Chương 8
Maya opened her eyes.
“For once, don’t fix it tonight.”
At four in the morning, Samir drove David back to Park Slope. Owen remained at the hospital as the designated person Maya trusted if she woke and needed something. The streets shone black beneath salt and slush. Revelers crowded outside bars, coatless and shouting. A man in a silver top hat vomited beside a parked Tesla while his friend held his phone.
Samir drove with both hands on the wheel.
“Your mother called me,” he said.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“What did she say?”
“That Maya had a psychiatric episode and you were too emotional to understand.”
David stared through the windshield.
“What did you say?”
“I asked why she took the formula.”
“And?”
“She said Chloe accidentally packed it because the bags were similar.”
“All six cans.”
“Apparently Chloe is extremely bad at bags.”
David looked at him.
Samir’s mouth tightened.
“Sorry. I joke when I want to break furniture.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She asked me to stop you from destroying the family.”
The light turned red. Samir braked.
“What did you say?”
“That she should start worrying about the family that fits in a bassinet.”
David leaned his head against the cold window.
“You always hated her.”
“No. I hated who you became around her.”
The light changed.
Samir drove on.
“What did I become?”
“Twelve.”
David let out a tired breath. “That’s dramatic.”
“You asked.”
At the apartment building, a uniformed maintenance supervisor waited with a locksmith and Officer Bell’s younger partner. Mrs. Rosen stood near the lobby mailboxes in the same robe, now covered by a puffer coat.
When she saw David, she approached with both hands clasped at her waist.
“Is the baby alive?”
The bluntness stopped him.
“Yes.”
“And your wife?”
“She has an infection. They’re treating her.”
Mrs. Rosen closed her eyes briefly.
“I should have called.”
David looked at her.
“I saw Maya. I knew something was wrong. Your mother sounded so certain.”
“She’s good at that.”
“I brought bread.”
“I know.”
“She took it.”
“I know that too.”
Mrs. Rosen’s mouth trembled. “I went back to my apartment because I didn’t want to be the nosy old woman. My daughter says I interfere. She says I invent emergencies because I’m lonely.”
David had no comfort to offer. He barely had enough to stand.
“You should have called,” he said.
Samir shifted beside him, but did not interrupt.
Mrs. Rosen nodded.
“Yes.”
The simple acceptance took some of the force out of his anger. He had expected excuses because excuses were what people gave him.
She reached into her coat pocket and handed him a small portable charger.
“I found this in the hallway near the service stairs.”
It was Maya’s. A strip of pale-pink tape marked the side.
The police officer placed it in an evidence bag after photographing where Mrs. Rosen said she had found it. David watched the charger disappear behind plastic.
Inside the apartment, the cold felt worse because he knew what had happened in it.
The maintenance supervisor checked the boiler feed to the unit, then the thermostat. The central system was working. Mark had simply set the temperature low and taken the thermostat cover, making adjustment difficult without tools. The supervisor restored heat manually and photographed the setting.
The refrigerator remained open.
David closed it.
The silence afterward was immense.
The locksmith changed the front and service-door cylinders. Building security deactivated Eleanor’s guest access. Samir found the missing nursery chair listed for sale on a neighborhood resale site under Chloe’s account. The post had gone up two days earlier.
Unused luxury nursing chair. Smoke-free home. Must pick up today. Cash only.
The listing was marked sold.
David sat on the plastic folding chair and stared at the screen.
“She sold it for six hundred,” Samir said.
“It cost fourteen hundred.”
“I don’t think that’s the important part.”
“I know.”
But it was the part David could look at without seeing Maya on the floor.
They moved through the apartment with the police officer, documenting what was missing. Prescription formula. Breast pump accessories. Bottles. Diapers from the sealed cases. Groceries. The nursing chair. Two sets of new crib sheets. A space heater from the bedroom. Cash from the kitchen emergency envelope. A spare tablet. Wine from the cabinet. David’s luggage scale, for reasons neither man understood.
In the guest room, Chloe and Mark had left takeout containers, wet towels, and a broken champagne flute under the bed. Eleanor’s room was immaculate. The bed had been stripped. On the desk sat a handwritten list.
Airport car 180
Hotel balance 3,900
Dinner reservation 1,200
Chloe shopping 2,000
Mark incidentals 1,000
Household 1,500
Reserve 4,220
The total was fourteen thousand dollars.
Under Household, Eleanor had written in smaller letters:
Formula alternative 38
Ramen 12
Diapers—open pack only 16
David photographed the page.
Samir read over his shoulder.
“She budgeted it.”
“Yes.”
“That’s worse.”
“Yes.”
At the bottom of the page, beneath the numbers, Eleanor had written:
He will be angry initially. Remind him how unstable she is.
David folded the paper once before the officer stopped him.
“Please don’t handle it more.”
He released it.
The officer photographed it in place, then placed it in a sleeve.
Samir walked to the window.
Across the river, the last fireworks had ended. Smoke hung above Manhattan like a low dark cloud. The sky behind it had begun to pale.
David opened a cabinet and found one clean mug. He filled it with tap water and drank standing at the sink.
“Why did you never tell me it was this bad?” Samir asked.
“It wasn’t.”
“You sure?”
David looked at Eleanor’s list.
“No.”
His phone rang.
Chloe.
He let it stop.
A message followed.
May you like
Mom collapsed. We are taking her to the ER. I hope you’re proud of yourself.
Two minutes later, Mark sent a photograph of Eleanor seated in a hotel lobby with one hand pressed to her chest. Her complexion was normal. A paramedic stood nearby checking her blood pressure.
