Precautions? Like Cole was some kind of animal. As though people should be getting inoculated. This made no sense whatsoever. A child could not go from being essentially perfect to dangerously disturbed, not overnight. Barbara knew that. But right now she just needed some air. She went to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I—”

Rhea reached out and put a hand on Barbara’s arm. She tilted her head to the side and smiled warmly. Barbara stared down at Rhea’s fingers pressed against her skin. How had she become this woman, this mother in need of a steadying hand?

“Watchful waiting is our best approach,” Rhea said. “These things do so often pass, vanish as quickly as they cropped up. But if you feel you need to do something in the meantime—and sometimes I feel that way—I have the name of someone.” Rhea stood, then walked over to her desk, returning with a business card pinched in her fingers. Barbara took the card reluctantly. Dr. Peter Kellerman, Developmental Child Psychologist. “He comes very highly recommended.”

Barbara didn’t breathe again until she was halfway down the hall, the business card crushed in her fist. Then she felt a wave of heat followed by cold. Worried she might pass out, Barbara ducked into the girls’ bathroom at the end of the hall.

Locked in one of the narrow stalls, she squatted fully clothed on the small toilet. Under the stall next to her, she saw a girl’s feet shuffle back and forth in worn pink sneakers. They were the glittery kind Hannah had begged for in elementary school and Barbara had always refused to buy. She could no longer remember precisely why.

Barbara stared down at her own much bigger shoes in front of that small toilet. What was she doing, getting so upset? So what if there was something Cole needed to work on? Sooner or later, each child had a weakness. Besides, like her own mother had always said, a mother needed happy children, not perfect ones.

But there was still a loud sob creeping into Barbara’s throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth so it couldn’t make it all the way out.

Barbara waited until the girl in the pink sneakers had washed her hands and left before she pulled her hand off her face. When no sound came, Barbara forced herself to her feet and tried to smile a little. But there was still that sucked-out feeling at the bottom of her stomach.

When she stepped out of the stall, Barbara smoothed her blond hair, cut these days into an elegant bob, and straightened her crisp white blouse. Then she caught sight of her reflection in the long bathroom mirror. She smiled, but her face looked so ashen and afraid in the fluorescent light. Like someone she no longer recognized. Like someone she didn’t even want to know.

Molly Sanderson, Session 7, March 29, 2013

(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with

Patient Knowledge and Consent)

Q:    Have you spoken to your father about what happened to the baby?

M.S.: You’re joking, right?

Q:    I wasn’t, no. That would be a joke, talking to your father?

M.S.: We barely know each other. And before you go off on a tangent, no, I don’t blame him for that. Okay, maybe I blame him. But I just—I don’t care anymore. Or I don’t care now. After we lost the baby, he sent me a sympathy card and made a donation to my work—or my old work—like we asked people to. But there’s only so much that a stranger can do in a situation like this.

Q:    And that’s okay with you? That your sole surviving parent is a stranger?

M.S.: What difference does it make whether I’m okay with it? It’s the way things are. I have enough problems right now without dredging up ancient history. I had a rough childhood and a cold, angry mother who died when I was eighteen. I can’t change any of that now.

Q:    But you could acknowledge that not having parents makes this harder for you.

M.S.: Because feeling sorry for myself is going to make me feel better?

Q:    It might. And what about Justin’s parents? What’s your relationship like with them?

M.S.: Justin’s mother came and stayed for two weeks right after. I don’t know what we would have done without her help.

Q:    But it doesn’t sound like you’re exceptionally close.

M.S.: Are we supposed to be? Justin’s parents are just— They’re intimidating, I guess. His mother told me once that I was different from Justin’s other girlfriends. More spirited, that’s what she said. I think she meant it as a compliment, that I kept him in better line than his other girlfriends or something. But it made me feel like a horse. That’s what they’re like: well-intentioned, but always off somehow.

Q:    Have you and Justin spoken about trying to have another baby?

M.S.: How could I have another baby? I can’t take care of the one I have.

Q:    I didn’t mean now. Eventually. Sometimes making plans like that for the future can be helpful.

M.S.: I can’t do that. Not yet.

Q:    Have you told the NAPW that you’re not coming back?

M.S.: Yes, I told them. They said I could have more time off, as much as I needed. But I don’t want more time. I want to know that it’s over. That I never have to go back there.

Q:    What will you do if you don’t go back to work?

M.S.: Try to survive. Right now that feels like more than a full-time job.

Molly

I headed straight from the police station to the Black Cat Café on the far side of the chilly green. Gray had overtaken the sky, turning it from the front edge of spring back into the tail end of winter. I pulled my coat tighter around me and lifted my bag on my shoulder.

I was glad I’d brought my laptop with me. There wasn’t much time before everyone would have the story, which meant I’d have to go for basic in my second post. I’d save my crime statistics and the background on Simon Barton. As it was, I would have barely anything to add in the print follow-up. I’d already called the ME’s office and, as expected, I had gotten a curt “No comment pending our official results.”

Despite my initial vertigo, I was no longer conflicted about staying on the story. I wanted to, needed to write about it, and with an intensity that even I had to acknowledge was somewhat disconcerting. I could only imagine what Justin would say if he knew what I was feeling, which was why I didn’t plan to tell him.

Can you have coffee? Justin texted before I’d gotten all the way across the green. He was checking up on me. Acting like he was sure I’d be fine, but wanting a peek with his own eyes to be sure.

Great. Black Cat? Thirty minutes?

By then I’d be done with the Web update.

Wouldn’t miss it.

It was warm inside the rough-hewn Black Cat, the air rich with the ten varieties of free-trade coffee beans on offer. It was my favorite café in town, the place I went when I didn’t want to write at home, which was most of the time these days. That was the thing about not being able to get out of bed for weeks on end. Once you finally could, you developed a real phobia of being at home.

The Black Cat was a true university hangout—professors and students—complete with wobbly wood tables, faded concert posters, and bathrooms that didn’t lock properly. The moms in town all went to Norma’s around the corner, which had brightly hued art deco throw pillows on its long benches and lavender soap in the bathroom. It also had an organic juice bar, two kinds of vegan muffins, and wine from four o’clock. Meanwhile, the Black Cat didn’t serve decaf and refused to stock skim milk or artificial sweeteners. The first time Stella came in with me, she got lippy when they scoffed at her request for stevia. The argument between her and the barista got so heated, I thought for sure he was going to throw his skateboard at her.