17
What’s that sound? I can’t quite place the shrill, high-pitched cry, but I think it’s coming from... under the covers? I peel back the sheets
and retrieve what looks like some sort of... walkie-talkie? Whatever it is, it’s broadcasting a noise that makes my skin
crawl.
I look to my left, peering over the enormous pile of pillows at the center of the king-size bed—a barricade?—and see the muscular
arm of a man sleeping beside me. He shifts, groaning. “What time is it?” he mutters, obviously annoyed, as if I’m the sole
perpetrator of his disturbed sleep.
“Um, six thirty-twoa.m.,” I reply, eying the alarm clock on my bedside table. I brush my hair from my face, noticing the
ring on my hand—gold with a large princess-cut diamond that’s encircled in more diamonds.
He yawns. “Can you get her this morning, please ? I have that big meeting today. Remember?”
My heart beats faster as the crying intensifies. “Uh... okay,” I say, as he presses a pillow over his head, presumably
to block out the noise—or me?
I’m too stunned—horrified?—by the grating noise to think of much else, like where I am or who I’m with. Instead, I climb out of bed like a zombie, tiptoeing through the door and down the hallway as the wailing intensifies. When I get to the third door on my right the sound reaches a fever pitch. Cautiously, I turn the doorknob, peering inside as my knees almost give out. Just ahead, clutching the railing of a white crib, is a little girl—a baby—in pink pajamas, with curly dark ringlets cascading around her face. When she notices me, her brown eyes light up and the crying turns to happy babbling.
I can’t move or speak. Instead, I stand in the doorway as I take in the sight. In Ireland, I became a stepmom, and today?
Could this be a child of my own? The mere thought is both moving and dizzying, especially after my experience on the farm
with Nathan. I think back to the scar on my abdomen, and yet, here is this precious child. My child?
Pink wooden letters on the opposite wall spell out her name: sabrina . “ Sabrina ,” I whisper in awe. She has my forehead—my nose! For the first time in my life, I understand the concept of love at first
sight.
Blinking back tears, I approach her crib, as she coos with delight, holding her arms out to me. But I pause, suddenly filled
with worry. I don’t know anything about babies.
Sabrina makes a grunting sound as she points to the floor, where a little brown teddy bear has obviously fallen through the
crib slats. I hand it to her, which elicits more happy sounds. What am I supposed to do next? Maybe she’ll teach me? Sabrina flaps her arms, reaching for me, obviously wanting to be picked up. I take a deep breath, reaching into the crib
slowly, methodically, as if I’m extracting a bomb on the verge of explosion. I place my hands beneath each of her arms and
lift her up into the air, holding her out in front of me, arms stiffly extended, which is when I notice a wet spot on her
pajamas. Oh no. No, no. Her diaper leaked!
She giggles as I scour the room, contemplating my next move. I spot a changing table by the window—I mean, I think that’s
what it is—with a stack of disposable diapers on the shelf below. Here goes nothing.
“Okay, Sabrina,” I say, feigning confidence, but truthfully I’m a nervous wreck, “we’re going to change your diaper!” I gently
lay her on the table, but she immediately rolls to her side, wiggling back into a crawling position and nearly falling over
the edge.
“No, no! Be careful!”
She giggles, inching to the edge again as if this is a funny game.
Fortunately, I’m able to wrangle her back into place, this time keeping one hand on her belly, while the other fumbles for
a diaper.
“There,” I say, once I’ve finally managed to unzip her pajamas. Sabrina seems to find this all wildly amusing as I remove
her soaked diaper, which must weigh as much as she does. I pause for a beat, Sabrina naked and wriggling from my grasp on
the changing table. Wait, don’t I need, um, baby wipes? Yes, I decide. Okay, so where are the wipes ? I hold her in place on the changing table again as I search the shelf below. Nothing. “Okay,” I mutter, lifting her up again in the same stiff fashion as before, but this time she’s nude and we’re staring at
each other in face-off fashion. “Baby wipes,” I say, looking into her big brown eyes. “Can you help me find baby wipes?”
Sabrina giggles again as I set her on the floor and search the room once more. I pick out a clean outfit from her dresser,
but when I look down to lift her up again, she’s gone .
“Sabrina!” I cry, panicked, before I catch a glimpse of her bare bottom as she crawls out of the doorway. I run ahead, surprised
by her speed as I chase down the hall after her to the living room, where she pulls herself up to stand at the edge of the
coffee table, right next to a pack of baby wipes, which she pats with her chubby hand.
“There they are,” I say, relieved, but also in awe. “You were trying to show me, weren’t you?”
She coos as a stream of liquid trickles down her legs to the fancy-looking Persian rug below. “Oh no! No, no, no...” I
freeze again, triaging the situation. “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “It’s okay. We just need to get this... diaper
on you.”
Sabrina babbles as I lay her on the sofa, making an awkward first pass with the wipes. After three failed attempts with the diaper, I finally succeed, though the final presentation appears a little lopsided. Getting her dressed is an altogether different challenge, however. While I do manage to slide her shirt over her head, the pants are a no-go—too much wiggling. “Well, I guess we’re not doing pants today,” I finally say, letting out a defeated sigh.
While Sabrina busies herself with a toy, I take in my surroundings, admiring the mid-century modern home and its airy, light-filled
open floor plan. The well-appointed kitchen has all the bells and whistles, including black granite countertops and a double-decker
wine fridge. Outside the adjoining dining room, palm trees line the edge of a rectangular-shaped infinity pool wedged against
the hillside. I peer out the sliding glass door, taking in the expansive city view, which is immediately familiar. This is
Los Angeles, for sure—I squint to make out the skyline—but the view is... Burbank, possibly—no, Universal City. Ten years
ago, when Frankie had a brief stint in LA, I flew down to visit her. I laugh, remembering how we ended up at a random Halloween
party in... Studio City, I think. The view is nearly identical.
I recall something else from that night— a man . He was tall, Black, ridiculously good-looking—even in that costume. I laugh to myself, remembering the horror and hilarity
of how he’d shown up as one half of a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He was the jelly; his date—the peanut butter—stood
him up. I, on the other hand, went in full Gatsby attire, wearing a flapper dress borrowed from Frankie. He and I danced.
We laughed. He’d asked me to have dinner with him the following weekend, but I had to fly home a few days later, nor was I
interested in a long-distance relationship.
Marcus. His name was Marcus.
I eye the entryway table ahead, with its collection of framed photos—mostly of Sabrina, but also of us. There we are, Marcus
and I, on our wedding day. I lift the frame, studying the photo, astounded.
I rack my brain, trying to remember what we talked about the night we met. He was a talent agent, I think. No, he worked in
sports—soccer? Yes! He was a sports agent , also funny, intelligent—a gentleman, for sure.
My heart does a little backflip looking at the photos of Sabrina that document her journey from infancy to her first birthday, where she hovers over a cupcake with one candle on top. She can’t be much older than one now. A fresh one.
I sigh, taking it all in as my mind clips at lightning speed. So, in some alternate reality, Marcus and I worked out, and
the result was this beautiful cherub... who appears to be nowhere in sight.
Her teddy bear and a few toys are on the rug where she was sitting only a moment ago, but she’s disappeared. “Sabrina?” I
call, panicked, and race down the hallway toward the bedroom where I woke up.
I find her there, crawling at the speed of light, about to enter the room, babbling at Marcus, who’s just stepped out of the
shower. Towel around his waist and an electric toothbrush in his mouth, he grins at Sabrina. She squeals with joy when he
lifts her onto the bed, immediately rolling around in the duvet cover like it’s covered in six inches of fresh snow.
“Thanks for handling wake-up duty today.” He turns to the sink to rinse his mouth. “Has she said her first word yet?”
“Uh, no,” I say, faltering. “I mean, not that I’ve heard.”
“All right. Anyway, I’ve got a crazy day ahead,” Marcus continues, dropping his towel to the floor and revealing every inch
of his chiseled physique. It’s hard to look away as he dresses, but I will myself to avert my eyes as I sit on the bed beside
Sabrina, my body the barrier from her falling over the ledge. “If I can sign Lorenzo Castranova, it would be a real coup.”
“Oh?” I say, attempting to follow along.
“I’ve got Diego, Rafael, and Paolo. But Lorenzo would be the crown jewel.” He slides his strong arms into a sports coat, then
kisses Sabrina on the top of her head before looking at me from the doorway, his expression somewhat indifferent. “Well, wish
me luck.”
“Luck,” I say, trying to catch his eye, but he’s looking down, scrolling through his phone.
“Sabrina has music class today, right?” he asks, turning back once more.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, thoroughly confused.
“’Kay,” he replies. “Have fun.”
I listen as his footsteps clip along the hardwood floors, down the hallway, before the front door closes with a thud. Am I just imagining things, or was that... weird? True, I barely know him, but by anyone’s standards Marcus seemed distant—cold, even. I remember the pile of pillows between
us on the bed, noting the fact that he didn’t kiss me goodbye, or even try. Maybe he’s a workaholic? Maybe we had a fight last night?
I sigh, then jolt forward, reaching for Sabrina’s leg, before she tumbles over the edge. “All right, Houdini,” I say, pulling
her into my arms. “Should we find you some breakfast?”
We head to the kitchen, where I strap her into a high chair, then proceed to stare into the fridge completely paralyzed. What
does one feed a baby? Certainly nothing she could choke on (which could be everything ), and nothing allergenic (which also could be everything ). I finally settle on a banana, which I find in the fruit basket on the counter, peeling it before placing it in her little
hands.
“Banana,” I say.
Sabrina giggles, then tosses it on the floor.
“No, no, eat banana,” I continue, picking it up, washing it under the faucet, and coaxing her to take a bite, but she grimaces and covers
her mouth.
“All right, so you don’t like bananas. That’s okay.” I scour the kitchen again, looking for baby food—looking for anything—and
finally notice a strange-looking appliance on the counter beside a book titled Organic Baby Food Essentials . Wow. I’m not one of those granola moms, am I? I thumb through the book, with dozens of pages marked with sticky notes. Yeah, I am.
“Well,” I say with a sigh. “How about some milk, then?” I pour Sabrina a glass, holding the edge to her lips, relieved when she takes a sip, then another, before wriggling and arching her back, disinterested. When I set her down, she speed-crawls back to her toys in the living room. It’s only been an hour, and I’m already exhausted. How do people do this?
I pick up the cell phone on the coffee table—mine, I can only assume—and unlock it with Face ID. Marcus mentioned a music
class today, so I eye the calendar and see that “Mommy and Me Music” begins at 9a.m. If we’re going to go, it’s time to get
ready—and soon.
After a fifteen-minute struggle, I finally win the battle with Sabrina’s pants. From the closet in my bedroom, I select a
slouchy, lightweight sweater and leggings, then take a quick look at myself in the bedroom mirror. My cheeks are fuller than
normal, my hips a little wider—baby weight, probably, fun —and I can’t help but notice the dark circles under my eyes, evidence of lack of sleep, no doubt.
“Okay, cutie,” I say, sliding my feet into a pair of black Uggs, then lifting Sabrina in my arms. “Should we go on a little
adventure?”
She smiles, babbling incoherently as I reach for the keys by the door and walk out to the street, trying to guess which car
is mine. A man in front of the house next door waves. Holding a little girl in his arms, he’s about my age, attractive, with
tan skin and thick dark hair that he brushes from his eyes nonchalantly. He looks like the dad-next-store version of Enrique
Iglesias.
“Morning,” he says, grinning, walking toward me, coffee cup in hand.
“Uh, good morning,” I reply a little nervously.
“Ready for class?”
“Oh,” I say. “You mean the music class, right?”
He laughs. “That would be the one. I’ll admit, I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than sit in a circle with a
bunch of parents while our babies bang drums and shake maracas, but”—he shrugs—“Charlotte loves it.”
“Yeah,” I say, following along. “Sabrina, too.” I smile, eyeing my keys nervously, noting the Land Rover logo on the fob.
“Well, I better get going.”
“Oh,” he replies, glancing at his watch a little wounded. “You’re heading over early? I thought we planned to drive together.”
“Uh,” I begin. “Yeah, but I... need to stop at Starbucks first. It was an early morning—you know.”
“All too well,” he says, laughing, before our eyes meet again. “Still on for lunch today, right?”
“Um, yeah?”
“Good,” he says, pleased. “I’ll cook. The girls can play before naptime.”
“Before naptime,” I repeat. “Right.”
“Okay, then,” he says with a big smile, running a hand through his wavy hair. “See you soon.”
So, I’m besties with the hot stay-at-home dad next door? I wonder what Marcus thinks of all of this as I unlock the Land Rover and stare inside at Sabrina’s car seat, which looks
like some sort of alien life-form. I mean, it might as well be. What the heck am I supposed to do with all these straps and
buckles? Sabrina seems amused as I fumble with the various clasps—none of which seem to line up with the others. “At least
one of us finds this funny,” I say, wondering why anyone would invent an adult-proof baby seat. I mean, are they trying to
drive us crazy? I think so.
When I’ve finally secured Sabrina in place, I climb into my seat, a little stunned. Wow, I’m a mom. I actually created this little human, and I’m responsible for keeping her alive. The magnitude of it all nearly takes my breath away. I exhale deeply and consult the GPS system for the nearest Starbucks. I need coffee—ASAP. Fortunately, there’s one a mile away, and I start
driving, down the winding road along the hillside, glancing back in the rearview mirror every few moments to check on Sabrina.
We pass a million joggers, which I swerve to avoid, and even more people with dogs, including one woman pushing hers in a
stroller, and another with a miniature poodle in a baby carrier strapped to her body.
I pull into the Starbucks parking lot, disappointed that there’s no drive-through, which means I’m going to have to do this whole car seat thing all over again. But, for caffeine? It’s worth it, I decide, extricating Sabrina from the seat and lifting her into my arms.
“Your baby is adorable ,” the woman behind the counter says, waving at Sabrina, who burrows her face into my chest, before peeking out a moment later,
smiling shyly.
“Thank you,” I say, as the man in line behind us begins playing peek-a-boo with her. In his expensive-looking suit, with that
CEO look, he doesn’t strike me as the type of person who interacts with other people’s tiny humans in line at Starbucks, but
then again, babies do bring out strange things in us. I mean, look at me.
“What can we get started for you today?”
“I’ll take a triple-shot almond-milk latte.”
She furrows her brow. “ Almond milk?”
I shrug. “Oh, have you run out?”
“Well, no,” she says. “But surely you’ve heard that it takes a gallon of water to produce a single almond?” She nods righteously. “Oat milk is a much better option, I mean, for the planet.”
“Oh,” I say, a little taken aback by the preachy barista. “That’s... very interesting, but I’ll stick with almond milk,
if that’s okay.”
The woman nods, obviously displeased, as if my drink order may be the sole cause of climate change.
Ignoring her, I eye the pastry case, thinking of Sabrina. “Oh, I’ll take a chocolate donut.” I pause. “And a Frappuccino for
her—but decaf, please.”
The woman’s eyes get big. “I’m sorry, did you just say you wanted a Frappuccino for... her ?”
“Yeah—decaf,” I say, inserting my card into the machine.
When our drinks are ready, I plop Sabrina into a chair at a table by the window, placing the donut on a napkin in front of
her. “I bet you like chocolate, don’t you?”
She stares at the sweet confection for a long moment, before timidly pressing a finger into the frosting, then dabbing it to her tongue. The corners of her mouth instantly creep up into a smile. Five minutes later, my caffeine is kicking in, and Sabrina is covered in chocolate, though I’m just happy that she ate... something. Oh, and the Frappuccino? A hit. In fact, she can’t get enough. I ignore the glares from the other moms at a nearby table—the Frappuccino Gestapo, obviously. Give me a break, what’s wrong with a little treat?
I do my best to clean Sabrina’s hands and face, but a few streaks of chocolate remain. I wish I had a baby wipe. Wait, baby
wipes! Diapers! In a rookie parenting move, I didn’t bring any supplies. My anxiety only worsens when I look at my phone:
Sabrina’s music class starts in ten minutes.
Part of me wants to ditch the damn class altogether and take my daughter— my daughter! —to the beach and watch her play in the sand, maybe dip her feet in the surf, do this my way. But Sabrina has a schedule,
and I decide to honor that.
As I struggle with the car seat again, she smears a sticky hand on my cheek. “Really?” I say, laughing as I struggle with
her buckles. When she’s finally secure, I type the address into my GPS, but before I put the car in gear, I decide to check
in with Marcus. Something was off this morning—at least, as far as I could tell. I find his phone number in my contacts and
try his cell, but after two rings, it goes to voice mail. A few seconds later, he follows up with one of those generic Sorry, I can’t talk right now texts.
I dial him again, and this time he picks up.
“Lena?”
“Hey,” I say, looking back at Sabrina in the rearview mirror.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply, taking a left turn. “I was just calling to check in. We’re on our way to music class, and then I’m...
having lunch with... our neighbor.”
“Cool,” he says, a little distracted.
I bite the edge of my lip. “So... you don’t care, I mean, that I’m... having lunch with him?”
I hear rustling on the other end of the line, voices. “What are you talking about? Why would I care? Listen, Lena, I’m heading into a big meeting. Kiss Sabrina for me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, ending the call a little deflated.
We’re officially five minutes late by the time I lift Sabrina from her car seat and find the entrance to the music class,
which is on the third floor of an old high-school-turned-community-center. I pause in the doorway, watching the parents, seated
cross-legged in a circle around their babies—all moms, minus Hot Neighbor Dad, who waves when he sees me. An older woman with
waist-length gray hair and a tribal-print tunic bangs a drum in the center of the circle, leading her pupils—er, the babies—in
song, except for the fact that none of them can talk, let alone sing. Apparently the parents are responsible for that part.
I have the urge to run—to get out of here, and fast—but Hot Neighbor Dad has just made space for me in the circle. I have
no choice. “Okay, Sabrina,” I whisper, as we lock eyes. “Whatever happens, let’s be professional.”
Her giggles take the edge off, especially when we sit down and the mom next to me hands me a maraca.
“Welcome, Sabrina!” the teacher sings in nursery-rhyme cadence. “Welcome, Lena. How, are, you?”
I stare ahead blankly, as Sabrina burrows her face into my sweater. Obviously, she hates this attention as much as I do. Everyone’s
staring at us, and my heart begins to race. Am I supposed to say something? To sing something? Thankfully, Hot Neighbor Dad
nudges my hip. “ Very fine, Ms. Marianne. So happy to see you. ”
“Right,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I’m sorry... it was a late night.”
“Don’t worry, dear, we’ll start over again,” Teacher Marianne replies warmly, banging the drum again as she repeats her greeting.
“Welcome, Sabrina! Welcome, Lena. How, are, you?”
This time I don’t miss a beat. “Very fine, Ms.... Marianne. So... happy to see you.”
“Let’s, go, play,” the circle of parents chant, followed by Teacher Marianne: “Let’s, go, play.”
Hot Neighbor Dad is up next, and Teacher Marianne begins her greeting. “Welcome, Charlotte. Welcome, Adam. How, are, you?”
He replies with perfection, winking at me after passing the maraca to the mom at his left. By the next song, Sabrina crawls
into the center of the circle, cautiously picking up a rattle, which she shakes, then shoves in her mouth.
“She’s awfully mouthy, isn’t she?” the mom next to me whispers, eyebrows raised. “I mean, I’ve just noticed, that’s all.”
She grimaces. “Don’t you worry about... all those germs ?”
Great. The Mom Police strike again.
I have the urge to go to battle—to defend my daughter’s... mouthy ways— but Hot Neighbor Dad, er, Adam, comes to my rescue. “It’s not that unusual, Vivienne. Charlotte’s the same. And, you know,
research has linked early childhood oral fixation with elevated IQ levels.”
“Oh,” she says, wide-eyed and possibly a little embarrassed. “I... didn’t know. I—”
“It’s fine,” Adam replies as Teacher Marianne begins passing the parents multicolored silk scarves.
“Everyone, it’s time for the Circle of Love!” she cries as the sounds of pan flutes and chanting plays through the speakers.
“Please rise to your feet and twirl your scarves as you dance around the children. Be whimsical, be free, be love !”
Adam and I exchange nervous glances as the other moms spin and gyrate, streaming their scarves around a dozen or so oblivious
babies, several of whom appear to be looking up at the adults in utter revulsion.
“I’m sorry, do we actually pay money to be here?” I whisper, attempting to comply as I wave my scarf side to side, weakly.
“I know,” Adam whispers back, clearly on the verge of cracking up. “It’s painful.”
When I start to laugh, he does, too, but we compose ourselves when one of the moms shoots us dirty looks. Apparently we’re not being very free and whimsical.
I glance back at Sabrina and, uh-oh, there’s a dark stain on the back of her pants, just at the top of her right leg. Chocolate,
I hope, though my nose detects a different story. Oh. No. She... pooped ? Was it the chocolate donut? The Frappuccino? Both, probably. What was I thinking?
I turn to Adam, my only “friend” in the room. “Hey, um, so... Sabrina just... had an accident, and I, well, I...
left my bag at home.”
“Oh,” he replies unflappably, as if this is no big deal. “Need a diaper? Wipes?”
I nod, amazed at how easily the words diaper and wipes roll off his tongue.
He reaches into the pink camo-print bag beside him, handing me the necessary supplies. “Here, take an extra change of clothes,
too. Looks like you have a blowout on your hands.”
“A blowout,” I repeat, terrified. I can only imagine the task that lies ahead.
Adam chuckles. “Ah, the ill-timed blowout. Don’t even get me started. Last week, Charlotte had two in one day—both times up
the back.”
I swallow hard, his words stoking my anxiety like gasoline to a flame. Time seems to shift in slow motion as the other moms
continue to dance and twirl, scarves whirling in the air as the brown stain creeps farther down Sabrina’s leg.
“You all right?” Adam asks, touching my shoulder lightly.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, coming to my senses. Diaper and supplies tucked under my right arm, I make a beeline to Sabrina, scooping
her up and holding her as far away from my body as possible while I sprint to the restroom.
“Okay,” I say in the ladies’ room, intermittently covering my nose, “this is no big deal. It’s just a diaper change. Well, that kind of diaper change.” Fortunately, there’s a changing table on the wall, so I lie her down and get to work.
“Are you okay, honey?”
Sabrina grins, looking up at me lovingly.
“All right, if you’re not scared, I won’t be, either. We can do this.” She giggles as I peel off her soiled pants, then her
diaper, both of which I toss in the nearby trash can—the poor, poor trash can.
“Okay, now we... wipe?” I pry open the little pack and begin the process, but by the time it’s empty, I’m not satisfied—not
at all. She needs a bath—pronto. I think for a moment, eying the sink. “All right, cutie pie, let’s give you a little rinse.”
After I get the water temperature just right, Sabrina squeals and coos as I plunk her into the basin, doing my best to rinse
her lower half. “This is fun, right?” I ask nervously.
She doesn’t have the words to reply, but her eyes tell me yes as she splashes and claps her hands.
Fifteen minutes later, Sabrina is finally clean(ish), dry(ish), diapered, and dressed. I, on the other hand, deserve a medal
of honor—and a nap.
“How’d it go?” Adam asks in the hallway outside, his daughter fussing in his arms.
“Oh,” I say, a little surprised. “You didn’t have to wait for us.”
“It’s no problem,” he replies. “I’ve been there, obviously. I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling awkwardly, as I notice the empty classroom. Thank God that’s over. “Well, I guess we should get going.”
“Yeah.” He eyes his watch as we begin our descent down the stairs. “I’ll start making lunch when we get back, okay?”
“Great,” I say as we head to our separate cars in the parking lot.
He flashes me a final smile before I tuck Sabrina in her seat, and I can’t help but wonder, in this version of my life, Am I playing with fire?