I scanned the board of Avis Preferred members. I love few things in life like a loyalty program. I found my name assigned to a space in the parking lot.
“This was supposed to be a bus ride to Atlantic City. Now you’re flying all over the country—”
“All over the country? It’s a three-hour flight. Booked it on miles. I’m back late tonight.” I walked outside. The humidity hit me like a steel-toed boot to the belly. One blast and I was transported back.
“It’s another day away,” Roman said.
“Oh, right, but you can fly to Australia—with a two-night stopover in Bangkok!”
“It was cheaper with a stopover.”
“Who knows what goes on there? But I can’t fly to Houston—”
“You think I wanted to leave? I had to go home.”
“And visit James might-be-a-sex-tourist Townsend in Thailand?” Holden’s whimpering grew louder in the background. “Did you change him?” I asked. “He’s probably dirty.”
“He’s not dirty…” I heard Roman sniff. “He might be dirty.”
Last week, at Holden’s three-month checkup, Roman helped get his diaper off to do the exam. As he untaped the Pampers, the nurse smiled and called him a “hands-on dad.” “You’re lucky,” she told me.
This laughably low bar totally inflated Roman’s ego and his sense of how much he actually contributed, rendering it impossible to have a rational discussion about the division of labor. That same day, I’d fed Holden seventeen times, wheeled him around to six different public parks, even though it still hurt to walk. I swapped out exactly four onesies, reapplied sunscreen three times, changed who knows how many diapers, one of which led to a big flood of piss in my face in a Starbucks bathroom in SoHo as French tourists banged on the door. When Holden finally took a nap at home, tan lines from where his onesie had been, even with SPF 50, I used the time to sit in an Epsom salts bath to soften the pain and rub hemorrhoid cream on my asshole before trying out a postnatal perineal scar massager—and trust me when I tell you, this doesn’t feel like a massage. I even got to take a new cracked-nipple soothing spray for a whirl. I washed the onesies and a BuyBuy Baby’s worth of bottles, and, when Holden woke up, we read twelve board books about tractors, three of them bilingual. Roman untaped the Pampers.
Roman slept through the night and worked all day. I lived in a constant jet lag–like state in which the days and nights never started or ended. Roman organized balance sheets. The only organizing I did was of the Baby Essentials Plastic Baby Diaper Caddy. He deliveredPowerPoint presentations. I went to pelvic-floor therapy and my only adult interaction mostly happened on theJuju Beanapp. I was bored, exhausted, and very dumb. But it was much worse than that because I had to pretend to be blissful. A blissed-out new mom enjoying this special time with my baby. I’d read all the books—Cherish the First Six WeeksandBringing Up Bébé. Nobody wrote about how you might find yourself feeling so weary and restless—without a second to rest—that you dive into a quixotic pursuit to find a long-lost friend. But I think what really bothered me was that Roman still knew exactly who he was, whereas I’d completely lost who I used to be, misplaced somewhere next to Roman’s wallet. Now, where did I put her? Each morning, on my way out with Holden, I’d catch a passing glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d squint—who’sthat?
“I miss you guys,” I said, trying to reassure Roman. “I didn’t want to come here, but if anyone will know, her grandma will. They were so close. Daisy worshipped Queenie.”
“That’s a name?”
“It was Eleanor, but everyone called her Queenie. I don’t know. It’s River Oaks.”
Roman kept asking questions, and I kept answering.
Him: “Do you want the babysitter to bathe him?”
Me: “Yes, I left her all the instructions in the Skip Hop Moby Bath Bundle, and I left the Noodle and Boo newborn shampoo. That’s his favorite.”
Him: “What time is Mandarin story time at the library?”
Me: “Noon, in the little garden on Elizabeth Street. It’s all taped to the fridge.”
Him: “Should I defrost another bottle?”
Me: “What? No. I labeled each feeding. You have plenty. I’m not a goat.”
Him: “Where is his library class?”
Me: “The little garden on Elizabeth Street.”
…and so on, as I walked to find my Nissan Altima.
But all I could think about was how hot it had been when I first met Daisy. How she smelled so crisp, so adult. How she rubbed oil all over her legs so that they glistened in the beating sun. How cool and light it felt to be eighteen and under the heavy AC of a buffet of bad cafeteria food and literature classes and a dorm room at the end of the hall on the seventeenth floor, all paid for by our absent parents. How breezy and easy and spoiled we’d been.
I’d gotten into the Nissan Altima and turned on the air when I heard the babysitter ring the doorbell. Roman unlocked the door, Holden in the background. “Hiya,” Roman said, oozing charm. “I’m Roman. Christine, right? I think you spoke to my wife—”
“Catherine. The babysitter’s name is Catherine,” I yelled.
“Let me pay you…Where is my wallet?” I imagined him scrambling. Every. Single. Morning. The wallet, conspicuously missing.
