Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
I’d told Kane that I was fine with Mabel on my own. I’d lied. Obviously.
He had a life to get back to. There were pressing matters, meetings with lawyers, figuring out what his future looked like. There were contracts he’d already signed, sponsorships to discuss. And media to pander to.
I’d convinced him to do an interview in Portland with a magazine in order to quell the craziness and hopefully buy us more time. We knew our luck was going to run out. Soon. I could feel it. And maybe if he did an interview, it would help feed those hungry, desperate people scouring the earth for Kane.
Firstly, because if they found Kane, they found Mabel. And my fear, my anxiety was only just starting to dissipate. I no longer thought she’d died in the night if she slept too long—granted, it was only because I had a device on her foot that monitored her heart rate. I was slowly able to do things without bone-rattling terror. The mere thought of a world of people swarming to catch a glimpse of our daughter… I knew that was the driving force behind Kane leaving. He would move heaven and earth to protect her.
Secondly, I needed to prove to him that I was capable of caring for her without him. So he didn’t have to look at me with such concern when he ran out to get milk.
And thirdly, I needed to prove to myself that I was capable of being with Mabel on my own because it was destroying my ego that when Kane was out getting milk, I was fighting for my life.
Kane had only left an hour ago yet had sent me countless text messages. As had my mother. And Maisie. And Kiera. Because, apparently, Kane had all of their numbers.
I planned on killing him for highlighting my vulnerability when he got home.
The hour had passed without event … so far. I’d even managed the unthinkable: putting Mabel down for her nap in her bassinet. There were many things to do, yet I’d just wandered around the house, jaw tight, unable to think about what to do with myself.
I’d been staring at the monitor on and off. Partly to check on Mabel, also to check on Blanche. We’d tried, unsuccessfully, to get her from the room when Mabel was sleeping, in whispered commands, but even Kane couldn’t make her budge.
He had done what the dog trainer couldn’t, there was no more barking, no more pulling the leash. But where Mabel was concerned, all bets were off.
Kane had decided to just leave her. I, on the other hand, was petrified that Blanche would somehow snap and decide to try to eat Mabel, hence my laser-like focus on any small movement on the monitor.
No, Blanche had never shown so much as a smidgeon of aggression toward our daughter, but my intrusive thoughts knew no logic.
I tensed the moment Blanche’s head lifted from where it had been resting against her feet.
Seconds later, a soft knock sounded against the door. Thank God the delivery person had finally read the sign we not so subtly put up to request no one ring the doorbell.
I went to the door, expecting to pick up one of the many middle of the night purchases I’d made while breastfeeding and researching things that would help Mabel sleep easier.
But it wasn’t a package.
“Fiona,” I gasped, staring at the woman on my doorstep.
Both she and Nora had sent gift baskets and texts and pastries and offers to come over to watch the baby—which I’d thought was extremely nice, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. Because they were essentially strangers. Nice, interesting and warm strangers, but strangers nonetheless.
I was not prepared for them to see me like that. I wasn’t prepared to see myself like that, but I had no other choice.
Both my mother and Maisie had urged me to take them up on the offers, to connect with them and make mom friends.
I’d smiled and pacified them but hadn’t intended on doing it. Not now or in the immediate future. I was trying to survive; I didn’t need to socialize too.
Yet there she was, at my doorstep. And unless I wanted to slam the door in her face, I had no choice but to socialize.
Fiona looked me up and down. I could only imagine what she saw. My hair was piled on my head, and I was pretty sure I’d brushed my teeth today. I’d fed Mabel before her nap and hadn’t bothered with a breast pad, so I likely had stains on my white tank. From milk and the tomato pasta I’d just shoveled in my face.
Fiona, however, looked flawless. Her short blonde hair was effortlessly shiny and curly. Her slim figure was encased in a stain-free white tee and jeans. She had no bags underneath her eyes and looked vibrant and alive. “You need a village, girlfriend,” Fiona declared, pushing her way through the front door, canvas bags hanging from the crooks of her arms.
“I know it’s risky, bringing food to a chef, but I figured that you wouldn’t be worrying too much about the Michelin Star quality of it since you don’t have to make it or do the dishes,” she informed me as I dumbly followed her through the living room into the kitchen.
I couldn’t even remember if I’d closed the front door, and I was too tired to go back to check.
Fiona unpacked foil packages, each of them with white labels on them.
“I’ll put some in the fridge and the rest in the freezer,” she continued as if I’d spoken a word to her aside from breathing her name in surprise.
She paused with her hand on the fridge. “Is the baby sleeping?” she asked, looking around, expecting to find a baby hidden somewhere.
I nodded. “If she wasn’t, you’d know,” I said with a grim smile.
Fiona’s eyes were kind, understanding, and the mere look made me want to dissolve into tears. “Do we need to be quiet?”
I shook my head. “Mabel will sleep through anything. The surefire way to wake her up is to put her down in her crib, and I managed that already.”
I thought bitterly about all the movies and shows that depicted babies being put into cribs, gooing and gahing while their parents kissed them on the head, turned off the light and closed the door.
Utter bullshit.
Fiona nodded, opening the fridge then clanged things about as she rearranged its contents. “Good. Babies need to be able to sleep with life going on around them.” She closed the fridge. “And as for the other thing? Despite what all the sleep training gurus and whisperers tell you, it’s luck of the draw. They come preloaded with personality and willpower. Some can be trained, sure. Others are just little bastards.” She went to a bag where she retrieved baked goods and coffee, which she handed to me.
I stared at Fiona for two seconds, then I burst into tears. Real tears. I was shocked and disgusted at myself, but I couldn’t stop.
Before all of this, that would’ve been my worst nightmare. I was uncomfortable with emotions, tears especially, and always delegated the shoulder pats and kind words to my sous chef whenever someone broke down in my kitchens.
But I was a world away from commanding a world-class kitchen with a will of steel and emotions locked down tight. That thought, of course, only served to bring on more tears and a very ugly sounding sob.
“I’m s-sorry,” I hiccupped. “I’m just … I’m reading all these books.” I thrust my hand out to the kitchen island where I’d been pouring over the countless books I’d purchased that promised twelve-hour sleeps, calm babies and set routines.
“I’ve followed them to a T,” I continued. “I’m a chef—well, I used to be a chef—” I was overcome by another bone-racking sob. “Before I became a mother, I was a chef. And I know how to follow directions. Precisely. My brain slotted things into place effortlessly. Having sixteen elements of a dish ready at precisely the same time was child’s play to me. Pardon the pun.” I laughed with a maniacal edge. “Now trying to figure out when exactly I should feed her and put her down for a nap seems akin to rocket science. It’s obviously me. Because millions…” I tapped the cover of the book, “ millions of copies were sold to mothers who were obviously more competent than me and managed to do it all. Yet I’m not. I’m failing.”
There it was. The two words that haunted me most.
I’m failing.
Fiona, thankfully, didn’t do anything like bring me into her arms for a hug when I cried. That would’ve made me feel worse. She had just stood there, face free of judgment and listened to me. When it was clear that I was done, she spoke.
“I’m not an advocate for burning books,” Fiona said. “In most circumstances, it’s a crime.” She picked up the book on the counter then walked to the living room.
She piled my dog-eared, tearstained parenting and baby books in her slender arms, marching toward the backyard.
I followed her because she was talking about burning things and had picked up a lighter from where it sat on the counter beside a candle Maisie had left to ‘purify the air.’
Fiona walked past the patio set to the outdoor pizza oven that had been a big part of selling this place to me. I’d envisioned making pizzas with the sea breeze kissing my face, my baby happily watching me from a bouncer.
Not once had that thing been fired up.
Until now, with Fiona dumping a bunch of books in there then setting it alight without a second thought.
I watched with horror and satisfaction as the fire ate away at words that had taunted me with my failures.
Fiona didn’t speak straight away, she just watched the books burn.
“Some babies are book babies.” She waved to the fire. “They can respond to methods ‘experts’ concoct. Others are not. Our baby June is not a book baby. It sounds like Mabel isn’t either. I’m saving you months of overthinking and insanity.”
I watched the flames, not speaking.
‘You’ve got to survive the gauntlet.” She turned to face me as if she hadn’t just lit a fire in my backyard.
I was still clutching the baby monitor, so I glanced at it to find Mabel still sleeping.
“The first year of your baby’s life is the gauntlet,” Fiona explained. “Which is the first year of your relationship. Your new relationship. Where it isn’t just two people, hot sex and independence. There’s sleep deprivation, screaming, crying, dirty diapers, postpartum depression, sleep regressions, teething, illnesses.” She huffed out a breath, waving smoke away from her face.
I vaguely wondered if I needed a fire extinguisher. Not that I was overly worried. Small fires, I had experience with.
“I mean, I didn’t think I was a mother who would be preoccupied with nap schedules,” Fiona continued. “I watched my overly anxious and slightly insane—in the best way—friend have a baby. Nora obsesses over everything, but she did not obsess over naps or sleep. Her baby slept through the night from eight weeks . I took her life as a blueprint for mine. And I love her so dearly, but once our girl June was born and she came out screaming and ready to fuck shit up, I changed my tune.”
She shook her head with a smile on her face.
“I wanted to punch my best friend and her perfectly sleeping baby,” Fiona chuckled. “I wanted to punch the husband I was sure I adored for daring to sneeze after I finally got the baby down for a nap. Like who the fuck did he think he was, sneezing like some bachelor? Hold it in. I don’t care if you crack a rib.”
I barked out a half laugh at that. Although Kane did indeed close doors quietly, he’d also become quite a butterfingers suddenly. His phone, plates, knives and forks routinely clattered out of his hands and onto the hardwood floor.
He was always apologetic, ready to run to calm Mabel if he woke her, but it did make me want to strangle him, just a little.
“Anyway, marriage is supposed to be built to survive the first year. But it tests you. Granted, our marriage didn’t begin with love, it began with immigration fraud, but that’s a story for another day.” She waved her hand dismissively as my interest piqued.
“I went through a lot for my baby June,” Fiona gazed at the ocean. “I thought I would never be a mother. And I thought all of my loss and pain would inoculate me from the woes of being a first-time mother. I wouldn’t resent the lack of sleep, the radical change in my identity, my body, my everything. Because my baby was precious. But let me tell you, that’s all bullshit. She’s precious, but it was hard. I love my husband more than anything, but there were times I considered calling a lawyer. But that was sleep deprivation and postpartum depression.”
She stepped forward and squeezed my arm.
“I knew who you were the second you walked into the bakery. Not the fame shit, I knew you were a stone-cold bitch—in the best way—who had had her heart broken. Like recognizes like and all that. I get that you want to do it alone. Prove it to yourself. But you’re a resident of Jupiter, Maine, honey. We like you. Therefore, consider this the welcome committee barging our way into your life. We’re gonna be friends. Our babies are gonna be friends, our husbands are already basically boyfriends.”
Another laugh burst from me.
Fiona smiled. It was warm and lit up her whole face.
“I respect the fight of doing it alone,” she continued. “But it’s time to wave the white flag. We’re here, and we’re not letting you do it alone. Because, babe, I consider one of the greatest crimes another mother can commit against another is to not help another when she’s able. So hold the fuck on, bitch, we’re here to help.”
I couldn’t bring myself to argue.
I didn’t want to.
So I held the fuck on.
Fiona unpacked the food, spoke a mile a minute, helped with Mabel when she woke and didn’t leave until Kane arrived home.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could handle things.
And so the rotation of the Jupiter women started.
Nora was next. Pregnant herself, she came with her husband Rowan and their daughter Ana. Rowan I’d seen at the café a few times. He was tall, muscular and absurdly handsome. He also seemed to only smile for his wife and daughter. He lit up for them. It had hurt to look at before.
Those days, not so much since I had a man who lit up for me too.
Rowan was a man of few words, but he was also a man unafraid of crying babies, handling Mabel with the ease and care of a skilled father.
“I’ll take her outside.” His voice was deep, serious, and just a little intimidating, even to me who was not easily intimidated. “Fresh air. It’s good for them.” He looked at me. “Also, you won’t be able to listen out for her cries and convince yourself it’s your job and only your job to go to her.”
He winked knowingly at me. I got the impression that a wink from Rowan was rare and likely not to be repeated.
Then he looked at Kane. “I’m thinking we’ll have a beer. You got any?”
“Oh, I’ve got beer.” Kane told Rowan before his eyes grazed mine. “You good here, Chef? Need anything?”
I shook my head. “Go drink beer, do man things.” I was trying not to marvel at how Mabel immediately nuzzled up against the strange man holding her, settling there effortlessly. I feared that if I looked too hard, I’d ruin it; she’d realize that five seconds ago, she was majorly pissed.
Kane kissed my forehead then my lips before going to the fridge and getting two beers.
Both Nora and I watched the men leave. Ana had already run off to the toy and baby product graveyard to find something to play with.
Nora looked me over. “You go have a shower or a long bath or scream into a pillow. I’ll whip us up a cake.”
I gaped at her. “It would be incredibly rude of me to leave a visitor here on her own. And I doubt I have the ingredients to ‘whip up a cake.” I struggled to catalog the contents of my fridge and pantry when that used to be second nature to me.
“It’s most certainly not rude. Actually, I would consider it rude if you stand here and make small talk with me when I’m guessing it feels like your brain is melting from the inside out from lack of sleep.” She smiled with empathy. “And you let me worry about the ingredients.” Though everything about the woman was sweet, serene, there was adamance in her tone.
I glanced to the glass doors, out to where I could see figures on the beach. A pang hit my chest because Rowan’s prediction was right; I couldn’t hear whether Mabel was crying or not which sent my heart rate skyrocketing. Yes, she might’ve been perfectly content right then, or she could’ve been screaming her head off.
“They’re fine,” Nora said after following my gaze. “I know a lot of men are arguably useless at this stage, but I got a good one. A great one. And I’m taking an educated guess that you did too. Mabel could not be safer out there with two progressive, feminist, alpha, girl dads. So go.” She shooed me with her hands.
I didn’t do well with taking orders in my own kitchen, hadn’t in years. Yet the kind, soft-spoken baker managed to obtain my submission with no argument.
So I did go upstairs. No screaming into a pillow or long bath- both felt too dramatic and indulgent respectively. But I did enjoy a long shower, not a rushed one where I heard phantom baby cries and came out with one leg shaved and unrinsed conditioner in my hair because I was convinced Kane needed help.
Even though he never needed my help.
I shaved both legs. Rinsed out the conditioner. And when I got out, I still didn’t hear cries, so I added the indulgence of blow drying my hair and putting on three steps of skincare instead of slapping moisturizer on my face with a shaky hand.
By the time I came downstairs, in clean clothes and feeling a lot saner than I had in a while, a smell not dissimilar to Nora’s bakery was wafting through my house.
Still no baby cries.
And walking into my living room, it was no longer an obstacle course of baby products. Everything had been put away into the wicker chest I’d intended to use as storage but hadn’t had the time or energy to use yet. Especially when I was taking them out and putting them back three times daily, at least.
Ana was sitting cross legged with blocks and some books that I’d bought, thinking that they’d entertain a four month old, not realizing that they were for older children. Apparently, it even said so on the box. Nora, to my horror, was folding laundry.
“You don’t have to do that.” I rushed to take the basket from her.
“Sit,” she protested in that soft, commanding voice. Again, I responded to it without meaning to.
I sat beside her, my fingers twitching to take the laundry from her.
“Tea,” she said, waving a baby blanket to the now uncluttered and sparkling-clean coffee table. “I took a gamble when I made it, and I think it may be just the right temperature now. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t finish a hot drink for months after this one was born.” Nora nodded her head to the sweet girl playing peacefully.
I longed and dreaded Mabel getting to the age where she could sit alone, playing without me constantly entertaining her and ensuring that there was nothing she could choke on in the vicinity.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” I said, taking the tea then motioning to the room.
“Yes I do,” she replied. “It’s the duty of a woman who has gone through and survived the first few years and now has wisdom and free time and all of her hormones back under control. Well, kind of,” she snickered, rubbing her stomach. “But seriously. We women, we mothers owe it to each other to make sure we don’t do this alone. That we have help. My sisters-in-law did it for me. It’s a sacred, precious gift, and I consider it an honor to be able to pay it forward. You’ll be able to one day too.”
I sipped my tea and considered her words. I struggled to imagine a time when I’d be able to do something like this for someone else when I could barely shower and shave both legs while doing so.
“You will,” Nora reassured me, seeming to read my mind. “For now, enjoy the tea, and don’t feel like you have to force conversation with me. I’m quite happy here.” She patted her belly, still small but pronounced.
Nora was tranquil, quiet, not quite shy but definitely introverted. Her daughter seemed to be the same in a lot of ways. Until Kane and Rowan emerged from outside with Mabel, and she screamed, “Daddy!” like he’d been gone for months instead of an hour. He passed off Mabel to Kane expertly in time to catch the daughter who was sprinting toward him.
He twirled her in the air where she screamed in delight before nuzzling into his neck and whispering something in his ear.
I looked over to Kane, who was pressing gentle kisses on our daughter’s head, murmuring something to her.
“It’s enough to make your ovaries explode,” Nora stage whispered, gesturing to our men
I smiled and couldn’t disagree with her.
After that, we ate the best carrot cake I ever had, and I watched Nora, Rowan and Ana with disbelief at what awaited us. A little person. A family. Although we already were a family, I realized.
Next on the rotation were Tina and Tiffany, the most unlikely yet perfect couple. Tiffany was hot-pink velour sweatsuits, bleached blonde hair out to there , acrylic nails and bright pink lipstick. Tina was heavy metal, tattoos, short, cropped hair, no nonsense, no bullshit.
Tiffany doted over Mabel, and Tina did the same but with less enthusiasm. She then declared she was going to cook us freezer meals—since I had discovered they were the ‘thing’ for new mothers—and demanded Kane and I go nap.
I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t nap in general, let alone with two strangers—albeit nice ones—in my house, one of them holding my baby.
“Nap,” Tina ordered. “No lip. We’ll be up when the baby is hungry or I’m just tired of the screaming and cooing.” She tilted her head to Tiffany.
I was going to argue, but the weight of my exhaustion made that seem impossible. Kane took my hand, just as exhausted but able to hide it a little better.
“Come on, Chef. They’ve got this,” he said, though I saw his eyes linger on Mabel protectively for a beat.
I knew it was just as hard for him to leave Mabel.
Blanche was there, Mabel’s constant protector. We knew she’d never let Mabel from her sight.
The logical part of me, Avery Hart, chef—the part that was quickly disappearing—let Kane take my hand and pull me upstairs. We needed all the rest we could get in order to be decent parents.
“I’m not going to be able to nap,” I told Kane as he got us into the bedroom where I slipped off my clothes as he pulled off his tee.
“Give it a go, Chef.” He pulled me into bed with him.
I relaxed into his arms, letting them settle around me. Moments later, I was out, only to be woken by Kane’s lips at my ear two hours later.
Tiffany had brought in a whining Mabel to be fed. The freezer was stocked, the house smelled of Tiffany’s perfume, and the place was spotless.
Then they left.
Then next was Calliope.
I’d seen her around the bakery a handful of times but hadn’t interacted with her a whole bunch. Although for some reason, I gravitated to her somewhat more than the outspoken and extroverted Fiona or the feminine and shy Nora. She always wore a slash of red lipstick, sharp eyeliner accentuating her dark eyes, hair slicked back into a bun, showing off angular features. And she was always in black with high heels, looking like she was going to a high-powered business meeting instead of walking around a small coastal town in Maine.
When I heard she’d been in New York until recently, I understood why I was drawn to her. The no-nonsense attitude, the slight chill, the overall confidence. She reminded me of who I used to be.
I didn’t know much about her other than that she was Rowan’s sister—the resemblance was uncanny—and she had worked on Wall Street before moving to Jupiter.
She was the last person I wanted in the rotation because it shoved an uncomfortable truth in my face… That I’d never be like her, or even close to being like her, again.
But she arrived at our doorstep one Saturday evening.
“You’re going out,” she declared, stepping her red-soled shoe through the doorway. “Where’s the baby?”
I pointed to the living room where Mabel was in her $300 baby swing she barely tolerated for longer than five minutes, watching fruit dance along the screen of the TV.
I was vaguely embarrassed about this put together woman coming into our house, seeing me with Kane’s tee and boxer shorts on at five thirty in the afternoon, my kid in front of the TV.
I’d told myself I wouldn’t expose Mabel to screens—there was all sorts of research to show that it wasn’t beneficial to kids under the age of two. But I’d found something the studies didn’t mention: it gave me five minutes of respite. I could enjoy a hot coffee, breathe, use the bathroom, sit on the sofa and stare into space.
Those fruits were the best thing ever invented.
“Good, great, she’s distracted.” Clearly, Calliope didn't have judgment over the TV being on. Kane was sitting on the sofa, watching out daughter with that tender look on his face.
Calliope pointed to both of us. “You’re going out,” she repeated. “Go get ready. I’ll sit with her.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t expect that of you.” What I didn’t say is that I couldn’t leave my daughter with a stranger. I’d barely left her with my mother.
“You’re not expecting anything. I’m telling you you’re going out,” she said. “And I know you don’t know me, I don’t have kids, but they’re pretty foolproof at keeping alive at this age. For short periods anyway.” She shrugged with a mischievous glint to her eye. “I’m an aunt to about a thousand of the little fuckers and have babysat them all without major bodily injury. You can call Nora for references if you wish, or you can get ready, go out, have something to drink, or have sex in your car on the beach. Whatever tickles your fancy.” She waved her hands. “The most important thing is you get out of this house and away from singular identities like mother and father and have a couple of hours as whoever you feel like being.”
While I digested her words, Kane was grinning, quite obviously on board with the idea despite his overall protectiveness of Mabel. He almost jumped on strangers for staring at her too long, yet he was okay with the Jupiter tribe, it seemed.
“I’m breastfeeding,” I said lamely. “She needs a bottle.”
“Well, pump one,” Calliope flicked her fingers to the breast pump on the coffee table. I couldn’t remember how long it had been there.
She made it all seem so simple, so I struggled to find any other reason why we couldn’t leave our baby with an almost stranger.
“Go,” she ordered, settling on the couch close to Mabel.
And although her sister-in-law had been much quieter and gentler with her orders, it’d had the same effect. I heeded them.