. It was ten o’clock before I knew it, and my friends were ready to call it a night; they were planning to go into school to set up their classrooms the next morning. Originally, I had doubted that I’d even last this long. But I had just gotten an unexpected All good! Clara took a bottle and is sleeping next to me in the DockATot. Hope you’re having fun. Take your time! text from Tim. A few drinks in, and so relieved to be separated from the baby for a few hours, I found that I really did not want to go home yet.
My friends felt bad leaving me there by myself, but I shooed them out and told them I’d be right behind them, that I was going to use the bathroom and maybe try to get some fries to bring home. But instead, after they left, I sat down at the bar and got a tequila shot, which I hadn’t done in practically a decade. It burned my throat in the best possible way, a punishment and a reward all in one, and made me feel twenty-two. I ordered another margarita, too. I was sort of pretending I was in a movie. I didn’t even feel drunk; all I felt was relieved. Like I could breathe for the first time in months. It felt so good to be alone. And a frumpy, exhausted, frustrated, still-grieving new mom would never have a tequila shot, so as long as I was here doing exactly that, I was Old Jenn. Or, Young Jenn, more accurately.
And knowing that Clara was fine, safe at home with Tim, made my little taste of freedom all the sweeter. We could be apart and she would be okay. It was like a revelation. And it just made me love her even more.
I’d had enough, though; all I needed was a taste of freedom. Just a taste. I was ready to go home. I was going to ask for the check when another shot appeared in front of me. The bartender gestured vaguely—warily, in retrospect, perhaps—and there down at the end of the bar was a tall, brown-haired guy with an expensive-looking haircut and a narrow gray suit, raising his own shot toward me with a slight smile. I was surprised. Flattered. I felt rude not taking it. Or uncool, or both. Why the hell not, I thought to myself.