Page 93 of Made for You
“Is it her?”
There’s a brief silence. “I can’t be sure. The picture I saw was from a long time ago.”
“I guess I’m wondering if Pine might be her married name,” I say. “Can you look into that? See if there’s a marriage record for Laura Wekstein?”
“Sure, but it might take some time.”
“Okay.” I stab the notepad with my pen. Even though I’m frustrated at this roadblock, I can’t shake the feeling that I have everything I need right here. That it’s just a matter of connecting the dots.
I don’t want to wait for Ally to do a second round of research.
Then again... I might not have to.
If Josh’s stalker girlfriend was Andy Wekstein’s sister, there’s someone who’d know. Someone who obsessively followed every detail of Josh’s life and cared deeply about who he dated—and knew he had a thing for redheads.
She’s the last person I ever wanted to see again.
And this time, I don’t have a gun.
THEN
Josh’s mom dies the same November night I give birth to Annaleigh.
When the nurse calls to tell us, Josh weeps in the recovery room. I try to show some emotion, but I’m exhausted by the sixteen hours of labor and can barely keep my eyes open.
The nurses here have been watching me with interest, peppering little questions here and there. “So they didn’t program you to avoid labor pain?” says one nurse in surprise, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “Assholes.”
I laughed, but it did hurt a little to imagine Andy programming this into me. To be reminded that this wasn’t exactly a “natural” birth. Synthetic skin and organs don’t hurt on their own.
But I sweep this thought aside because of the miraculous bundle in my arms. A thatch of dark hair on her sweet head. The squintiest little alien eyes. She looks at me with wisdom and patience, and I’m convinced that she’s saying, Don’t worry. We’ll teach each other how to do this. And I don’t feel worried right now. Exhausted, yes, but also ebullient. It’s intoxicating to think that this was the little person in my belly. All along, it was her.
I do try to eke out a tear for Rita as Josh sits in the chair by my bed with his head in his hands, sniffing under his hospital-issued N95 mask, but if I’m brutally honest, what I feel is relief. Now, when we go back home with our new baby, it will be a fresh start. Annaleigh won’t have to breathe that toxicity into her innocent, new lungs. She deserves a house full of light and love. Still, I try to show Josh the compassion he needs.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I say, reaching out to touch him.
Josh leaves me and the baby, to handle the logistics of his mother’s body. By the time I come home from the hospital two days later, Rita is gone. I walk around slowly, feeling her absence. Peek into the room where she died, which I’m already planning on repurposing into a playroom.
The first days with my baby are brutal, wonderful, difficult, and also the best work I’ve ever done. My fifth day home, I’m finally walking semi-normally again, I’ve found a potential babysitter just down the street, we’re getting the hang of nursing, and this is good, because WHAT’S UP magazine is scheduled to do an exclusive interview and photo shoot with us, and it’s nice to feel like I have things a little more together before their arrival. I’m still not looking forward to strangers and cameras in the house, but with Josh fired and the funeral bills coming up, we need the money more than ever.
As Josh and I get ready in the bathroom before WHAT’S UP arrives, I smile at his reflection.
“I have a surprise for us,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I found a babysitter. I can’t be away from Annaleigh for long, but I was thinking we could drive over to the Starbucks and grab some hot chocolates or something, just you and me.”
He perks up. “That sounds great.”
I’ve just finished putting on my mascara when WHAT’S UP arrives. There’s the photographer, her assistant, and the journalist who’s interviewing us. They all gush over Annaleigh for a few seconds, and then get to work setting up lighting and a white backdrop, moving Rita’s tchotchkes, and repositioning the furniture.
We pose in the living room. I’m wearing a loose, white dress that floats gracefully over my postpartum body. Josh wears a simple white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and jeans. We’re all barefoot, and the photographer brought little crowns of flowers for me and the baby. “Ethereal,” she gushes. We are the perfect family. The interview is painless. I tell my birth story. Josh talks about grieving his mother. And for a couple hours, until they leave, I can pretend that this is the real us. God, how far I’ve fallen, that this fantasy is now a refuge. What happened to my ideals? Facing reality...embracing reality...but how can you embrace a nightmare? Maybe, like Cam said, I’ve shifted to being aspirational. That’s it. I’m not pretending to be the family who just got photographed. I’m aspiring.
We wait in the living room for the sitter, a girl named Eden. It’s quarter to seven. She isn’t due for another fifteen minutes, but Annaleigh is asleep upstairs in the bassinet, and Josh and I are both eager to get out. Josh is on the couch, hands behind his head, hips slung forward, tapping his foot. I’m in the small paisley-print armchair opposite him. It’s dark outside, and the low lamplight is intimate. The house never feels peaceful, exactly, but at least right now it feels at rest, like whatever malevolent presence Rita has imprinted into the space is asleep, for now. Maybe this is a good time to talk about some practicalities, like Rita’s funeral, which we should probably choose a date for. Maybe after the funeral the space won’t feel so watchful, like her eyes are looking at me from the wallpaper, from the shadows in the room where she died, from her photograph above the fireplace.
“I’m starting to feel more normal,” I say, tucking my legs under me. “If you’d like me to jump in and help with planning the funeral service—”
“Don’t,” says Josh, rolling his head back on the edge of the couch and looking at the ceiling instead of me. “Just don’t.”