Page 13 of The Other Mother

THE STRANGER IN THE GLASS

T he Whole Foods parking lot shimmers with heat even though it's only ten in the morning.

October in Palm Desert means the summer furnace is finally starting to cool, but the asphalt still radiates warmth through the soles of my sandals.

I fumble with Eva's car seat straps, trying to get the buckles aligned while she squirms and fusses in that way that means she's getting tired but fighting sleep.

The desert sun beats down mercilessly, and I can already feel sweat beading along my hairline despite the early hour.

This is why I try to run errands before noon, before the heat becomes truly unbearable.

Eva's face is getting red and blotchy, and I know I need to get her into the air conditioning soon.

"Come on, baby," I murmur, finally clicking the chest clip into place. "Almost done."

That's when I feel it. The prickle of awareness that comes with being watched. I look up from the car seat, shading my eyes with my hand.

Mara.

She's standing by the shopping cart return, maybe thirty feet away.

Not moving. Not pretending to return a cart or check her phone.

Just watching me with that same intense stare I remember from the meeting.

Her dark hair hangs straight and flat against her shoulders, and she's wearing the same style clothes as before: jeans and a plain t-shirt that could belong to anyone.

My breath catches in my throat. My hands freeze on Eva's car seat handle.

But before I can move, before I can call out or wave or do anything at all, a white delivery van pulls between us, blocking my view. The driver is taking his time, checking something on his clipboard, and I lean to the side trying to see around it.

When the van finally moves, Mara is gone.

I scan the parking lot frantically, looking between the rows of cars, checking the store entrance. Nothing. It's as if she simply vanished into the heat shimmer rising from the asphalt.

By the time I get home, my hands are still shaking. I carry Eva inside and set her bouncing seat on the kitchen counter while I put away groceries, but I keep glancing out the window toward the street. Every shadow, every movement makes my pulse spike.

I need to get outside. I need to do something with my hands, something normal and grounding. The small garden bed I've been working on behind our house beckons like therapy.

Desert gardening is nothing like what I grew up with in Ohio, where you could basically throw seeds into rich black soil and watch them grow.

Here, the native caliche is like concrete mixed with rocks, and everything has to be carefully planned around the extreme temperatures and minimal rainfall.

I've spent weeks amending a small patch with compost and sulfur, trying to lower the pH enough to grow something other than cacti and desert broom.

October is actually perfect timing for planting in the low desert.

The brutal summer heat is finally breaking, and I have until late spring before temperatures climb back over a hundred degrees.

I've been researching more drought-tolerant vegetables that can handle the alkaline soil: Swiss chard and kale.

I'm on my knees, working compost into the stubborn soil with a hand trowel, when Sharon Henderson appears at the side gate. She’s a little bit older than I am and lives three houses down in a similarly modern new construction home with desert landscaping out front.

Sharon has twin boys, about a year old, and the kind of deep tan that comes from walking her golden retriever twice a day in the desert sun.

Her husband is a doctor who often works nights.

"How's the garden coming along?" she asks, checking the baby monitor video on her phone. Her dog, Buster, strains toward me on his leash, tail wagging .

"Slowly," I say, sitting back on my heels and wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my gardening glove. "This soil is like working with cement."

"Tell me about it. I gave up and went with all natives." She gestures toward her yard, which is beautifully landscaped with palo verde trees and barrel cacti. "Less water, less fuss."

We chat for a few minutes about the challenges of desert landscaping, her kids and about the roadrunner she saw in her yard yesterday. Normal neighbor conversation that should feel comforting but somehow doesn't.

"How's little Eva doing?" Sharon asks, peering through the sliding glass door where Eva is visible in her bouncing seat.

"Good," I say, though the word feels hollow. "Growing fast."

"I bet. Hard to believe it's been what, six weeks since you brought her home?"

An opening. I try to keep my voice casual, just making conversation. "Do you remember that day? When we came home from the hospital?"

Sharon nods immediately. "Of course. She was crying the whole way out of the car. You looked completely wrecked. I remember thinking how exhausted you must have been, dealing with that heavy gray car seat.”

"Gray?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.

She smiles, like we’re sharing a joke I don’t remember. “And two days later you’d swapped to the sleek white one — guess the loaner did its job.”

Loaner. The word sticks. I don’t remember borrowing a seat.

Sharon chats for a few more minutes about something involving the homeowners association and palm tree trimming, but I can barely focus on her words. When she finally leaves, I wait until she's back in her own yard before I rush inside.

Eva's car seat sits in our front hallway where I always leave it.

White and pristine, with clean modern lines and ergonomic padding.

The brand name is embossed in silver letters: Nuna.

I remember Adam researching it obsessively, reading safety ratings and crash test reports before we ordered it online.

I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and scroll through my photos.

Hospital parking lot, me carrying Eva's carrier to the car.

But the carrier is cropped out of the frame, cut off at the bottom of the image.

Every photo since then shows Eva in the white Nuna seat.

Never gray. Never heavy and old-fashioned.

Later that evening, I need more diapers. The Rite Aid is closer than the grocery store, and sometimes getting out of the house helps when my thoughts start spiraling. We drive past identical stucco houses with red tile roofs and small front yards filled with gravel and desert plants .

The sun is setting behind the San Jacinto Mountains, painting the sky brilliant orange and pink. It's finally cool enough to be outside without feeling like I'm being slowly cooked. Other people are emerging too: joggers, dog walkers, a few neighbors watering their plants or checking their mail.

That's when I see her again.

Mara is standing across the street from the Rite Aid, near the bus stop. This time she's not just watching. She's moving, walking quickly toward the store entrance with purpose.

My heart hammers against my ribs, but this time I don't freeze. This time, I follow.

I park and push Eva's stroller fast across the parking lot, trying to keep Mara in sight without looking like I'm chasing her. She disappears through the automatic doors, and I follow thirty seconds behind, the cool air conditioning hitting my overheated skin like a wall.

Inside, the store is nearly empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white light. I scan the aisles methodically, pharmacy counter, greeting cards, snacks. No sign of Mara.

I push the stroller toward the baby section, thinking maybe she's there. But the aisle is empty except for a teenage employee restocking shelves. I check feminine care, the pharmacy again, even the single bathroom at the back of the store .

Nothing. She's gone again, vanished as completely as she did in the parking lot this morning.

Frustrated and feeling foolish, I grab a pack of diapers and head to the checkout. The cashier is a tired-looking woman in her forties who barely glances up as she scans my purchase. I pay quickly and push the stroller back outside into the desert evening.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, just a few cars scattered under the orange glow of the sodium lights. I'm fumbling for my keys when I notice something tucked under my windshield wiper.

A folded piece of paper, white against the dark glass.

I look around the parking lot. No one. Just me and Eva and the distant sound of traffic on Highway 111.

I pull the paper free and unfold it slowly. The handwriting is neat, feminine, written in blue pen:

You're not crazy. You're right.

My hands shake as I read the words again. And again. I spin around, scanning every shadow, every car, every possible hiding place.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing off the store's facade. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Only silence answers me.

I unlock the car with fumbling fingers and lift Eva from her stroller, settling her into the white car seat. She fusses briefly as I buckle her in, her tiny face scrunching with tiredness.

I fold the stroller and load it into the trunk, then slide behind the wheel. My hands are trembling so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition.

As I'm backing out of the parking space, I glance in the rearview mirror to check on Eva. She's already falling asleep, her head drooping to one side despite the padded support of her car seat.

Her white car seat.

But as I stare at her reflection, something flickers at the edge of my memory. A fragment, blurry and uncertain. A hand lifting her from something different. Something darker. Heavier. The sound of plastic buckles clicking, but different clicks. Older clicks.

My stomach lurches as the image tries to form more clearly in my mind, but it slips away like water through my fingers.

What else don't I remember?