Page 20 of Keeping the Score

“Yes, yes. It’s not her. It’s my… parents.”

A couple of hours later, my place is packed with all kinds of baby equipment. There are baby bottles and formula spread out on the counter in my kitchen. A huge bag of diapers sits in the hall.

I’m alone. With a baby. My daughter. This is fucking bonkers. I feel like I’m living in an alternate reality.

But the screams coming from that tiny human are definitely real. She’s awake, her mom’s gone, and she is not happy.

7

ANDI

“Your Ideal Customer Profile, or ICP, is the pool of accounts within your total market,” I say to my computer monitor. The faces of my clients in our virtual meeting look back at me. “But it’s a huge population, so we want to narrow things down.”

I pause at the noise I’m hearing from the condo next door. It sounds like a baby crying.

Can’t be.

“First we look at foundational segments,” I continue. “Like good, better, and best fit customers. Then we can go even further to next-level segments.”

“Is that… a baby crying?” Maria asks.

Oh my God. Can they hear it, too? I glance at the wall between my place and Ford’s. My office is right next to his living room. I’ve never heard noises from there before, but apparently the walls are paper thin.

“I didn’t know you have a baby,” James says.

“I don’t,” I quickly say. “I’m not sure what that noise is. It seems to be coming from next door. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Maria says, but she’s frowning and her tone indicates it’s not really fine.

“Let’s move on,” I say, hoping that if I keep talking they won’t hear the other noise. “So, all these segments help us better understand your audience, so we can confidently target and personalize their content.”

Another wail sounds from the other side of the wall. Dear lord, it does sound like a baby, and it sounds like the baby is in pain. It’s very hard to ignore that. What is going on?

We finish up our meeting with a plan in place for categorizing my client’s customers and they seem on board with it. A soon as I’ve ended the meeting, I push my chair back from the desk, stand, and hike out of my apartment and down the hall to rap on Ford’s door.

I hear the baby crying.

The door is yanked open and Ford stands in front of me, an infant on his shoulder. His hair, usually artfully tousled, stands up in all directions, his clothes are rumpled, and he seems to be sweating profusely. His presentation is extremely disturbing, given that he’s always so meticulous about his appearance.

“What is going on in here?” I demand. “I was trying to have an online meeting and my clients heard the baby crying!” I stare at the child. “Whose baby is that? And why do you have it?”

Ford closes his eyes briefly. “She’s my baby.”

My eyes pop open wide. I stare at him. My brain scrambles, trying to make sense of this. Is he adopting a baby? Why would he do that? Did he really say that? I must have misunderstood. Meanwhile, the baby is screaming her little head off.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, what?”

“She’s my baby,” he repeats, louder, over the howling.

I blink and take in the stress etched on his face, the tightness of his jaw, the lines at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I do either.” He growls out a sigh, patting the child awkwardly on the back. “Come in.”

I eye the baby as if she might attack me. “That’s okay. I just need you to keep her quiet.”

“I’m trying! Jesus! You think Ilikelistening to this sound?”

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. Oh, yeah. He’s stressed.

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