Chương 10
Monica had stocked her refrigerator.
Kevin from the library had dropped off a card signed by the staff.
Somebody drew a tiny book wearing a diaper.
Claire stood in her kitchen with Sophie against her shoulder and stared at the carton of milk Monica had bought.
It had the wrong fat percentage.
Claire started crying.
Then she laughed.
Then Sophie spit up down the back of her shirt.
“Perfect,” Claire said.
She changed both of them.
That first night at home, she slept ninety minutes.
Not all at once.
At four in the morning she sat on the living-room floor because she was too tired to trust herself standing while holding Sophie.
Her apartment looked different with a baby in it.
Not magical.
Crowded.
The bassinet blocked a cabinet.
Diapers took over the coffee table.
A bottle brush stood beside the sink like an unfamiliar kitchen utensil.
Michael’s old mug still sat on the top shelf, the one he had left after their last breakup because he claimed Claire’s coffee tasted better in it.
She had almost mailed it to him.
Then he died.
Now his daughter slept twenty inches from Claire’s knee.
Claire stared at the mug.
She did not feel Michael’s presence.
She did not believe in signs.
She just wished he were there long enough to argue with her about something stupid.
At seven, Margaret texted.
Can I bring groceries?
Claire wrote no.
At nine, Margaret asked whether Claire needed the pharmacy pickup.
No.
At eleven, she wrote: You don’t have to answer. I’ll stop asking today.
Claire appreciated that more than she wanted to.
The investigation continued.
A week later Detective Brooks told Claire the thirty-thousand-dollar transfer to Margaret had originated from an investment account controlled by Eleanor.
That made Margaret a suspect in parts of the case, not merely a witness.
A prosecutor would decide whether she had knowingly participated in custodial interference, fraud, or related offenses.
Claire asked what she could do.
Brooks said, “Tell the truth.”
“I mean for Margaret.”
“So do I.”
Claire disliked her for a day.
Then she understood.
Margaret hired a lawyer.
She sold her car to pay the retainer.
Peter Shaw called Claire twice.
She did not answer.
On the third call she did.
His voice sounded exactly the same as it had when he used to come to Thanksgiving dinner and bring wine Margaret pretended was more expensive than it was.
“Claire, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“For which thing?”
A pause.
“That’s fair.”
“No. It’s actually a question.”
He apologized for leaving Margaret with the loan.
For disappearing.
For ignoring collection notices.
For being, in his words, a coward.
Claire listened.
Then she said, “Pay her.”
“I’m trying to arrange—”
“No. Don’t call me to explain. Pay her.”
She hung up.
Her hands shook afterward.
A year earlier she would have listened to the entire explanation out of politeness.
Having a stolen newborn had apparently reduced her tolerance for other people’s unfinished self-improvement.
Two weeks after Sophie came home, Claire met Rebecca Hart.
The meeting was Rebecca’s request.
Claire almost refused.
Detective Brooks said it was Claire’s choice and that Rebecca was cooperating fully.
Margaret told Claire not to go.
That made Claire more likely to go.
They met at a coffee shop with outdoor tables because Claire did not want Rebecca in her apartment.
Rebecca was fifty-one and looked enough like Michael to make Claire stop walking for a second.
Same eyebrows.
Same narrow hands.
She stood when Claire approached.
Sophie slept against Claire’s chest in a carrier.
Rebecca looked at the baby and immediately looked away.
“I won’t ask to hold her.”
Claire sat.
“Good.”
Rebecca nodded.
They ordered coffee neither finished.
For several minutes they discussed nothing.
Traffic.
A dog tied near the entrance.
The weather warming too quickly.
Then Rebecca said, “I thought you wanted me to have her.”
Claire studied her.
“Why?”
“My mother showed me the message.”
“I didn’t send it.”
“I know that now.”
“You were a nurse.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think it was strange that a newborn showed up at your house at five in the morning without her mother?”
Rebecca’s face tightened.
“I thought you were sick.”
“I was.”
“I was told you might need another surgery.”
“That part was true.”
“I thought the plan was two days. Maybe three.”
“And then?”
Rebecca looked at her cup.
“My mother said you would decide.”
Claire almost laughed.
“Everybody keeps deciding that I’ll decide later.”
Rebecca accepted that.
After a moment she said, “I lost my daughter at thirty-eight weeks.”
“I know.”
“Michael told you?”
“Yes.”
“My mother did not handle it well.”
“Did you?”
Rebecca looked up.
“No.”
It was such an unprotected answer that Claire’s anger shifted despite herself.
Rebecca folded the cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup.
“My mother came to the hospital and kept saying there had to be something somebody could do. She asked the doctor whether they could restart the baby’s heart. She asked three times. Years later she still talks about it like someone failed to find the right person.”
Claire looked down at Sophie.
“So when Michael died…”
“She got worse.”
“That explains her. It doesn’t excuse her.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Yes.”
Claire heard herself using Margaret’s question and disliked that.
Rebecca continued.
“When Mom told me Michael’s daughter needed temporary care, I wanted to believe it. I wanted something to be useful.”
“You wanted my baby.”
Rebecca’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Claire appreciated the answer more than she expected.
Not because it was good.
Because it was ugly and true.
“Did Eleanor ask you to move Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said the hospital was causing trouble.”
“You moved her.”
“To my friend’s house two miles away.”
“Without knowing what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
“You could have called police.”
“Yes.”
“You could have called me.”
“I didn’t have your number.”
“You could have found it.”
“Yes.”
May you like
Claire looked away.
A man at the next table complained into his phone that someone had ordered the wrong tile for a bathroom remodel.
