I shook away my thoughts about that night, as I’d done so many times before by now. “Really? You’re sure? You think you can handle all of it? Feeding her, dressing her, her naps, everything?” I was skeptical, knowing firsthand the tedious intricacies of each day spent with a newborn. But after all, he was her father, not some teenage babysitter—he was more than capable.
“I mean, will it go perfectly? Probably not. Will she be alive when you get back? Almost definitely!” He smiled at his own joke and turned back to his phone, seeming to signal that we were all good here, that this was settled, as if me leaving the baby for a night really were that simple.
Maybe it was.
“Okay, well, it’s not definite or anything,” I said. “I haven’t really decided myself. And I don’t know if the others can make it, either. I just wanted to check your temperature on it.” But shortly after Kira responded, Selena also sent a simple IN and several thumbs-up emojis. So maybe this really was happening.
His joke about keeping Clara alive only made me anxious, though. What if something did happen? What if he was looking at his phone while crossing the street and they got run over, or what if they were walking in the park and a dog came up and bit her leg, or what if she spiked a fever and he dismissed it as nothing and it turned out to be something serious, or what if she wouldn’t take a bottle and she practically starved all day? What if she simply stopped breathing in her crib? What if something happened to me? My train could go off the rails and blow up. And then I’d never see my baby girl again. All because of my selfish, frivolous Montauk getaway.
I told my churning brain to stop it. I did this all the time, even when I was home, even when Clara and I were simply sitting on the couch. Dreamed up a thousand worst-case scenarios, all of which resulted in death. I knew that these weren’t rational thoughts and that they were the product of anxiety and hormones. Yes, I’d always worry about Clara, for the rest of my life. But I so badly wanted her to grow up with a happy mom, like I did. Maybe doing things for myself—things other than drinking too much wine and spending too much time scrolling Facebook—was an important first step toward that.
I took a deep breath and responded to the chain: I’m in too. Can’t wait! Let us know what we can bring. Suddenly, I was excited. Fresh ocean air, a solid night of sleep, and good conversations with women whom I was really starting to think of as friends might be just what I needed to push me over the hump that I’d been trying unsuccessfully to clear for months now. I was determined to come back from Montauk recharged.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday, October 8
The next afternoon, we were on the Long Island Rail Road en route to Montauk. The evening commuters spilled out after we switched trains in Jamaica, and there isn’t really much of a Hamptons rush during the fall, especially on a weekday, so we had the train largely to ourselves. I left when Clara was sleeping, telling Tim it would be easier for her not to see me leave, but really it was more for me; I would have cried saying goodbye to her. Tim was reassuring and positive and promised to FaceTime me with her that night, to prove that he was in fact keeping her alive.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so little stuff to keep track of: no diapers, no wipes, no bottles, no Ergobaby carrier, no burp rags, no Sophie the Giraffe. Just my own small bag with toiletries, pajamas, and a change of clothes. That’s it. I felt lighter than air.
Kira had brought cans of sparkling wine for us to drink on the train, which helped quell my lingering anxiety about leaving Clara. It was just Kira, Selena, and me on the train, because Vanessa was already in Montauk, having driven up that morning to prep the house, leaving Phoebe with her nanny. For the first time ever, all three of us were in jeans rather than yoga pants, a sure indication of how excited we were about this trip.
As the train made its way through the Hamptons, I felt my shoulders relax and my breath slow down. From the train, we could see fields of corn flanked by huge clumps of swaying seagrass, open gray skies, marshy lakes, horse farms, and enormous houses set atop vineyards. It was all so beautiful, and such a necessary reminder that a big world was still turning outside my one-bedroom apartment. It had been doing so the whole time; I just hadn’t looked up much in the last three months.
At Montauk Station, we got into a pink taxi and gave the driver the address that Vanessa had texted to us. “First time in Montauk?” she asked with a voice that indicated her last cigarette couldn’t have been more than five minutes ago. It was the first time for all three of us. I’d been to the Hamptons in my twenties but had never made it as far as Montauk. “It’ll heal you,” the driver promised. “Remind you what really matters. Give it a chance. Great chowder, too—try Gosman’s.”