But I was most struck by a student who noticed something no one else had made much of: “Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are grieving.” I sat up on the couch at that. “Lady M doesn’t pose this analogy about hurting a baby as a hypothetical. She says she knows how sweet it is to love and nurse a baby. But they don’t have a baby anymore. So the baby probably died, and they’re mourning. And grief can make you do insane stuff. Especially losing a baby, probably. Anyway, I think her ruthlessness comes from the fact that she was a mother, but she’s not anymore, and she doesn’t know how to deal with that. Maybe she feels like she has nothing left to lose, so why not risk it all and try for the throne? She probably figures being queen will help give her purpose and ease the pain she’s feeling. Unfortunately, she’s probably wrong, because grief doesn’t work that way.” My arms were covered in goose bumps. Why were teenagers so much smarter than adults? I couldn’t help but think of Vanessa—her mother’s suicide, her awful miscarriage. Of course, it didn’t justify what she’d done, but I felt that what I’d witnessed and heard from her that night a year ago had been nothing if not a public display of the depths of her pain.
Clara and I leave for Isabel’s just before 11:00 a.m. I know Isabel will probably have an elaborate spread of food prepared for us, but I bring some bagels and lox from Barney Greengrass anyway, for good measure. As we walk, Clara smiles broadly at strangers and waves at doormen, who delight in her. I do, too, asking her more than once during our short walk, “Are you the cutest and sweetest lady in town?” It’s a rhetorical question, but I like to think she knows that the answer is unequivocally yes. Yes, she is. She replies by saying “Mama, Mama” over and over again, and it never ceases to amaze me that I get to be the one she calls Mama, Mommy, Mom, or even, later, probably, my annoying mom, for the rest of our lives. All of it feels too good to be true, and sometimes I am tempted to pinch myself to make sure it’s real—that I am hers and she is mine.
I haul Clara in her stroller up Isabel’s stairs, which for whatever reason, Clara finds hilarious. The long silver door handle has been replaced by a regular old knob, and while I’d admired the elegance of the former one, I can’t deny that the new knob makes the place look more homey, more approachable.
Isabel appears at the door before I can ring, smiling cautiously but warmly. Her hair is much shorter now, an artsy asymmetrical chop, almost ice blonde. It’s a statement haircut and she wears it well. “Hi, Jenn,” she says sweetly. “Oh my gosh, Clara, you are a big girl now. Come on in.”
She leads us inside, and after parking our stroller in her entryway, we enter her living room, which looks starkly different. For starters, there is a new rug, hunter green; still, when I look at it, I can see the white rug that once lay in its place, soaked with red. The white couch has likewise been replaced with a warm taupe-colored one, which goes nicely with the new carpet. White furniture makes no sense with a toddler, anyway. There is no bar cart anymore. The coffee table that the knife lay on before Vanessa disappeared it into Connor’s neck has been replaced by a cushioned ottoman. There are houseplants all over the place. Lots of toys scattering the floor.
The room looks cluttered, in a good way. Lived in. Comfortable.
The other difference that I notice is that there are no pictures of Connor anywhere. The ultrasound picture I’d admired, though, is still on display—the first picture of Isabel and Naomi together, Naomi growing inside Isabel along with her strength and resolve to escape from her husband once and for all.
Kira and Caleb and Selena and Miles are already there. Caleb is holding and shaking an enormous plant; Kira gets to her feet from the floor and hustles over to intervene in his mayhem. Miles is stuffing his mouth with a scone, getting crumbs everywhere, which Selena is admirably trying to pick up as they fall. Naomi is on the floor with them, crawling around and looking with curiosity at the comings and goings of her guests. We all exchange a too-loud, too-enthusiastic, nervous “Hiii!”
I move toward the dining table to add my bagels to the already-plentiful selection of food. A woman with her back to me is arranging muffins on a tray. For a second, I think that Isabel has hired a caterer. But then I see a leopard fanny pack on her hip. Louise.
She turns around. “Hello, dear,” she says. “It’s good to see you. You look wonderful.” She touches my shoulder lightly, perhaps unsure if a hug might be too much, though it wouldn’t be.