Diana Orgain - Motherhood Is Murder

4. Exercise.

5. What happened to Helene? Can I help the police?

6. Is there any way to land this case as a PI?

7. Buy Ricky Martin CD—seems to help Laurie sleep.

Five A.M. and I cradled and nursed Laurie in our favorite spot in the living room. Not able to sleep but still being confined to the bedroom made no sense to me, so I’d gotten used to packing Laurie up in her bassinet and wheeling everything to the living room at first light.

Who was I kidding?

There was no light at 5 A.M.—not in November in San Francisco. The first light usually hit after the entire nursing routine was over and Laurie had a fresh diaper and a full tummy and was down to sleep again—around 6 A.M.

Jim and I had arrived home past two in the morning and found Mom asleep on the couch, apparently tuckered out from sambaing with Hank, Ricky Martin, and Laurie.

By all accounts, I should have been in bed fast asleep, but I’d missed Laurie terribly and was trying to make up for lost time.

I was stunned by last night’s events. How could Helene be dead? She had been so alive, so full of energy, only hours ago. How tragic for her life to be cut short.

What about her kids? How many? How old were they? Now they would have to grow up without a mommy.

My heart felt heavy. I clutched Laurie and wept.

Mortality.

I squeezed and nuzzled Laurie into my neck and tried to pull whatever comfort I could from the living. Here I held a brand-new baby in my arms, so much ahead of her. All of life, with challenges, with blessings, ups and downs. And I wanted to be there. I wanted to be next to her to support and love her.

I stroked her soft down-like hair and she closed her eyes appreciatively.

“Mommy loves you,” I said. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

Her eyes opened and she stared straight up at me. A smile crossed her face, and miraculously, she looked as though she had understood me perfectly. She cooed at me.

“Yes, peanut, Mommy loves you.”

She grinned.

“And you love Mommy!” I tickled her tummy.

She giggled.

My heart skipped a beat.

My little peanuty pie was growing up so fast! Only seven weeks old and already we were practically having a conversation!

Laurie lost interest in my face and cried out, rooting for milk.

Okay, so maybe we had a ways to go before we could actually have a conversation.

I held her tiny hand and rubbed it. Between the fingers I found lint.

Lint?

I had bathed her last night; where had the lint come from?

I absently picked at it, my mind drifted back to Helene.

What could have happened to her? I recounted the events of the evening; maybe I could come up with something for Officer Lee.

We’d had dinner, then the server had brought dessert.

Was I the only one who ate it?

Ate? Inhaled was more like it.

I recalled the sweet ice cream perfectly complementing the tart apple turnover . . .

Did we have anything sugary in the fridge? Or in the cupboards? Cookies, cake, anything—5 A.M. wasn’t such a bad time for a midnight snack, was it?

In fact, if I stayed up, I could call it breakfast.

Laurie fidgeted in my arms, bringing me back to attention. I burped her, then brought my focus back to Helene.

She hadn’t touched her dessert. No wonder she was lean and mean. Not an ounce of fat on that woman. She’d fidgeted with the dessert fork, then pulled some Nicorette patches off her arm and declared them utterly failed. She’d stood and said she was going upstairs to smoke. I recalled her husband’s look of despair—or was it disgust?—when she said that. Margaret went with her to smoke, and her husband had taken off in the opposite direction toward the bar.

That was it.

That was the last time I’d seen Helene.

At 9:00 A.M. Laurie went down for a nap and Jim made us homemade waffles and strong coffee for breakfast. As I cut into the first bite of my waffle, the phone rang.

Jim and I eyed each other, hoping the other would answer the phone. He looked as if he had no intention of making a move. I shoved the bite of waffle into my mouth and jutted my chin toward the phone indicating for him to pick it up.

“You know it’s for you,” he said.

Jim had long ago stopped answering our home phone, since about 90 percent of the calls were for me. Any of Jim’s personal friends called him directly on his cell phone. We had an ongoing joke that he deliberately directed traffic there so I wouldn’t know who he was talking to.

I swallowed the waffle, washing it down with coffee, then reached across the table and picked up the cordless phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Kate? This is Margaret. I was calling to let you know. Uh—” Her voice caught and I heard her sob. “Helene died last night.”

My stomach tightened, the coffee I had enjoyed just moments ago turned bitter. Margaret was confirming information I already suspected, and yet the news, the reality of it, struck me. I had hardly known Helene, but she was this woman’s best friend and her pain was palpable even through the phone line.

I pushed my breakfast plate aside. “I’m so sorry, Margaret. What happened?”

“We don’t know, Kate. She’s still at the . . . medical examiner’s . . . Alan told me that by the time he got to her, she was unconscious. It didn’t seem to him that she had any broken bones, but her breathing was shallow and . . . well, he gave her CPR but . . .” Margaret sobbed. “By the time the Coast Guard got there, she was already gone.”

Jim watched me, then reached for my hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

“I don’t know about the services yet. They still have her . . .” Another sob caught up with Margaret. “Sorry. I . . .”

“No problem,” I said.

“We’re waiting on the ME before we make the arrangements, but I . . . I’ll let you know about the services.” Panic filled her voice. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

The church was cold and dark. I sat in the back, waiting for the mourners to file in. I had barely known Helene, so I felt somewhat like a voyeur. What was I doing at the poor woman’s funeral? And yet, I felt it essential to be there.

I was inexplicably tied to these women now, this mommy group. I was present the night Helene died and it linked me somehow to them.

I watched as Margaret and her husband, Alan, entered Saints Peter and Paul Church, the light from the stained glass windows casting curious shadows on her face and dress. Margaret had on a black dress that was short in the front while long and flowing in the back. I wouldn’t have thought it appropriate for a funeral service, but her graceful movements made the dress soft instead of flashy.

A few moments passed as Margaret and her husband walked down the aisle of the church and seated themselves near the front. Shortly after, Sara entered the church escorted by one of the pallbearers. She was dressed in a J.Crew cashmere sweater and black slacks, her hair pulled back in tight chignon. As her gaze fell on me, she scowled.