The Perfect Mother by Nina Darnton Page B

with my children. I didn’t let babysitters raise them. I remember when I gave birth to her and I nursed her, you know, and I wondered how I’d be able to wake up often enough to feed her. But it wasn’t a problem because my body knew when she was hungry; the milk started to seep out of my breasts before she woke up, so when she finally did awaken, a few minutes after I did, I was all ready for her. It kind of stayed like that.”
    Roberto nodded. “I understand. I felt a bond like that with my daughter. . . . Without the nursing,” he added with a smile. “But that was before.”
    “Before? You don’t anymore?”
    “Of course I do. But I haven’t seen her in eight years. I don’t even know where she is.”
    Jennifer put her glass down and stared at him. “Oh, Roberto, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
    “Her mother kidnapped her when she was five years old—took her away, probably out of the country, and disappeared. I have looked everywhere for her, hired other private detectives, and asked the police, but no one has found her. I don’t even know if she is alive.”
    “But why? Why did she do that?”
    “Who knows? It’s strange. When something this extreme happens to you, people always ask you why, like you know the reason, like maybe you did something terrible enough to deserve it. But the truth is that my wife was very ill, had been for a long time. She is delusional and impulsive and I kept hoping the doctors and drugs and treatment would help her. But none of it did and she ran away. I make my living partly by tracking missing people, but she has simply disappeared.” He took another swallow and put his glass down heavily. “So maybe it was my fault. I should have stopped her before. I should have taken Christina away from her before she could take her away from me.”
    Jennifer didn’t know what to say. Her lips felt heavy from the wine and she had trouble forming words, but she wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That we don’t always see things that are right in front of us. That we don’t know people as well as we think we do.
    He raised his hand to call the waitress over for the check. When it came, they both put their credit cards on the tray and Jennifer asked the waitress to split it. Roberto took her card and handed it back to her with a reproachful look. “It is for me to pay,” he said. “I invited you, and you are in my country. Please do not offend me.” She didn’t argue.
    “I’m sorry, senora. I am here to help you with your problem and not to tell you mine. But I wanted to show you that I too understand grief and loss and the strength needed to confront them. You must, how do you say, muster”—he clenched both fists in front of him as he said this—“yes, muster all your resources and then you will have a chance to bring your daughter home. I ask you to trust me.” He paused and waited for his words to sink in. She didn’t say anything. “Estás de acuerdo?” he continued.
    “‘De acuerdo’?”
    “It means do you agree?”
    “Yes,” Jennifer said, her voice heavy with drink and emotion. “I agree.”

CHAPTER 12
    J ennifer couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, restless and agitated, and when finally she took an Ambien and fell into a drugged slumber, she was troubled by fragments of worrying dreams. The pill offered only a brief respite—four hours later she was awake again. She glanced at the clock: 5:30 A . M . She sighed and lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling. It would be 11:30 P . M . in Philadelphia. The kids would be asleep. Mark would be up, probably working in his study. She reached for the phone.
    Her mother answered on the first ring. Mark was out for dinner, she said, and not home yet. Jennifer felt a stab of discomfort. “Who is he with?” she asked casually, but her mother didn’t know. “Someone from the office, I think,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. He said he’d be home early.”
    “Did he