A Good Mother by Lara Bazelon (classic books to read .TXT) 📕

back. A chance to start over with Cristina.” She looks at Will, walking several paces behind them, hands in his pockets as he talks with one of the other newer hires in their office, then says in a low voice, “In spite of him.”

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” Jonathan says mildly. “He was the one with the winning strategy in the end.”

“And I was the one who executed it. What he did to her—” She shakes her head in disgust.

“What he did to her.” Jonathan repeats the words slowly. “Well, I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“I would think,” Abby says, staring straight ahead, “given the last few days, that I am entitled to celebrate a little with people who are actually happy for me.” When Jonathan doesn’t answer, she gives him a sidelong glance. “Wipe that Mother Superior look off your face. It’s one drink.”

“It’s never one drink with you.” Jonathan sighs. He’s wearing the glasses she likes, the ones with the tortoiseshell frames, and his best suit, the Calvin Klein charcoal she loves. He had told her that he’d dressed up for her; remembering that, she feels less annoyed. Their friendship has been strained and severely tested, but now that the trial is over she is confident things between them will go back to normal. “I know I’ve been really difficult,” she says. “And I know how much you’ve done for me. And Nic and Cal. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You can start,” he says, “by ordering a club soda.”

But she hadn’t ordered a club soda, and it hadn’t been just one drink. Midway through the third, vodka on the rocks, her hand reaching for the communal basket of garlic fries, a young man appears at her elbow. He’s white, early twenties at most, in bicycle shorts and a helmet. He looks strangely familiar. Abby squints, tipsily trying to place him, and out of the corner of her eye, sees Jonathan push back his chair.

“Are you Abigail Rosenberg?”

“I am,” she says as it dawns on her how she knows him. From the courthouse.

The young man hands her an envelope that is so stuffed the flap can’t close. “You’ve been served.”

And just like that he is gone, making his way through the crowd and out the door.

At her side now, Jonathan is pulling some twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet. He throws them down on the table, picks up her briefcase and her bag, and grabs her arm. “Let’s go.”

Abby follows blindly after him, the warmth of the alcohol and camaraderie replaced by an icy fear. It’s late now and overcast, the sky starless. Abby leans against the brick wall of the building and pulls out the paperwork with trembling hands. Court forms. A temporary order, ex parte, granting sole physical and legal custody of Macallan Rosenberg Mulvaney to petitioner Nic Mulvaney. Stamped and filed today. She drops it like it’s on fire and Jonathan bends to pick it up, scanning the contents as she pulls out the next document. In re Macallan Rosenberg Mulvaney, petition by the biological father seeking—Jonathan takes it out of her hands. More paper. A declaration under penalty of perjury, notarized and signed by Nic. She tries to read but the words are moving like inchworms across the page. Immediate and irreparable harm—fell asleep in the bath on several occasions with infant. Jonathan snatches it away from her. “We are not doing this here. We are walking to my car. We are driving to your house.”

She trails behind, panting with near-hysteria and the effort of keeping up with Jonathan’s long strides in her high heels for two endless asphalt blocks.

In the parking garage, they climb the stairs to the third floor and Jonathan hits a button on his key chain, unlocking the doors to his black Audi sedan. When they are inside, the doors shut, Jonathan turns on the overhead light, pulls out the paperwork, and starts reading from the beginning.

Cold sweat breaks out on Abby’s forehead as her stomach churns. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.

“Use the trash can by the elevator,” Jonathan says without looking up.

She opens the car door and runs, vomiting into the foul-smelling bin until there is nothing left but a string of spittle hanging from her lower lip. Pulling a tissue from her purse, she wipes clumsily at her mouth, accidentally tugging at the scab, which immediately starts bleeding again. She fishes deeper into her purse before finally locating a mini-pack of Cal’s wet wipes. Tearing it open, she pulls one out and presses it hard against her lip.

Back in the car, Jonathan passes her a box of Altoids and Abby takes three, sucking hard. It takes a second wet wipe to staunch the bleeding and she focuses her mind on succeeding at that task as she waits for Jonathan to finish reading. When he does, she reaches for the paperwork, but he shakes his head firmly before turning the engine on and pulling out of the parking space.

Friday, March 23, 2007

8:30 p.m.

1710 Vestal Street

Los Angeles

As soon as Jonathan parks in front of her house, Abby is out of the car, running to the front door. The living room is terrifyingly tidy: the playpen and the bouncy chair are gone. She goes into the bedroom and flips on the light switch. The crib and the changing table are gone. Empty hangers rattle in the closet when she opens the sliding door. Nic’s shoes are gone. She rakes her hands through the half-full bureau drawers looking for any sign of Cal—his striped socks, his Elmo blanket, his onesies. Gone. Abby sinks down onto the floor and pounds her fists into the bed. Nic had made it that morning, as he always did. Sheets so taut you could bounce a quarter off them. Abby starts pulling off the pillows, pulling off the bedspread, then the sheets. She is crying, then wailing.

Jonathan comes in, stands behind her, and pulls her to her feet.