Chapter Twenty-Six
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I walk through the revolving doors, waving to the doormen and security guards, who all know me by name.
No poor doors for me. But when I get to the apartment, no one has seen Daisy.
Lately, whenever I am there, Daisy is somewhere else, doing something else.
Maya says she hasn’t seen Daisy since the morning affirmations.
She thinks she had an errand to run at Alexander Wang?
Or maybe ABC Carpet? But when I find Viktor, he says he hasn’t driven Daisy anywhere today.
Through a cracked bathroom door, I hear snippets of a hushed fight between Audrey and Brit.
(“What the shit, Brit? You better not ruin it for the rest of us.”) Bianca, with the eyebrow, interrupts.
She heard I was looking for Daisy? She went upstairs hours ago, Bianca says. To the penthouse.
I don’t take the elevator upstairs, mostly because I have developed a feeling in my gut that I’ve never felt before.
I need to see Holden. It’s a heart attack building inside me that can only be stopped when I hold him.
I’ve had anxiety. I’ve loved. I’ve missed Roman.
But I’ve never had all the feelings all at once like I do now.
The walls of the condo are closing in, the peacock feathers mocking me.
This feeling, it could make me destroy entire villages, self-immolate, burning in protest like a Buddhist monk, become a subway pusher to catch the F train home.
I can’t explain it exactly, but that’s how it feels in that moment when I need to see him.
The elevator stops on twelve. It’s taking forever, so I get off and race down the stairs.
I am sweating and frantic when I tell Miss Iowa that I need to get Holden.
She tells me he had a “marvelous” day. This makes me feel better about sitting in a cubicle all day and eating a nineteen-dollar pureed salad.
It makes me feel better about peeing when I laugh.
But also, can she speed up the checkout process because did I mention that I will commit actual homicide to see my child?
Miss Iowa hands me a folder with a hedgehog on it, filled with Holden’s art, ink-stained footprints, a log of everything he ate, photos of highlights throughout the day. She tells me he is excelling at Spanish. How does she know that?
“We just know,” Miss Iowa says, displaying her Invisalign smile.
One of the caregivers brings Holden out.
He’s dressed in a white onesie with red crabs on it and sucking on a matching crab-themed teething ring.
They tell me to always call it a chupete, so that he keeps up his Spanish at home.
“It is part of the pedagogy,” Miss Iowa says.
Does she even realize that Daisy and I pulled that word out of our asses?
But I just smile and nod and put my nose against Holden’s, wet and cold. My koala.
On my way out, I ask, “Oh, have you seen Daisy?” Miss Iowa just smiles.