“She’s thirteen hundred a week for one kid. Time-and-a-half late nights and weekends. Oh, and we’d reimburse her for the subway, Ubers…”
“Fuck me.”
“I did…and now we need a nanny.”
What Roman really wants to say is that unless we win the Powerball, Elena isn’t happening. I may have thought of myself as having a poet’s heart, but I married a man with an accountant’s heart. “But why—?Why?” I’d whined the first time he showed me his spreadsheet, told me that a full-time nanny would be a “stretch.” We both have jobs. We have an apartment in Manhattan. We order Postmates more than we open our own fridge. But math doesn’t lie. Medical bills. Co-pays. Rent. Debt on his MBA, on the MFA classes I never finished. I needed to keep my job, which meant we needed childcare. But we could only afford a nanny if we were both working full time and I picked up freelance work on weekends. We’d discussed a nanny share, but that would require me having parent friends to share with. Holden is on the wait list for the free day care at Roman’s office. He’d have facial hair before he got in.
I made three hundred dollars proofreadingCar and Drivermagazine’s special issue on electric crossovers to fund my trip to Atlantic City. “The babysitter will be here at noon. My bus leaves at three.” Roman kisses Holden’s forehead. Holden reaches a hand up and starts to rub Roman’s freshly shaved face, the soothing smoothness. “I sent you the info—his feeding and sleep schedule, Poison Control, the pediatrician, on the fridge. I’m staying at the Borgata.”
“Swanky.”
Then I realize, “I’ve never been to Atlantic City!” No one had ever been this excited to take a Rio-to-Riviera Express Bus to New Jersey.
—
When I get off the subway at Port Authority, I send a private message to @NJMommy278. “Headed to AC, baby! I get in at 5:45. I can Uber to you. Or did you want to meet at my hotel?” I see three dots appear, then disappear. Appear again, then disappear, then nothing. Had I freaked her out? We hadn’t exactly planned for me to come down, but it wasn’t like I was asking to stay with her or anything.
We’ve just passed Secaucus, an industrial park out one side of the bus, the Hackensack River out the other, when @NJMommy278 texts back: “Hey girl!!! Sorry. My man lost his disability. His boss is such a DICK. We’ve got a whole lawsuit thing, but our baby needs formula, diapers—expensive little fuckers, riiiiight? Think you could Zelle me a little $$$ and then we can totally meet up and talk? I want to help you find your sis!!!! (kiss emoji).”
Was I really surprised? Half the moms onJuju Beanwere trying to recruit me to a pyramid scheme. Beach Body Juice. Slim Skinny Serum. A rejuvenating facial spritz that was ninety-nine percent pure oxygen. They were literally selling air. I didn’t need @NJMommy278. I had the nail salon. I had the photo. I had a lead on the Lusty Lady. I had a list of sixteen other possible adult clubs in a twenty-mile radius. I had solid leads. I had a plan.
I get to my hotel room, in a casino hotel and “resort” that smells like a Bobby Flay steak house and secondhand emphysema. I’d done my research. The Borgata is the nicest hotel in Atlantic City. At one ninety-nine a night, it’s a splurge. And yet, the black walls, the buffet with a velvet rope, and the smell of a seafood tower that has been out since brunch—let’s just say it does not exude vacation vibes.
From the twenty-third floor, you can’t see the grime or the weed shops, only the Atlantic and nostalgia. The bed is enormous, a thing of beauty. I rip the comforter off and dive into the California king bed face-first. Ah, sheets stiff with industrial detergent. Blackout curtains as effective as those solar eclipse glasses we pull out every twenty-seven years. It may as well be a goddamn Aman Resort.
I spread out my notes, a map of adult clubs in the area, and the only photos and leads I have on Daisy. I order a cheese plate and a glass of merlot. I pump with my Elvie breast pump. Holden never latched. So we never get to share in the magical bond that they tell you about. I just get to insert my swollen nipples into a leakproof bra and a rechargeable, cordless, hands-free double breast pump with nine levels of smart, hospital-grade suction strength, and, boy, does it suck. I try to ignore the burning twitch in my nipples, scrolling through photos of Holden, missing the weight of him on my shoulder, the feeling of his tiny feathery paw wisping against my skin. His smell.
Room service arrives just as I finish pumping. I haven’t had wine or soft cheese since before I was pregnant. I don’t even mind that the wine is lukewarm, the cheese wrapped in Saran wrap. I finish every bite, lie back on the pillows, and fall asleep.
Chapter Four
• • • • •
The Lusty Lady wasnext door to a Rainforest Cafe and had French doors that opened up to the boardwalk. It was more sports bar than strip club, with a smattering of women with stretched breasts shoved into sports bras and skimpy satin athletic shorts. When they weren’t balancing trays of beer Bierhalle-style, they were slightly shimmying near big-screen TVs showing a rerun of a Devils game. The lights weren’t nearly dark enough; I could see every stain. I found the manager, a severe woman who read more social studies teacher than madam.
“Hi, Donna. I’m Emily.” I reached out to shake her hand. She gave me a smile that said she didn’t have the energy to deal with me.
“What can I do you for, Emily? Happy hour for another half hour.”
“Hi…I’m just…I’m looking for a friend and was hoping you could help. I heard she maybe used to work here? Or around here?” I said, pulling out Daisy’s photo.
Donna took the photo, studied it, then handed it back to me. “I have seen it all.” She walked away to scold a busboy. “Table 9 still needs bussing.”
I chased after her. “Wait. Does that mean you’ve seen her?” She signaled to a bouncer, who appeared, towering over me. I got the hint.
I walked back out onto the boardwalk, enjoying the fresh potpourri of sea air and funnel cake until a guy with a face tattoo asked me if I had any meth.
“Not on me,” I said, for some reason.
I tucked into the heavily air-conditioned lobby of Harrah’s and peeked at a photo of Holden that Roman texted earlier. Propped up on the couch in a fire engine onesie, holding the NogginStik, his chubby thighs on full display. What new tricks had he learned while I was getting thrown out of an Atlantic City sports bar? Did Roman even know that he was starting to roll over on his own? He could roll off the sofa.
The revolving doors turned, and I felt a warm ocean breeze and a wash of panic. Wait. Did Roman put the NogginStik in his crib? I tried to log on to the Owlet baby monitor app, but I had low data. One of theJuju Beanmoms saw the NogginStik in my posts and said she had a friend who had a friend whose baby had somehow opened a similar STEM gadget and pulled out the battery and choked on it. Dr. Brooke calls this SUID, Sudden Unexpected Infant Death, a blanket category that includes any accidental sleep-related deaths. Why wouldn’t the wi-fi work? Motherfucker. Finally, the Owlet app loaded. A grainy image of Holden sleeping, in the Love to Dream Swaddle Up sleep sack that makes him look like a snow angel, sucking on his pacifier in an empty crib.
—
It was almost two a.m. I scanned my notes against the map and decided to take an Uber to the next stop, a higher-end joint closer to Cape May. The driver dropped me outside the Peppermint Elephant,a windowless block of concrete with a parking lot still set up for a medieval times festival. Blow-up castle, turkey-leg booth. This was a much more professional operation. Twenty-dollar cover charge, two-drink minimum type of thing. That evening featured a special guest, Roxy Love, famous in certain circles after starring in a hit antiwar adult film calledThe Axis of Evil. Roxy was over forty, and what she lacked in youth she made up for in effort. There were costume changes—top hats and boas and a dominatrix bra with silver spikes. But the crowd looked more interested in buying the Roxy swag she’d be signing after the show.
I ordered a club soda at the bar and slid the photo over to a bartender. “Hey, just wondering if you’ve ever seen this girl? She’s a frie—” I stopped myself. “She’s my sister. I’m trying to find her to tell her that I had a baby and that she’s an aunt.”
