And then the strangest thing happened with Claire. One minute, she was doing fine—not quite reaching the heights of fun and talent that she showed at playgroup, but maybe she wasn’t used to performing for such a big crowd. The next, her performance turned completely unfocused. Her voice broke once and then caught again, like she was about to cry or like she had forgotten how to breathe. She started singing about Old MacDonald having a cow, even though she’d already done that animal.

Whitney stared, concerned. Oh, this was bad. What was going on? Had Claire suddenly come down with food poisoning? Had her cat died that morning, and she’d only now been hit by the weight of its loss? (Wait. Did Claire have a cat? Whitney realized with a shock that she cared about Claire very much—that Claire had filled the space that Joanna had left behind, making the playgroup seven again, like they were meant to be—and yet Whitney knew scarcely anything about Claire’s day-to-day life.)

Within the span of a minute, fickle Rosie and her friends, the bigger children who had gathered and clapped enthusiastically at first, lost interest and drifted away, climbing on a nearby couch and jumping while Gwen tried to cajole them to keep listening to the music. Next to Whitney, Grant gave a little shake of his head and took a large sip of his drink, while some other adults whom Whitney didn’t know exchanged raised eyebrows. Outrage rose up in Whitney on Claire’s behalf—these strangers had no idea how talented she was, how sweet. How dare they judge her like this when it was clear that something else was going on?

Whitney tried to catch Claire’s eye to give her an encouraging smile, but the one time Claire’s glance landed on hers, Claire immediately looked away, her voice catching again. So Whitney sought out Amara’s eyes instead, and the two of them shot worried, befuddled looks at each other. Amara gave Whitney a nod. Action time. They picked up the shakers that Claire had tossed out, shook them enthusiastically, and sang along to the song with gusto. When the other playgroup women realized what was happening, they joined in. Daniel and Christopher did too. Whitney did a shimmy and grabbed Amara’s hand to twirl her. The kids jumping on the couch looked over, having second thoughts about their decision to leave.

Claire looked up at them all, saving her, and seemed to make a decision. She finished the song, took a deep breath, and switched on a smile again. There she was, the normal Claire. “Oh, I’ve got a great surprise. It’s parachute time,” she said, and unwrapped the large billowing cloth. The older kids came running back, laughing, and the adults lifted the multicolored fabric up and down, up and down.

Chapter 22

When Claire finished her set, having won back the approval of the children and the adults who didn’t know her, she set down her guitar in a corner and disappeared out the door to Gwen’s back deck. Amara handed Charlie off to Daniel and followed.

She found Claire leaning against the railing, staring into the glorious, sunny May sky. It was sweater weather still, and Amara shivered a bit, having forgotten hers inside. Claire wore nothing over her black V-neck T-shirt, and her arms were prickled with gooseflesh, but she didn’t rub them or stamp her feet or shake herself to keep warm. She stood still, as if listening very hard in a private conversation with God.

“What happened back there?” Amara asked. “Are you all right? Or are you having a bit of a breakdown?”

Claire turned around. All the strange tremulousness she’d shown during that off moment in her set was gone. Instead, she seemed lit from within by a sense of purpose that Amara didn’t understand, far more mature than ever before. “I know this isn’t my place,” she said. “And if you guys need to fire me for saying this, that’s okay, but I can’t sit around while you all dig yourselves into the ground in some misguided quest for perfection. So I’m just going to say it. I think it really sucks that you’re taking speed.”

“Um. What?” Amara said, Claire’s words knocking the breath out of her like a sucker punch.

“You don’t need it,” Claire continued. “Or maybe right now you feel like you do—I know addiction is a hell of a monster. Like, I don’t think I’m an alcoholic, but sometimes I feel like I’m going to kill someone if I don’t get a drink, so I can only imagine how much harder it would be to stop popping pills all the time. But I’m sure you can do it. You’re strong and amazing, and ultimately, you’d be much better off without it, and—”

“Wait,” Amara said. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Claire said. “I tried your TrueMommy.”

“You . . . ,” Amara began, having trouble finding the words to continue. A terrible awareness started to dawn inside of her. No. It couldn’t be true. But also, of course it was.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I know it was a total invasion of privacy, but when I was babysitting, I was playing around and I popped one into my mouth, and almost immediately, my heart started racing.”

“Oh, no,” Amara said, her legs going weak beneath her. She grabbed the railing and sank down so that she was sitting on the top step leading down to Gwen’s yard, a picture-perfect postage stamp with a rosebush and a flagstone path, a homemade bird feeder swamped with sparrows, a little metal slide on one side for the children, and a patio table with a couple of chairs for the adults on the other. Objectively, those things were there in her line of vision, but all she could see was Charlie’s little face, staring balefully up at her. “Oh, shit. Oh, motherfucking holy bloody hell.”

“It’s okay,” Claire said, sinking down with her and grabbing her hand. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Wait. No. Are you sure it was speed?” Amara asked, giving Claire’s hand the same death grip she’d given Daniel in the delivery room, staring straight into Claire’s eyes as if by looking hard enough, she could open up a portal and return them to the proper reality they’d somehow gotten detached from. “Not just a bit of caffeine or something?”

“Um . . . no, I’m pretty sure it was some kind of amphetamine. A relatively low dose, but still,” Claire said. “We used to take Adderall on the road sometimes, and this felt exactly the same.” She peered at Amara. “Hold on—you didn’t know?” Amara shook her head. “Oh, my God. But how could you not know?”

“There were no fucking side effects when they started! They were just normal vitamins!” Amara said, then gasped. “Oh! That’s why the trial month had the packets separated week by week. Not because they were ‘curating’ them! Those sociopaths at TrueMommy must’ve upped the level of the drug in them bit by bit. I will murder those snakes. I will chop them up with a pickax and feed them to the subway rats.” Was it possible that Charlie had felt her heart racing too fast whenever she’d held him to her breast and tried to comfort him? That maybe part of the reason he’d been so difficult to calm was because he knew that something was wrong? It sounded mental, but babies could sense things. They could be shaped forever by the smallest mistake. She took a shuddering breath and began to cry. “Oh, forget Joan Crawford. I am the worst mother in the world.”