Free Mommy Tracked by Whitney Gaskell Page A

bent over to admire a fire-engine-red Bugaboo baby carriage—a steal at only $679—and suddenly felt another Braxton Hicks contraction. It pinched like a menstrual cramp, only stronger, and she closed her eyes tightly while she waited for it to pass. They’d been coming more and more frequently all day, each one taking away her breath and making her feel like she’d been punched in the stomach.
    The first time she’d had what felt like a serious contraction, she called James at work and then rushed over to her doctor’s office, sure that this was it, she was in labor. She wasn’t. The nurse–midwife—a bossy woman with copper-red hair and Dolly Parton-size breasts—had checked Chloe’s cervix and then sent her home.
    “There’s no point coming in every time you have a Braxton Hicks contraction. Most women have them for weeks before they actually go into labor,” the nurse–midwife had said, so patronizingly that Chloe’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She slunk out of the office, feeling like a complete failure.
    Her due date had been yesterday. But when she went to see her obstetrician for her weekly appointment, he’d reported that her cervix was still closed as tight as a fist.
    “First-time mothers are often late,” Dr. Camp said soothingly. “It could be another week, or maybe even two.”
    Great , Chloe had thought. Just what she wanted to hear—another week with swollen elephant ankles, gut-wrenching contractions, and a belly stretched so large, her skin ached.
    Although maybe it wasn’t so bad. At least now they’d be able to attend the Weavers’ cocktail party.
    “I have to warn you up front, there are going to be a lot of lawyers in attendance,” Grace had said when she called to invite Chloe and James. Grace had a warm voice that always sounded on the verge of fizzing with laughter. Chloe had instinctively liked her when they met and now felt a preteenish thrill of pleasure at being included.
    The party was that night. Chloe glanced at her watch and saw that it was getting late. She should get home. She wanted to take a shower before the party, blow-dry her hair, and take time with her makeup. She was so nervous, it almost felt like she was single again and going on a first date with someone she had a crush on. Actually, making friends with a new group of women was worse than dating.
    She looked around for a sales assistant who could hopefully point her toward the mobiles. And that’s when Chloe saw them: a tiny pair of baby shoes. They were made of soft pink leather, and each had a red leather cherry sewn over the top. Chloe picked them up.
    I have to have them , she thought, resting her hand on her swollen stomach as she suddenly pictured a little girl with blonde curls, wearing a starched white pinafore dress and these perfect little shoes.
    Even before she’d decided to take the shoes, Chloe felt the familiar flare of exhilaration mixed with cold apprehension. What if she was caught? She had been once before, back when she was a teenager and had attempted to shoplift a fountain pen at an upscale stationery store. But Chloe had cried, and the manager who’d caught her tucking the pen into her LeSportsac had taken pity on her and shooed her out of the store. For a long while after that, Chloe had resisted the urge to slip lipsticks or silk scarves into her purse. But eventually she slid back into her old habits.
    In college, she’d gone through a period where she filled her jacket pockets every time she went to the grocery store. It was never anything she needed; it wasn’t like she was going to whip up a light gourmet meal in her dorm room. But even so, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from pocketing jars of Grey Poupon, Swiss chocolate bars, boxes of soda crackers, and, once, a bloody steak that was turning gray at the edges. Each time, as soon as she left the store, Chloe had immediately driven to a homeless shelter and left the items by the front door, like a sacrifice to