A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

MEREDITH
11 YEARS BEFORE
March
The text comes from a number I don’t know. It’s a 630 area code.
Local. I’m in the bathroom with Leo as he soaks in the tub. He has
his bath toys lined up on the edge of it and they’re taking turns swan
diving into the now-lukewarm water. It used to be hot, too hot for Leo
to get into. But he’s been in there for thirty minutes now playing with
his octopus, his whale, his fish. He’s having a ball.
Meanwhile I’ve lost track of time. I have a client in the early stages
of labor. We’re texting. Her husband wants to take her to the
hospital. She thinks it’s too soon. Her contractions are six and a half
minutes apart. She’s absolutely correct. It’s too soon. The hospital
would just send her home, which is frustrating, not to mention a huge
inconvenience for women in labor. And anyway, why labor at the
hospital when you can labor in the comfort of your own home? Firsttime
fathers always get skittish. It does their wives no good. By the
time I get to them, more times than not, the woman in labor is the
more calm of the two. I have to focus my attention on pacifying a
nervous husband. It’s not what they’re paying me for.
I tell Leo one more minute until I shampoo his hair, and then fire
off a quick text, suggesting my client have a snack to keep her
energy up, herself nourished. I recommend a nap, if her body will let
her. The night ahead will be long for all of us. Childbirth, especially
when it comes to first-time moms, is a marathon, not a sprint.
Josh is home. He’s in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner while
Delilah plays. Delilah’s due up next in the tub. By the time I leave,
the bedtime ritual will be done or nearly done. I feel good about that,
hating the times I leave Josh alone with so much to do.
I draw up my text and then hit Send. The reply is immediate, that
all too familiar ping that comes to me at all hours of the day or night.