Page 20 of The Other Mother
Eva's car seat sits in our front hallway where I always leave it. White and pristine, with clean modern lines and ergonomic padding. The brand name is embossed in silver letters: Nuna. I remember Adam researching it obsessively, reading safety ratings and crash test reports before we ordered it online.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and scroll through my photos. Hospital parking lot, me carrying Eva's carrier to the car. But the carrier is cropped out of the frame, cut off at the bottom of the image. Every photo since then shows Eva in the white Nuna seat. Never gray. Never heavy and old-fashioned.
Later that evening,I need more diapers. The Rite Aid is closer than the grocery store, and sometimes getting out of the house helps when my thoughts start spiraling. We drive past identical stucco houses with red tile roofs and small front yards filled with gravel and desert plants.
The sun is settingbehind the San Jacinto Mountains, painting the sky brilliant orange and pink. It's finally cool enough to be outside without feeling like I'm being slowly cooked. Other people are emerging too: joggers, dog walkers, a few neighbors watering their plants or checking their mail.
That's when I see her again.
Mara is standing across the street from the Rite Aid, near the bus stop. This time she's not just watching. She's moving, walking quickly toward the store entrance with purpose.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but this time I don't freeze. This time, I follow.
I park and push Eva's stroller fast across the parking lot, trying to keep Mara in sight without looking like I'm chasing her. She disappears through the automatic doors, and I follow thirty seconds behind, the cool air conditioning hitting my overheated skin like a wall.
Inside, the store is nearly empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white light. I scan the aisles methodically, pharmacy counter, greeting cards, snacks. No sign of Mara.
I push the stroller toward the baby section, thinking maybe she's there. But the aisle is empty except for a teenage employee restocking shelves. I check feminine care, the pharmacy again, even the single bathroom at the back of the store.
Nothing. She's gone again, vanished as completely as she did in the parking lot this morning.
Frustrated and feeling foolish, I grab a pack of diapers and head to the checkout. The cashier is a tired-looking woman in her forties who barely glances up as she scans my purchase. I pay quickly and push the stroller back outside into the desert evening.
The parking lot is mostly empty now, just a few cars scattered under the orange glow of the sodium lights. I'm fumbling for my keys when I notice something tucked under my windshield wiper.
A folded piece of paper, white against the dark glass.
I look around the parking lot. No one. Just me and Eva and the distant sound of traffic on Highway 111.
I pull the paper free and unfold it slowly. The handwriting is neat, feminine, written in blue pen:
You're not crazy. You're right.
My hands shake as I read the words again. And again. I spin around, scanning every shadow, every car, every possible hiding place.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing off the store's facade. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Only silence answers me.
I unlock the car with fumbling fingers and lift Eva from her stroller, settling her into the white car seat. She fusses briefly as I buckle her in, her tiny face scrunching with tiredness.
I fold the stroller and load it into the trunk, then slidebehind the wheel. My hands are trembling so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition.
As I'm backing out of the parking space, I glance in the rearview mirror to check on Eva. She's already falling asleep, her head drooping to one side despite the padded support of her car seat.
Her white car seat.
But as I stare at her reflection, something flickers at the edge of my memory. A fragment, blurry and uncertain. A hand lifting her from something different. Something darker. Heavier. The sound of plastic buckles clicking, but different clicks. Older clicks.
My stomach lurches as the image tries to form more clearly in my mind, but it slips away like water through my fingers.
What else don't I remember?
11
THE HALLWAY
Sleep comes in fragments these days, broken by Eva's feeding schedule and my own restless thoughts. The note from the Rite Aid parking lot sits folded in my nightstand drawer, its words burned into my memory.
