“Of course, you can be in the pageant, sweetie,” Joan says to Cole.
“I believe all it takes is one parent to be a member of the church for a child to be in the pageant,” my father-in-law, Bob, says, chiming in for the first time.
“That’s easy.” Caitlin touches Mark’s arm. “Mark can join.”
“Right, but we’re not sure we want to make that commitment, are we, Mark?” I ask. I shoot shut-this-down glares at Mark from across the table, but he remains oblivious. When Cole was born, the full-court press began to bring Cole up in the church. I relented and allowed him to be baptized, with Caitlin and Charles as godparents, thinking that would satisfy everyone, at least for a few years.
“I don’t know.” Mark pops a little bread in his mouth. “It’s not the worst idea in the world.”
“And then you’ll already belong somewhere when you finally have a second,” Joan says and then winks at me. “You don’t want to wait too long between kids.”
I turn away from Joan, my face hot with anger. My chest constricts as if someone has squeezed me hard. It’s none of their damn business whether we have another child. I glance at Cole, but he is totally absorbed in his video game, thank god.
“Remember when Mark was Joseph, and he broke character to shush the baby Jesus to stop crying?” Caitlin asks.
“Oh, Mark was Joseph three years in a row—remember that, honey?” Joan lets out a warm laugh. “Church adds such a wonderful dimension to a child’s life. And if you don’t introduce Cole when he’s young, he’ll always feel cut off.”
“I never went to church,” I say. “And I turned out fine.”
“Did you?” Caitlin says under her breath and then winks. “Kidding!”
I gasp. Did anyone else hear her? But no, they’re on to discussing the Nationals now, and whether Max Scherzer is the best pitcher in the league.
A waiter places our food in front of us. I poke at the grilled salmon on my plate, my appetite gone, stewing over a clever retort I could have delivered to Caitlin.
“—so many selfish mothers out there.” I look up to see Caitlin holding court. In the past few years, she has gone from being a general divorce attorney to one who specializes in men’s rights. She’s developed a niche helping men avoid alimony and get custody of children. The glee with which Caitlin seems to enjoy separating families makes my stomach churn. It’s as though the disappointment in not being able to have her own kids has been weaponized.
“This latest one’s going to be a slam dunk.” She sticks a forkful of pink steak in her mouth. “We’re going for full custody.”
“Isn’t that rare?” Joan asks. She asks the same questions every time Caitlin talks about her work. Besides the one year she worked as a Saks counter girl after college, Joan has never held a job. She dedicated her entire life to being Mark and Caitlin’s mother and Bob’s wife, and she cannot imagine a world in which women are not the primary caretakers. “To grant full custody to the father?”
“Not at all,” Caitlin sniffs. “It’s not the seventies anymore, Mother. And I’ve got the trifecta on his wife.”
“The trifecta?” Bob asks.
Caitlin ticks off her fingers as she speaks. “One, reckless infidelity. You know, not just one boyfriend but quite a number of them.”
“Goodness.” Joan puts her hands over Cole’s ears. He shakes her off without breaking eye contact with his iPad.
“These days, everything is online,” Charles says. “People are idiots for thinking they can get away with this kind of stuff.”
But not everything online is true, I want to scream.
“Two,” Caitlin continues, “she can’t hold a job, and three, substance abuse. Any one of these might be grounds for a less than fifty-fifty split, but put all three together and bam, Dad gets full custody.”
My phone buzzes on the table, and I flip it over, wondering who it could be now. It’s Leah, and she’s texted three capitalized letters.
WTF.
A moment later, another text pings my phone—a screenshot. I tap on it to enlarge it. The blood rushes to my head as I make out what I am looking at. A post on the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page. Clarify … some of you in the community have seen a picture of me and Rob from Saturday’s party … not an affair … sexually assaulted … #MeToo.
20
The words swim in front of my eyes.
I push my chair back and rush to the women’s restroom. I am grateful to find it empty. The din of the restaurant fades once the doors have shut, and I lock myself in a stall to examine my phone. Even before I zoom in to reveal the name and avatar of the person responsible for the post, I know who it’s going to be.
Me.
In that blue bikini.
But that’s not my Facebook account. My Facebook avatar is an old-fashioned Leica camera.
And I’ve never posted on the Eastbrook Neighborhood page.
Bile fills my throat, and I am sure I am going to vomit. But nothing comes up. After a few minutes of useless retching, my phone rings. It’s Leah.
“Are you all right? What is going on, Allie? I mean, I get how annoying all those comments about that picture of you and Rob are, but is this a good idea?” The questions come tumbling out faster than I can answer them.
“I didn’t. I didn’t post that, Leah. That’s not my Facebook account.”
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
“I don’t get it. Are you saying someone is impersonating you?”
“Yes, I guess that is what I’m saying.” My knees buckle, and
