In the balcony Peyton was already sitting in the back row, reading. I set Robert’s carrier down beside her. If he started squalling, I wanted a straight shot out into the stairwell, so we wouldn’t disturb rehearsal.
I’d brought his bottle in a warming sleeve, and as I got it out, Peyton asked, “Can I feed Bumper?”
“Robert. Sure.” I peeled him out of his chair and settled him in her arms.
Marshall had made his way to the middle of the balcony’s front row. I went down to join him, but I sat on the end, still smarting from his insinuation.
The performance was a week away, so they were running full scenes. They were in the park now, and Anna-Claire was singing “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” It was cute, though in this junior version there was no mention of drinking, smoking, or swearing, much less sex. Instead Rizzo mocked Sandy for her good grades and being a “square.”
As Anna-Claire vamped across the stage, I realized the bit about not “coming across” had survived the edits. I don’t think Ms. Taft, who was in her twenties, knew it was sexual. And neither did our new young headmaster apparently, because he had approved the script. St. Alban’s was Episcopalian, quite liberal for a church-run school—but not that liberal.
I shot an amused smile at Marshall, but he was watching Cara dance with the other Pink Ladies.
Peyton came up and joined me. I glanced back at Robert’s carrier seat, still by the back row.
“Asleep?” I asked quietly.
“Dead to the world.”
“Did he burp?”
“Twice, Mom.” Peyton gave me her mild version of her elder sister’s eye roll. “I know how to do Bumper.”
“Robert.”
“She really is talented,” Marshall said in a gruff whisper. He was looking at Anna-Claire now, his face impassive.
If this was an apology, I’d take it. “Cara is, too. Her big number is in the sleepover scene. She kills it.”
The director called the kids in for a huddle. I glanced back over my shoulder. The car seat sat sideways to me, so all I saw was Robert’s feet in their puppy socks, but this was his biggest nap of the day. I could probably click the carrier into the car and drive home before he woke up.
I told Marshall, “I’m going to clean up the greenroom.” I knew from experience the kids would have stuffed fruit-snack wrappers all down in the couch cushions.
He was already rising. “I got it.”
“You did the setup,” I reminded him.
“Stay. That table’s heavy.” He turned toward the other aisle so he wouldn’t have to climb over my knees.
“Want to help?” I asked Peyton. No response until I put my hand in between her face and the page. “Hey. You coming down?”
“I’m going to read here until it’s really time to go. A-C takes forever to peel herself off Greer.”
“Anna-Claire,” I corrected. Honestly, “A-C” was as bad as “Bumper.” “Your sister is not a cooling system.”
“She kinda is.” Peyton shrugged, jealousy and admiration at war in her expression. “Greer says Anna-Claire makes any room she’s in feel cool. Now everyone calls her that.”
I glanced after Marshall, already disappearing into the stairwell on the other side. If I didn’t hurry, he’d clean up alone. More proof that I was a spoiled second wifey. Still, my middle child needed a moment.
“I think you’re cool,” I told her.
She snorted. “You’re my mom. The fact that you think I’m cool means I’m for sure a dork.”
“Well, cool is overrated. And sometimes it’s code for a little bit mean. But you? You’re smart. A good student. Super cute. Best of all, you have a kind heart.”
She shrugged it off, disappearing into her book again, but I could see her fighting a smile.
“Good talk,” I said to no one. But it had been.
Peyton went back to reading. Ten seconds later I could have set a bomb off beside her and she wouldn’t have heard it. I used to read like that when I was young. Before I was a mother. Now nothing took me that far from reality.
Except maybe watching my children perform. Ms. Taft had decided to run the Sandra Dee song one more time. It was time to clean up, but Marshall had told me I could stay. Anna-Claire came center and began, and the whole world fell away again. It was the same when I was at a robotics match and Peyton was at the controls. At ten weeks all Robert had to do was show his brand-new toothless smile to put me into a trance.
When she finished, I stood and gave her huge, silent thumbs-up, then patted Peyton’s oblivious knee. When I turned to go, I didn’t see Robert’s car seat.
But that wasn’t possible. It had been right there.
I hurried up the aisle, caught in a chilly disbelief. Maybe the seat was behind the chairs? But who had moved it? No one else had been up here. I tried to remember the last time I’d looked back to check on him. Not long. I didn’t think. But I’d been talking to Peyton, and then Anna-Claire had started singing—
This was scary, but at the same time part of me was sure there was an explanation. Maybe Greer had taken him back down to the greenroom. She was baby crazy.
I was at the row now, and he was gone. Just gone. So was his diaper bag. His empty bottle lay abandoned on the floor. Beside it was a single sheet of white paper, folded in half.
I picked it up, my hands visibly trembling. I opened it. A note. Handwritten in large block print.
If you ever want to see your baby again, GO HOME—
The black ink went blurry. The paper rattled in my hands. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t see or breathe. My spine was glass, and all my blood was water. I found myself sitting on the floor beside his empty bottle. My dazed mind noted there was a little milk in it, maybe half an ounce. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. But I didn’t need to read more of the note to know what had happened.
I had not dreamed a witch. I’d seen a real person, made of flesh and bone and a secret, dark agenda, peering in my window. I’d seen her again, hurrying through the parking lot toward the fire door that the kids kept propping open. She’d been stalking me.
No. She’d been stalking Robert. And now she had him.
3
As Marshall put the leftover snacks in the greenroom refrigerator, he caught himself hoping Bree would walk in and see him handling this small task for her. It was like a dead mouse he could drop on her doorstep. It made him tired of himself. She was happily married. With three kids. Not to mention her husband was both a nice guy and one of his damn bosses.
He was digging a surprising number of fruit-snack wrappers out of the sofa cushions when Cara found him.
“Need some help?” she asked him, smiling
Every other middle-school human must have vacated the building; he was getting eye contact and everything. He smiled back.
“Thanks,” he said, and then couldn’t resist adding, “Sugar Peep,” just to see her eyes dart around, making sure no lingering teen or tween had heard the silly nickname. God, he wouldn’t be thirteen again for a hundred thousand dollars. Not even for a day. He stopped teasing her and added, serious, “I watched rehearsal from the balcony. You were great. I can’t wait to see the whole show.”