The detectives would take notes on her story, asking predictable questions in incredulous tones. “I don’t remember” became a mantra. But she was a victim, not a criminal. They didn’t seem to suspect her of faking her own disappearance, or if they did, then they didn’t see an interesting or malicious enough motive that would make it worth their while to go down that road. Easier to close the case. There was no crime, there were no dead bodies. The woman detective who had come to my apartment, Blaylock, turned out to be the mother of a one-and a three-year-old, which she disclosed when Isabel emphasized how happy she was to be reunited with Naomi. She would give her knowing glances throughout her recounting of how exhausted, how overwhelmed, how disoriented, how absolutely wrecked she’d been in the weeks following Naomi’s birth.
Of course, the moms’ group was thrilled to hear of Isabel’s return. We sent her flowers to the hospital on Saturday, from the whole group, but didn’t want to overwhelm her with a visit just yet. She needed to rest. We did a brief group FaceTime call on Sunday, though, and she assured us over the phone that she was feeling worlds better after spending the day at the hospital on a drip, eating egg sandwiches. She expected to be discharged later that day and would love to host us at her house as early as Monday, if we were available. Which we were.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday, October 12
Whereas Connor may have been able to keep the media away when Isabel was missing, the story of a new mom who had entered some kind of a state of postpartum psychosis and gone missing and survived in the Hudson River brambles for a week without anyone finding her was a more compelling story than that of a woman who was simply missing, and there was nothing Connor or anyone could have done to keep the reporters away.
For twenty-four hours, there was a circus of reporters in front of their apartment. Eighty-Eighth Street was essentially blocked off to traffic. Headlines splashed throughout local and national news outlets alike.
EXHAUSTED NEW MOM SLEEPS BY RIVER WHILE FAMILY SEARCHES FOR HER
MISSING WOMAN FOUND BY RUNNERS, INJURED BUT ALIVE AFTER EIGHT DAYS ON THE HUDSON
Some were obviously skeptical of her story but still stopped short of making an accusation against her:
MISSING MOTHER FOUND ALIVE WITHOUT ANSWERS
And many articles were more nuanced, highlighting the postpartum depression angle:
MISSING MANHATTAN MOM SHINES A DARK LIGHT ON POSTPARTUM REALITY
Fortunately for Isabel, two days after she was found, a man was caught masturbating in front of PS 9, so Upper West Siders seemed to lose interest in her. She was back. What more was there to discuss? Protecting the neighborhood, especially an elementary school, from sexual deviants was more pressing.
We’d be going to Isabel’s that afternoon for our first moms’ group meeting since her return, but in an effort to move the day along and distract myself from my own nerves about the other plans looming on the horizon, I took Clara to a baby music class in a kids’ gym a few blocks from my apartment. I’d been meaning to take her to a class ever since learning from Facebook that this was something that apparently every other parent was doing with their baby.
There were three other babies in the class, one of them with a nanny, two with moms who had arrived together. When class started, we were instructed to put the babies on their stomachs and lay toys in front of them, to make them practice reaching and to strengthen their neck muscles. The teacher was a college-aged girl named Lisa, who played guitar and sang “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” “Wheels on the Bus,” and “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” ending each song in a sweet but dramatic falsetto ripple. Lisa instructed us to tickle the babies’ toes, massage their hamstrings, play peekaboo with scarves that she distributed. The grand finale was a parachute shake, and some bubbles, which Clara did seem to enjoy. Mostly, though, she drooled on the floor and glanced periodically at me with a look that said What the hell are we doing here for forty-five dollars? Even Lisa herself seemed slightly skeptical that we were willing to pay her for this.
As we packed up, I overheard the other two moms talking about Isabel.
“I can’t believe she’s allowed to get her baby back,” one of them whispered. “At least not right away. I mean, she’s obviously crazy. I hope she’s being supervised.”
“Oh my God, totally. Like, I’ve been tired, too, but if you’re so tired that you’re just lying by the river for a week, that’s a whole other issue. What the hell? I’ve literally never heard anything so weird. She’s lucky it was warm last week.”