Alec did end up getting me to go out that night after the movie. He already knew so many people, bartenders, a professor who summered in Newport near where he grew up. The evening was a swirl of jokes and shots and stories ending on a punch line. He kept bringing up Pulp Fiction so I could easily join in. I watched him carefully, wanting to be like Alec.
He took me to parties, bought dinner while I forced him to study, and most important, introduced me to Jack. They were complete opposites but also the only two guys from their Providence prep school to go to Georgetown. The logistics made a friendship that wouldn’t have been there otherwise.
Freshman year, the three of us were always together, exploring DC, crashing parties, and following that with all-night movie marathons. That first Christmas, Alec bought Jack and me great tickets to Radiohead. It was the first gift I could remember getting that meant anything to me. I didn’t tell Alec that, of course. How I savored every moment of that night. Held tight to the thousand moments of a freshman year full of freedom and joy I never imagined were possible. All because of Alec.
But sophomore year, I was changing again. Wanting more. Jack and I studied regularly, already focused on what it’d take to get into a good law school. The more we were in the library, the less we saw of Alec.
Then Alec’s LSAT wasn’t strong enough for him to stay with Jack and me for Georgetown Law. He returned to Rhode Island for the only school that accepted him, Roger Williams. A perfectly fine option, but it created more distance. After starting our careers in DC, Jack and I got married and moved to Rhode Island. I hoped our friendship with Alec would start again.
But we had all changed. There were occasional drinks, and Alec pitched us a few investment opportunities but never followed up. I helped him get an investor for one of his ideas but never heard anything about it.
I side-hug him tighter, my fingers digging into the bathrobe. Knowing Belina rekindled my friendship with Alec. Not to what it was in college, but he was back in my life again. I was grateful.
Alec pulls away from my shoulder, his whole body sagging. “No one understands,” he says in a cracked whisper, as if it’s our secret.
The front door flies open, and Alec’s wife, Misha, stomps onto the front porch. Her wide eyes snap from him to me. Hands on hips, she’s a sentry in yoga pants. “Can you two do this inside?”
Misha will know you’re a terrible mother.
That your child cries all the time because this is the child you deserve.
Shrill little baby.
Evil like her mother.
I consider coming back later, not wanting Misha’s judgmental stares on Ester and me. I picture my exit as I trace the outline of Ester’s arms and legs hidden within the soft cocoon of the wrap beneath my coat.
Alec whispers, “Please, Devie,” a nickname from college that warms me to my core, making me feel like the cool kid has called me over to his table.
You didn’t deserve his friendship.
You used him to get to Jack.
One more rung up the ladder.
Alec sulks over to the last few poop bags in the yard. It’s so familiar, the grit of shame, that I follow him, mustering a nod at Misha, who leads us inside.
She’s always wrestled for control. We first met her during law school when we’d come back to Providence to visit Jack’s family. We grabbed a last-minute drink with Alec and his new girlfriend. Misha barely said hello before she began bragging about the huge house her parents had bought. The expensive trip she’d taken Alec on and the next one she had planned. Then she nagged us into joining them for dinner somewhere Jack and I couldn’t afford.
While it would have been easy to assume she was just some rich snob, I could see there was more. The need to be seen as wealthy, to throw money into every conversation, meant she hadn’t always been living that way.
At their wedding reception, Alec confirmed as much. He drunkenly told me he mostly married Misha for her new money and that Misha was getting his “good” family name out of the deal. That was the side of Alec I liked to ignore. The privileged Newport golden boy who took everything for granted. Alec had a melancholy streak, so I hoped he was only feeling sorry for himself. That he did really love Misha. That he hadn’t taken love for granted like so much else in his life. I didn’t bring it up in the sober light of day.
We follow Misha through the entryway as she makes a few comments about Ester and how tough babies are and how I should get good help. I bite down my response (“Help that isn’t murdered?”) because Alec flinches as she says it.
Misha knows you need help because you were never meant to be a mother.
Even a bad mother knows that much.
We stand in their sleek kitchen overlooking the sunken living room. What did Belina say?
“Copy and paste from any HGTV Dream Home. They don’t have the money for a real decorator, so Misha faked it, like everything else.”
This house is worth north of one million, so the money point stuck out. My brain typically files most details like that away for later. I also wonder how Belina knew about their finances. Maybe her nannying checks bounced?
Misha heads toward the back sliding door, where I can see their large city-issued trash can. She dumps the wastebasket into it and leaves it outside before returning to the kitchen to wash her hands, murmuring about East Side assholes.
She digs in a drawer and pops a coffee pod into the Keurig. Misha is in her lululemon uniform, complete with a low-cut workout shirt that shows her high, fake breasts.
Dressing like that might keep her husband’s head from turning but not yours.
You don’t have her body.
The voice knows my insecurities. I once had a little vanity about my naturally slender shape, but even that feels obsolete, sharp edges and pleasing curves now mushy. Even the opportunity to have larger breasts is lost. They are feed bags, swollen with milk for Ester and dotted with painful blisters from pumping.
I hand my coat to Alec and think of how my body does not feel like my own. My mind invaded by the voice and breasts full of milk my baby rejects and stomach scarred from the emergency surgery that saved us both. I hate myself for these thoughts. I want to be a woman who sees herself as strong because of what she’s endured. My body a tribute to the child wrapped against my chest.
At least you’re alive, you ungrateful bitch.
I heave at the double punch of guilt rising in my chest, threatening to burst through my eyes. Ester begins to cry, and I bounce quickly as Alec crosses the room. Misha ignores my efforts as she’s busy with her coffee. I watch them both for any reaction, and they spare me the judgmental looks.
They hear proof you were never meant to do this.
Finally, the crying stops, and I rush over. “I’m so sorry. She isn’t sleeping at night, and I’m just trying to—”
Alec blinks at me as if mystified. “We get it,” he says. “Emmett was a handful too.”
I relax a little and see Misha nodding. “It gets easier. Especially if you get help.”
“I don’t need help,” I say too loudly. “Sorry.”
Misha is smirking, that knowing look mothers who are on the other side of newborn life like to give the rest of us new-mom zombies.
“How are you doing?” I ask Alec calmly, approaching him where he’s slumped over the counter.
“We’re managing,” Misha answers. “That asshole detective keeps coming after Alec, but there’s not enough evidence.”