of her as a career mom. The rest of them did something else first, or wanted to be something else, too. If Beck wanted anything else, she hadn’t mentioned it.
“Did you hear about that guy? The one who killed his wife last year?” asked Emmy. “Markham?”
Gretchen shook her head in distaste. “We don’t watch the news at home. Too stressful.”
“Someone killed him,” said Beck, voice low. Then, “About time.”
Lily started to fuss. Gretchen moved over quickly as if the baby was hers, lifting her from the stroller with a quick glance to Rain for permission. Rain nodded easily. It was funny, how natural certain things were with other moms—maybe it’s what kept her coming back to the group. There was something communal about the gathering, comforting. Someone always had wipes, or Cheerios, or was willing to bandage a knee, had a soothing word. Fraught in some ways, with a weird undercurrent of competitiveness, but definitely communal.
Lily sat contentedly chewing on her tiny hand, happy on Gretchen’s hip. Gretchen cooed and swayed, smelled Lily’s baby hair. Lily was hungry. Rain’s breasts were engorged. She wasn’t about to whip it out like Emmy. She was not there.
“It was probably the father,” said Emmy. “Remember him at the trial? I’ve never seen anyone so heartbroken.”
Rain had been there. She hadn’t watched the trial on television like the rest of the country. She’d been in the courtroom. Gillian reporting, Rain writing and producing. The sound, no, the pitch, of his voice stayed with her—the rage, the pain. It was primal. A father who lost his daughter, powerless to bring justice. His hoarse screaming connected with every nerve ending in her body. Rain had just learned she was pregnant a few weeks earlier; she was only beginning to glimpse what it was to be a parent. She just had the slightest flicker of what it might mean to have to protect another person. And fail.
“I would have killed him on the spot,” said Emmy. “With my bare hands.”
Rain stayed silent, though that ache was almost unbearable. She needed to get home, put Lily down for her nap and get in front of her computer. She still knew people. She could make some calls. It was her story.
“Or the brother,” said Beck. “He said it on the courtroom steps, right? When you least expect it, we’re coming for you.”
It was organized, Rain almost chimed in. It wasn’t a rage killing.
But she didn’t say anything. Because.
Because, she reminded herself, she wasn’t in news anymore. She was in—diapers and wipes, Cheerios and sippy cups. What she did now was Lily. What she used to do was ancient history; it was pathetic to cling to what you used to be, wasn’t it?
She lifted Lily from Gretchen’s arms and sat beside Emmy. She took the little shawl from her pocket, put it on and started to nurse. She felt Lily latch on. There was a blessed release, a flood of milk and oxytocin. No one ever told you that your body would ache when your baby was hungry, that your breasts might leak when she cried, about that intense physical bond.
“Good for you, girl,” said Emmy.
Gretchen folded her arms and turned away. Rain wanted to tell the other woman that it was no big deal that she didn’t or couldn’t nurse, that it was just another thing they held out there for you. A brass ring that you might or might not be able to reach. Something they wanted you to try for, and feel like shit if you couldn’t grab. Honestly, if it hadn’t been easy for Rain, maybe she wouldn’t have done it either. So basically, she nursed because it involved the least amount of work for her. She stayed home because—well, for a hundred reasons. Only one of which was crystal clear a year later with some of that hormonal fog finally clearing—Lily Rae.
“My brother-in-law is a cop over in Jessup, where the Markhams lived,” said Beck. “He said that the Feds came in this morning and took the scene from the local police.”
Alarms jangled in her head. The Feds. Why?
“Oh?” she said with faux nonchalance, turning to Beck.
But Beck’s phone rang, and she turned away, lifting a finger and casting her an apologetic look for the interruption.
Rain lifted her milk-drunk baby and put her into the stroller.
“Gotta run,” she said, strapping Lily in.
It was a Bumbleride, an insanely expensive gift with a message from her father.
Keep moving, kid, read the card. Don’t let this slow you