48.

Ian finally started sleeping through the night—really sleeping—from seven or eight p.m. until seven in the morning, after I let him cry for fifteen million hours over the course of two days, like the book said. It worked. As the weeks went by, we fell into a routine: Woke up at seven and messed around on our favorite spots—my bed, the floor in our bedroom, under the mobile. Dad would feed Ian while I jumped in the shower before Monica showed up at eight. When Ian was around five months old, Dad got very into making some recipe he’d concocted with watered-down oatmeal and mashed-up bananas. He would make a big bowl for breakfast and share it with him. “I forgot how much I love bananas,” he said almost every morning, alternating a big spoon into his mouth, a baby spoon into Ian’s.

Mom took me to a media-elite Italian place for lunch one Friday after I’d been at Pullman for a couple of months. We sat down at a tiny two-top and dove into a bowl of olives as Mom spied on the people next to us, trying to listen in. She looked back at me and I swore I saw a trace of a wince.

“Did I tell you we are finally, finally, closing on that Astor Place apartment tomorrow?” she asked, tossing a pit into a zebra-striped wooden bowl. “I never thought it would happen. The buyer made endless demands—replace all the windows, redo the floors—it was ridiculous and I never thought it would happen, but it finally is. My first closing. I’m really pleased.” An undercurrent of spite trailed under her voice, like I hadn’t been involved enough throughout the transaction, the whole undertaking.

“Maybe you’ve found your calling,” I said. “Remember when I looked at all those places with Daddy? We could have used someone good, someone who’s good at figuring out what people want.”

“It’s fun, but it’s a lot of work.” She browsed the menu. “I’m craving pasta. Isn’t that strange?”

I pulled the hook out of my bag. It was becoming almost like a compulsion, the crocheting; I couldn’t figure out if it was helping me engage or disengage. I just felt compelled to do it.

“What is that?” she asked, peeking out from behind her menu.

“It’s a bikini. You like it?”

“I have to first come to terms with this ludicrously domestic picture in front of me,” she said, blinking dramatically. “First you get yourself knocked up, now you’re knitting.”

“I’m crocheting. You’ve seen me do it before. Vanessa taught me, remember?”

“Whatever,” she said, setting her menu down. “Knitting, crocheting, they’re all dowager sports.” She scraped her chair out and crossed her legs. “I’m convinced sometimes you must be someone else’s daughter. But then I remember …” She frowned and made horns on the top of her head. “Evelyn Galehouse …”

“Chill out, Mom,” I said, tucking the yarn into the crook of the banquette. “It’s not a big deal. Just because you don’t do it.”

“It’s more than I don’t do it. I’m unnerved to see you doing it. It’s so … retro in a not pleasant or inviting way.”

“Well, what if I told you I’m making money from it?”

“How?”

“I’m selling bikinis for three hundred bucks a pop at this knitting store,” I said. “You’d like it, it’s trendy, not crafty. This woman Carmen, the owner, she’s been selling them and she wants to hook me up with some women in Brooklyn who can help me.”

“Who is Carmen?” she asked suspiciously, as though I were utterly incapable of conducting business.

“She owns the knitting store on Charlton Street. Vanessa took me.”

“Of course she did,” Mom said, rolling her eyes.

“She thinks I should try and not mass-produce them but work something out, like a production deal, and sell them to small boutiques.”

“Do you notice that I clench my jaw?” she asked. A large plate of pasta with mushrooms arrived in front of her and she passed a bite over to me, dripping oil across my plate of ravioli.

“You’re changing the subject,” I said.

“This awful dental assistant who did my cleaning last week at Dr. Church’s,” she continued, ignoring me. “She asked me if I ground my teeth. Just from her asking it, it was like she made it true. I’m a tooth grinder. A jaw clencher.” She took a pocket mirror out of her bag and examined her mouth. “I hate it when someone insinuates something and then somehow you start believing it. Daddy used to do that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, letting the buttery ravioli melt in my mouth.

“Oh, he was so critical. Every little thing. And it always came in question form.” She hissed the “sss” in “question.” It hit me how pissed she was, still. “Do you think your bangs are a little long, honey? I can’t see your pretty eyes.” She looked at me and closed her lips. “Anyway, never mind. How’s it going over there? How’s the old codg adjusting to modern parenting?”

“He’s trying,” I said, cutting my ravioli in fours in an attempt to eat it slowly. “He’s home by seven most nights now.”

“Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “Maybe he’s finally getting his head in the right place.”

“Hey, I just thought of something,” I said. “Doesn’t your friend Christine work at Bazaar? Maybe you could call her and tell her about the bikinis and she could do a little write-up about them.”

She picked up the lemon wedge hanging on the rim of her Diet Coke and bit it, her red lipstick staining the rind. “You’re really thinking about this.”

“I am,” I said.

She plunked the lemon into the glass. “I haven’t spoken to her in ages, but I’ll see what I can do. Can I see it?”

I wiped my hands, picked the bikini off the banquette and handed it over. This one was off-white with a turquoise and gold zigzag running vertically down the side of each hip.

“Where on earth did you learn to do this?” she asked, stretching the bottom out.

“I’ve told you before,” I said. “Vanessa taught me.”

She handed it back. “I’ll see if I can track down Christine.” She took a slice of baguette out of the basket and swished it around her plate. “So where is Will these days?”

“He’s still at Florence’s, I guess—I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks.” I forked the last quarter-ravioli and put on a brave face. “In a way it’s easier without him.”

“Sure,” Mom said, laying down her fork. “One agenda. But is it over?”

“What? No,” I said too loudly. I felt sick from the butter and oil. First he turns on me, then he disappears. I didn’t know what I was more angry over—the fact that he so badly betrayed me with the adoption bullshit, or the fact that he’d then just dropped it, and dropped out of our lives. And the worst of it was the unavoidable reality that I still loved him.