These Girls (14 page)

But Cate saw something else as she watched Abby; Cate didn’t focus on her thin arms or the shadows under her eyes. She saw her loneliness. Suddenly Cate pictured her mother at
the breakfast table in their old kitchen, cradling a mug of tea with both hands, just like Abby. Trying to draw out the morning ritual. The refrigerator in her mother’s house—which used to be blanketed with birthday party invitations and notes from school and soccer game schedules—was now empty. The calendar that had once been covered in appointments and reminders now had only a few scribbled notations taking up the vast white expanse of squares: Hair appt. Book club meeting.

A great surge of sadness engulfed Cate. Her father was off living a new life with his girlfriend. They’d taken up golf together, and were planning a vacation to Barbados. Why couldn’t her mother do the same? If she’d only sell the house and buy an apartment in the heart of Philly, she could pop out all the time to eat dinner, browse bookstores, and meet friends for a movie. She could start dating; plenty of women did at her age. She didn’t need to cook lonely meals for one, or wander the rooms that were once filled with noise and activity. Yet her mother stubbornly clung to the house, to the faint echoes of that old life.

Cate thought about how she had trouble connecting with other women. Last night she’d wanted to confide in Renee, but it was as if she’d smashed up against an invisible wall. Was it like that for her mom, too, trying to form friendships but not knowing how?

Just then her cell phone rang. She looked down at the caller ID and saw her mom had waited until ten-thirty to call. Maybe she’d sensed Cate’s growing annoyance and was trying to tread carefully, lest she fray this last lifeline to her daughter.

“Excuse me a second,” Cate said. She hurried into her bedroom and shut the door.

“Mom, I love you,” she blurted.

“Honey! Me, too.” She could hear surprise mixed with pleasure seeping into her mother’s voice.

“I was going to call you this morning. The weekend after next is clear. Want to come up to visit that Saturday?” Cate said.

“I’d love it!” her mom cried.

Maybe Cate could figure out a way to navigate this new relationship with her mom. She could encourage her to come up once a month but for shorter visits; Cate could squeeze in an afternoon of shopping or museum hopping and an early dinner before her mom took the train home. She could do that much. And maybe Cate could figure out a way to talk to her mom about volunteer work, a part-time job, or a series of cooking classes. . . . She couldn’t fill up her mom’s life. But at least for now, the image of her mother sitting alone at a quiet table was replaced by one of her walking to the calendar, pen in hand.

At least Cate could fill in one square in this empty month.

Nine

THE PANIC HAD STRUCK
Abby as swiftly as a snake.

Up until that moment, the morning had followed the contours of its pleasant routine. The oppressive humidity of summer was already fading into memory, and a light breeze swept in the season’s first hint of crispness. Abby came upstairs at 8:15, as usual, and chatted with Bob and Joanna, who were bustling around, collecting briefcases and cell phones and keys.

“She was up twice last night,” Joanna said, leaning on the kitchen table with one palm for balance while she slipped on her navy blue heels with her other hand. “At one and three
A.M.
”

She was smiling, but her expression also conveyed exasperation, and the little lines around her eyes were more pronounced than usual. Her boss was the sponsor of a big technology bill that Congress would soon vote on, and Joanna had brought home a bulging briefcase last night even though she’d gotten in at nine-thirty. “She’s been sleeping so well for months . . .”

Abby nodded. “Could be teething. I’ll sneak a peek in her mouth today and check. If it is, a little baby Tylenol will make all the difference.”

“Of course,” Bob said, smacking his forehead theatrically.
“Here we were, worried she was regressing. Good thing we read all those baby development books, huh?”

Joanna didn’t answer. Was there tension between them, or was Joanna just tired and distracted? Abby wondered.

“So what’s on the agenda for the day?” Bob asked after a pause.

“I think we’ll go to the park for a while,” Abby said. “Then maybe the library after her nap.”

“Would you mind stopping by the grocery store while you’re out?” Joanna asked. “We’re running low on . . . well, everything.”

“Sure,” Abby said.

“Milk, bananas, Cheerios,” Joanna said, grabbing a pen and starting to write on the back of a junk mail envelope. She frowned as she lifted the pen and shook it, then tried again. “Why don’t we ever have any pens that work?” she demanded.

Bob reached over and pulled another one out of a drawer. “Try this one.”

She didn’t even thank him; she just kept listing the items. “Oh, diapers and wipes, of course. And do we need orange juice?”

Bob opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “Yep.”

“Boneless chicken breasts, romaine lettuce, and some Perrier. Can you pick up a six-pack of those little bottles? Actually, maybe two?”

Joanna loved Perrier; she drank it with every meal.

“No problem,” Abby said. Bob and Joanna didn’t expect her to do any housework, other than cleaning up after herself and Annabelle and doing the baby’s laundry. Running the occasional errand, especially when she was already planning to be out, seemed more than fair. But she couldn’t help but notice that Joanna hadn’t thanked her, either.

Bob handed her a credit card, and she felt a little tingle as her
fingers touched his. She averted her gaze and quickly tucked the card into the pocket of her jeans.

After Bob and Joanna left, Abby dressed Annabelle in soft pink overalls and a yellow T-shirt, and stocked her diaper bag with a sippy cup of apple juice mixed with water, cut-up grapes, whole wheat crackers, and string cheese. She sang to Annabelle as she changed her diaper—“The Wheels on the Bus” was the little girl’s current favorite—then carried her out the door.

At fifteen months, Annabelle was so adorable it verged on being illegal: Her hair was white blond, her eyes were blue and impossibly long-lashed, and her face was round and smooth. But a stubborn little will had recently begun to assert itself; Annabelle hated the car seat. Once she was strapped in, she usually succumbed, but snapping the buckles could be a battle.

Abby kept singing, hoping to distract Annabelle from the looming indignity of being restrained. “The wheels on the bus go round and round,” she sang, but her voice wavered, like it was riding up and down on a wave. As she hit the button on the keys to unlock the doors, her feet suddenly froze.

She forced herself to move closer to the car, her shoes crunching against the gray gravel.

“Owie,” Annabelle cried, and Abby realized she was clutching her too tightly, her fingers pressing into the baby’s soft flesh.

“Sorry, honey. Time to go,” Abby said, but she couldn’t seem to follow her own directive. Her breath came in shallow gasps; her heart pounded like hoofbeats in her ears.

Get the baby away from the car!
Every instinct in Abby’s body screamed the warning.

Abby walked backward, toward the house, and instantly felt the vise around her body loosen. Her legs were so weak that she worried she might collapse. She sat down hard on the front steps of the porch, a rush of pain shooting up her spine as she jarred her tailbone.

What had happened?

As her breath slowly returned to normal, she began to wonder: Was she having some sort of premonition? Maybe she was destined to have a car accident today and her sixth sense was kicking in.

She raised her eyes to look at her Honda again, and her heartbeat sped up a notch. That settled it; she wasn’t taking any chances. Stranger things had happened—she’d once read a newspaper article about a businessman from New Jersey who’d deliberately missed a flight because the night before he’d had a dream it crashed. An hour into the flight, the plane dove into the Atlantic Ocean.

She and Annabelle could walk to the park.

“Let’s get your stroller,” she said. She stood up again and climbed the porch steps on shaky legs. She carried down the umbrella stroller and unfolded it with one hand while she kept the baby balanced on her hip. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to set the little girl down, even though the street was empty of cars and there wasn’t any danger.

She fastened Annabelle into the stroller—the baby didn’t mind these buckles—and set off for the playground, grateful she’d worn her Merrell sneakers today. It was only about a half mile away, but the grocery store was another mile beyond that. She didn’t want to skip going to the store and have to confess what had happened to Joanna and Bob. She could almost see Joanna’s incredulous expression. Somehow, she knew ESP didn’t have a place in Joanna’s world. Bob would try to hide his surprise, but he was a practical, grounded guy—he worked with computers, after all—and she’d end up feeling humiliated. No one wanted a nut job taking care of their kid.

Abby turned back to look at the car again, and a shudder ran through her body. “Let’s get going,” she said to Annabelle, forcing
cheer into her voice, as she slung the diaper bag over the stroller’s handles and hurried away.

Two hours later, Annabelle had had her fill of swings and slides, and they were heading toward the grocery store. The cool morning had succumbed to the strength of the sun, and Abby wished she’d worn shorts instead of her heavy Levi’s. Annabelle soon fell asleep, her head slumping to one side, while Abby counted the passing blocks and berated herself for forgetting to bring along a bottle of water. Her throat felt parched.

She finally reached the store and tried to figure out how she’d manage both the stroller and a cart. No way was she going to wake up Annabelle after a twenty-minute nap to transfer her; the baby would be exhausted and cranky the rest of the day.

Abby grabbed a basket and began loading in items from Joanna’s list while she steered the stroller down the aisles. When the basket was full, she left it on the floor next to a checkout register and grabbed another one. Luckily, there were only a few other shoppers at this time of day.

By the time she’d filled a third basket with Perrier and orange juice, it was so heavy it kept crashing against her hip and throwing her off-balance. She added a can of Coke from the mini-refrigerator at the front of the store and chugged the whole thing down while she waited for the items to be rung up.

“Paper bags?” the cashier asked.

Abby had a mile-and-a-half walk ahead of her. Paper handles ripped easily, and she couldn’t loop them over the stroller handles. “Plastic,” she said. She smiled apologetically, even though the cashier looked like she couldn’t care less. “We’re walking home and it’ll be easier.”

But there were five bags total. Along with the diaper bag,
Abby could fit only three on the stroller handles, which meant she had two heavy bags to hold while she gripped the stroller. After three blocks, the plastic stretched thin and began to cut into her fingers. The sun was high overhead and seemed to be beating directly into her eyes. She squinted and wished for sunglasses and another Coke.

Annabelle woke up a few minutes later and promptly cried for juice.

“Oh, baby. . . .” Guilt flooded Abby. She’d brought only one sippy cup, and Annabelle, who’d worked up a thirst climbing all over the playground, had drunk all but an inch of it. “Here you go.”

A minute later, the cup was empty and Annabelle was wailing; the nap had been too brief to leave her fully rested. A spot between Abby’s shoulders began to ache. Her whole body felt hot and sore; she’d lifted Annabelle up and down off swings and slides all morning, and she’d been tired to begin with since she’d stayed up past midnight studying for an exam tonight. Her body still felt weak from her panic episode this morning, and she hadn’t eaten lunch.

“Orange juice? Do you want to try some OJ, sweetie?” Abby asked, knowing the baby hated the taste. But maybe she’d give it another chance; kids were always changing their minds about food.

She filled up the cup and handed it to Annabelle, who took a sip and promptly let it dribble out of her mouth as she began to wail louder. The little girl wanted apple juice, or water . . . But Abby had milk! She set down the bags and feeling flooded back into her hands. The fact that Annabelle usually drank milk only at meals didn’t mean she couldn’t improvise. Abby dumped out the orange juice, then opened one of Joanna’s precious Perriers to rinse the sippy cup. She filled it with whole milk and handed it to Annabelle before downing the rest of the Perrier herself.

“Another mile to go, kiddo,” Abby said. She wiped her sweaty brow on her forearm and tried to find fresh places on her palms to loop the bags around, but they kept slipping into the painful grooves they’d already created. She forced herself to walk another block before putting down the bags. “Fucking Perrier,” she muttered under her breath, massaging her palms and feeling a surge of anger toward anal-retentive Joanna and her fussy taste buds.

It took her an hour to get home, and Abby was almost crying by the time she unlocked the front door and set down the bags. She hurried to get the drinks into the refrigerator, worrying that the milk might have spoiled. Even though it smelled okay, she dumped it down the sink, deciding that she’d pick some up on the way home from class tonight. She’d lie and tell Joanna the store was out of milk.

She needed to soak her hands in icy water; the grooves in her palms felt like burns. “Today’s the day you get to meet Elmo, sweetie,” she said, clicking on the television. Abby knew kids weren’t supposed to watch TV until they were two, but she was desperate.

She drank a quart of water and swallowed two Advils before tending to her hands, smoothing them with Neosporin and wrapping them in gauze. By the time Bob got home, she and Annabelle were curled up on the couch, working their way through a stack of books as Abby struggled to keep her eyes open.

When she heard Bob’s key in the lock, she slipped off the gauze and shoved it in her pocket. “Did you have a good day?” he asked, smiling at Annabelle with such tenderness that, for the second time, Abby almost burst into tears.