As if Sarah were watching herself, as if her hunger had risen and shown its true focus and relentless velocity, she witnessed how she reached down into the crib and picked up the sleeping baby. She held Sylvie in her arms, and as her little body squirmed just the slightest bit, Sarah whispered the solid stream of shush, the hum and kisses until Sylvie snuggled and relaxed, let her softest cheek rest on Sarah’s cheek. The feeling was so extraordinary and instantly familiar. It was as if all of her life had temporarily been siphoned away into this one creature’s breath. Sarah focused on the muffled sounds of all the people in the kitchen, the clatter of a meal coming together. She stood with the baby by the window. The leaves brushed the glass. Beyond the curtain, the moon: halfway to full, a bone-bluish white. Same same same.

three

SATURDAY EVENING

Sarah lowered Sylvie—slowly, slowly—into the crib, aware of her still-warm cheek—the left one, where Sylvie’s had rested. Every movement, right down to the rhythm of Sarah’s shallow breath, felt exposed, criminal. As soon as Sylvie made contact with the mattress, she began to wail. Sarah closed the door behind her before anyone could see she’d been inside. No one was in the hallway. Feathery shadows traversed the walls. She darted down the hallway just as Kiki climbed the last of the stairs; she must have taken them two at a time.

“She’s crying,” Sarah said, with every intention of seeming relaxed, but it came out strangely grave.

“Yep,” Kiki said, passing her by. “I heard her on the monitor.”

Had Sarah, while she was in the baby’s tranquil room, said anything out loud? She hadn’t seen the monitor. Had her desperation transmitted into the kitchen as Matthew and Kiki and Kiki’s friends discussed her odd behavior?

Had she spoken?

She remembered only the sweetness of that cheek. How much time had elapsed?

Kiki disappeared into the baby’s room, and Sarah just stood there, frozen at the top of the stairs, facing the wall of books.

I know where the books want to go, said Leda. They’d moved into their third apartment as a family. Matthew unpacked in the living room. Daddy, let me, she said. I know where they’ll be happy. Boring books can live on the bottom. It’s safer.

Sarah sat—not downstairs joining in, not in the cozy reading nook beneath the picture window, but on the cool, hard staircase. It was possible that Matthew was stirring or chopping in the kitchen, but he could go either way on being helpful during a group meal.

I swear, he’d finally exploded, a couple of months ago. I swear I haven’t heard from her. What’s wrong with you that you think I wouldn’t tell you? Would you keep something like that from me?

Would she? She didn’t know.