“Yes. They did everything they could to find him. Called in the police, FBI, CIA, National Guard, and a psychic. Even thepsychiccouldn’t find him, Millie.”
I don’t know the details of this alleged abduction, but I certainly never heard of anything like that on the news. And it didn’t even happen around here. To Janice, “a few towns away” might very well mean California. I’m not sure it would help to share the statistic that almost all child abductions are committed by family members. Janice seems to have her mind made up. Spencer will probably remain on a leash until he’s thirty.
“Well, they’re going to have to go home themselves eventually,” I say. “My husband and I both work, and we can’t pick them up every day.”
She looks at me in amazement. “You work?”
“Um, yes.”
She clucks her tongue at me. “When my husband passed, he left me enough money so that I wouldn’t have to work anymore.”
“Um, that’s nice.”
“It’s so terribly sad,” she goes on, “that your children don’t get to have a mother at home. They will never know the love they deserve from a mother who won’t leave their side.”
My mouth falls open. “My kids know I love them.”
“But think about how much you’re missing!” she cries. “Doesn’t that make you sad?”
The words “at least my kid isn’t on a leash” are at the tip of my tongue, but by some absolute miracle, I manage to keep my mouth shut. My children know that I love them. Also, I love my job, and I do good things for people at the hospital. And even ifI didn’t, we need every penny of both of our incomes right now while Enzo is rebuilding his business out here.
“We make it work” is all I say.
“Well, I’m sure you do your best with the little time you have with them.”
Somehow, I don’t think Janice and I will be great friends. I was so excited to move here, but it’s starting to seem like I’ve chosen the least friendly cul-de-sac in town. One neighbor is hitting on my husband, and the other is judging my dedication as a mother.
Once again, I wonder if moving here has been a terrible mistake.
SIX
School was a success today.
When the kids get off the bus, they are bursting with stories about their first days of school. Nico has already befriended every child in the third-grade class, and he successfully made milk squirt out of his nose during lunch. (This is a skill he’s been cultivating for months.) Ada is less enthusiastic than her brother but assures me she’s made some new friends. Switching schools midway through the year is a hard thing to do, and I’m so proud of both of them.
“And Little League tryouts are at the end of the week,” Nico says. “When is Dad getting home? He promised he would practice with me.”
I check my watch. Suzette told us to show up at her house at six, which is less than an hour from now. Knowing Enzo, he’s going to cut it as close as possible. “Soon. I hope.”
“When?” he presses me.
“Soon.” He doesn’t look satisfied with this answer, so I add, “I have a great idea. Why don’t you go hit the ball around yourself in the backyard?”
His eyes light up. “I love having a backyard, Mom.”
Me too.
Nico goes off to practice on his own in the backyard, which is a luxury we didn’t have back in the city. I go upstairs to the bedroom and apply a fresh layer of concealer to cover the circles under my eyes that seem like they’re always there these days. I start to put on some mascara but manage to get a glob of it in my eye and then have to wash it all off because I’m tearing so badly. I apply a layer of something called nude lipstick, which is apparently lipstick that makes it look like you’re not wearing lipstick at all. I can’t imagine why they would make such a product, although a better question is why did I buy it?
We haven’t purchased a full-length mirror yet, so I am doing acrobatics to check my appearance in the small vanity mirror over the sink. It involves some amount of contortion, but I finally decide that I look fine enough. Anyway, I have to figure out the dessert situation, because that is my contribution to the evening.
On the way home from work, I stopped off at the supermarket and bought an apple pie. Now, don’t get me wrong—I love apple pie in all forms. But when I get downstairs to the kitchen and pull it out of the grocery bag, it looks like exactly what it is: a cheap pie from a local supermarket.
I can only imagine what sort of commentary I’m going to get from Suzette on this pie. She probably goes to some fancy French patisserie for all her desserts.
I pull the pie out of the plastic wrap but leave it inside the metal tin. Then I grab a fork from the silverware drawer. With artistic precision, I rough up the edges of the pie and poke the center a few times. The pie looks decidedly less assembly-line perfect now. Could I pass it off as home baked? Maybe.
As I’m scrutinizing the pie, the front door hinges squeal as the door swings open. Enzo is home. Thank God, since we don’t have much time left. I rush out to the front door to meet him, butimmediately, my face falls. My husband is literally covered head to toe in dirt. And we have to be at the Lowells’ in…
