“Hi. Sit, sit.” I rearrange my voice to neutral and move the diaper bag to make room.
Jess positions her stroller beside mine. Beth sits next to her, her three-month-old baby, Trevor, always in a ring sling or strapped to her chest.
“How’s the morning?” Beth asks.
I tell them both about the footsteps and the woman who returned the bells, but conveniently leave out the part about the panic attack.
Beth leans closer. “Scary. Who do you think was following you?”
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“You should have called,” Jess says. “I’m always happy to walk with you.”
“That’s not exactly on your way.”
“Oh, please. I could use the extra exercise.”
I roll my eyes at her disparaging comment, because Beth and I both know she loves her curves.
“Anyway, it’s sleep deprivation,” Jess continues. “Makes you hallucinate. I remember when Baxter was Jackson’s age and waking up every two hours, I literally thought I was going to lose my mind. I would put things in odd places. I was even convinced Rob was cheating.”
I laugh. “Rob would never cheat on you.”
“Exactly my point.” She turns to me. “Have you thought about hiring a nanny?”
“Yeah,” Beth adds. “Especially with everything you’ve been through.”
My stomach clenches at those words: everything you’ve been through. After Chris died, I moved in with my mother so she could essentially become Jackson’s nanny. And then, just two months ago, she died too. Though her death wasn’t a surprise due to her lifelong heart condition, no one is ever prepared to lose a parent. “I can’t afford it.”
“Like I’ve said before, Rob and I are happy to pitch in—”
I lift my hand to stop her. “And I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m not ready to have someone in my space when I’m just getting used to it being empty. I need to get comfortable taking care of Jackson on my own.”
“That makes sense,” Beth assures me.
“It does.” Jess pats my thigh. “But you’re not a martyr, okay? Everyone needs help.”
“I know.” I adjust my sunglasses and rearrange my face in hopes of hiding the real emotions I feel. “What’s new with both of you?”
“Can I vent for a second?” Beth asks. She situates closer to us on the bench. Thanks to the visual Jess supplied, I know Beth is blond, petite, and impossibly fit—and is perpetually in a state of crisis. She’s practicing attachment parenting, which, in her mind, keeps her glued to her son twenty-four hours a day. I’ve never even held him.
“Vent away,” I say.
“Okay.” She drops her voice. “Like, I love this little guy, truly. But sometimes, when it’s just the two of us in the house all day, I fantasize about just running away somewhere. Or going out to take a walk. I’d never do it, of course,” she rushes to add. “But I just have this feeling like … I’m never going to be alone again.”
“Nanny,” Jess trills. “I’m telling you. Quit this attachment parenting crap and get yourself a nanny. And if she’s hot, she can even occupy your husband so you don’t have to.”
I slap Jess’s arm. “Don’t say that. You’d be totally devastated if Rob ever did cheat.”
“Would I though? One less thing I’d have to do at night,” she mumbles.
“That’s not attachment parenting,” I assure Beth. “That’s how every new mom feels sometimes.”
Beth bounces Trevor, her voice vibrating. “But am I a terrible human? Are you both sitting there judging me?”
“We don’t have time to judge you,” Jess jokes.
“You never complain, Rebecca,” Beth says.
“Who, me?” I ask. “I complain.”
I imagine Beth and Jess giving each other a look. “You don’t,” Jess says. “Ever. Which makes zero sense, considering…”
Considering your husband and mother died and you’re raising a baby all by yourself.
I shrug. “I learned a long time ago that complaining doesn’t change anything, so why bother?”
“Complaining is my hobby,” Beth says. “And I realize I don’t have anything to complain about. I mean, not really.”
I roll my eyes. “Beth, you’re allowed to feel however you want. Don’t compare your life to mine. For your own good.”
“But your baby is perfect,” Beth whines. “If you ever want to trade, just let me know.”
I laugh. “I’ll let you know.” I tune in and out as they gripe about their babies and husbands. I add in my two cents, wanting to tell them my deepest thoughts on the subject, but decide against it. Their voices come and go. My eyes flutter—closed, open, closed, open—and before I know it, I’ve accidentally fallen asleep.
2
BEC
After the park—and my unexpected nap—I listen for other people crossing the intersection and begin the grid-like walk back toward the house. I think of the chores I need to finish and the dinner I will prepare: steak, salad, and roasted rosemary potatoes. The steps I will go through. How I will set the table. How I will rely on timers and taste.
I approach the front of the house and fold my cane. Sweat has cropped up along my forehead. I wick away the moisture and fish my key from my back pocket. I bring it to the lock, but it smacks air. I reach forward and find the lock with my fingers.
The door is open.
I recoil, stunned. For the third time today, my pulse begins to race. I fumble for my phone, drop it, then retrieve it from the grass. Who can I possibly call? I spin around in an agitated circle, edge a few steps back, and stop. Am I being robbed? Are my earlier fears of being followed coming true?
Don’t go in. I heed my own warning and pull Jackson’s stroller to the edge of the driveway. Someone is always in the house, or crouched in a closet, or, God forbid, in the shower. I think about the alarm. Did I forget to set it?
Think, Rebecca. Think. I stall on the driveway and call Jess.
“Miss me already?”
“My front door is open.”
“What?”
“I just got home and my front door is open.” Saying it out loud makes me take another few steps toward the street.
“Don’t move. I’ll call the police.”
“You don’t have to call the police.”
“Rebecca, I’m calling the police. Do not go into the house. Do you hear me? I’ll be right there.”
I exhale and push and pull Jackson’s stroller in a lulling motion until Jess arrives.
“God, I hate running,” she pants. Her tennis shoes thud to a halt. She hitches forward and rests her hands on her knees. “It’s for the birds.” She grunts then straightens. “Police still aren’t here?”
I shake my head. A curl of hair brushes my cheek as she loops a sturdy arm around my shoulder.
“Keeping things interesting in old Elmhurst, huh?”
“Where’s Baxter?”
“Nanny. Told you they’re helpful.” She drops her arm as she continues to catch her breath. “Do you really think someone broke in?”