I got up quietly to dress. I knew Clara would likely be awake in a minute or two, stirred by my movements and noises, and ready to eat. My plan was to feed her quickly and get out the door right away to walk over to Isabel’s and see what was going on. I had no idea what to expect—police cars and ambulances, probably—but I needed to see for myself. I knew that returning to the scene of the crime was never advisable, but I lived only a couple of blocks away, after all, so my presence shouldn’t have been that suspicious.
Clara woke and I fed her, grateful for the physical relief of draining my breasts and the emotional unburdening of actually doing something good for someone else. I put Clara’s fleece suit on over her pajamas and poked my head back into the bedroom to tell Tim we were going out for a walk. I asked him if he wanted us to get him a coffee, to make it seem like that was the purpose of the outing. He was sitting up in bed scrolling through his phone and said he was impressed that we were getting out so early. I put Clara in the stroller, covering her with a thick blanket to protect her from the morning chill.
The walk to Isabel’s was so short that I saw the police lights less than a minute after leaving my apartment. Her street was lined with squad cars. Isabel was standing at the top of the stairs of her town house holding Naomi, while her mom was being escorted into a police car. My heart leaped into my throat—Louise was under arrest. Please, no.
Then I noticed that she wasn’t cuffed, which I thought—hoped, prayed—was a good sign. I didn’t think I could handle seeing Louise in handcuffs, knowing the truth, what she’d done for us. Her face was stoic. She didn’t see me and was in the back of the police car within seconds of me and Clara arriving.
Isabel did see me, though, and locked eyes with me from her stairs. I could tell she was crying. She nodded at me, ever so slightly. Then she turned her gaze across the street. There were Kira and Selena, looking solemn, each with their babies in carriers on their chests, standing about thirty feet apart from each other. Kira started to walk away, and then Selena followed at a distance. I could see her turn the opposite direction from Kira when they got to the corner.
I, too, turned around, and walked home slowly, never taking my eyes off Clara, terrified of the reckoning that I was sure was coming my way.
Epilogue
One year later
“Come back here, baby girl!” I call. Clara is clomping around the apartment like a maniac—her signature （and brand-new） Frankenstein walk. I wriggle into black jeans and a silky white top while simultaneously attempting to chase her down the hall. I know full well that the white top will end up covered in avocado and hummus at some point today, but I don’t care. It’s my favorite shirt, and it’s a special day. Strange, yes, but special.
After I’ve wrangled her, she sits on the bathroom floor and plays with my makeup brushes, one of her favorite activities, while I put on some eyeliner and mascara and my gold hoops. When she’s bored of the makeup brushes, she moves on to the roll of toilet paper, unraveling the whole thing, and then finds a box of Band-Aids under the sink and dumps it on the floor. I smile wryly at her path of destruction and pat on some lip gloss to finish up. I am significantly more made up than I normally would be on a Saturday; these days, weekends are strictly reserved for leggings and sneakers and no makeup and the playground. But today is different. Today the moms’ group is reuniting for the first time since—well. Since all of it.
I haven’t seen Isabel much this year. I gather she’s spent some time in Tarrytown, at her mom’s place. I’ve run into Kira and Selena at the playground a handful of times, and it’s surprisingly easy between us, though we never actually make plans to see each other. We speak through the babies: “Clara, go say hi to your friend Miles! Do you guys want to go on the seesaw together? Hold on tight!” And they toddle or crawl around in each other’s vicinity, a one-year-old’s version of friendship, while we make the smallest of small talk: weather, work, which Netflix shows we’re watching. Usually, the presence of other adults in our conversations helps us maintain these barriers we’ve set for ourselves. We’ve pretty much never spoken out loud of that night with each other, except in an unavoidable “neighborhood gossip” kind of way, when we’ve been forced to endure being pumped for information by acquaintances in the park: Didn’t you know her? What is she like? How’s she doing? Did you ever meet the husband? But we’ve never actually spoken about that night. It’s an unspoken concession we allow each other, not forcing each other to revisit it.