The Stillwater Girls(9)
The mother’s yoga pants are covered in flecks of golden dog hair and her T-shirt is wrinkled, but her dark hair is piled into a shiny ballerina bun on the top of her head, and when she turns to the side, I catch her profile.
She’s pretty, even with the dark circles under her eyes and the youthfulness filling out her baby face. A thin gold band rests on her left ring finger, accented by the tiniest diamond.
My hands grip the handle of the cart, and I peel my gaze off the two of them as I try to remember what I needed from this aisle. Almond flour? Xylitol? Sugar-free dark chocolate baking bits? These aren’t my usual staples, but Brant is on some sugar-free, paleo, gluten-free something-or-other fad diet that he is convinced sharpens his creative acumen.
I rack my mind, drawing blank after blank.
The lack of sleep these last few weeks is taking a toll on my short-term memory. I tried melatonin tablets for a few weeks, but those only gave me nightmares—very specific nightmares involving my husband, the blonde child, and the faceless other woman.
In the middle of a small-town grocery store, I entertain the fact that I could be wrong about all this—and I hope to God that I am.
For years, I’ve had these silly little reveries of this fictional family of ours. Daydreams of my husband snapping pictures of our child that I lovingly arrange in albums, road trips to my parents’ house in Nantucket, where they greet our little one with open arms and twirling hugs, where Mom teaches them how to bake her famous raspberry-oatmeal cookies and Dad teaches them how to sail on his beloved Parsival III. I’ve envisioned ski trips to Vermont and European summer vacations, and I’ve prayed for late-morning pancake breakfasts and back-to-school shopping excursions to the city.
If I’m lucky, all is not lost.
And if I’m not, I’ve wasted years on woolgathering and dandelion wishes.
He’d been pulling away for the past year, and all that time I assumed it was because things were getting tired and stale between us. I assumed we needed to embark on a new chapter in our lives, and I was convinced we were ready.
So I pushed for us to become foster parents.
Baby steps, I’d called it. And I’d pushed hard and in my own way, the way a desperate woman would, dropping hints and batting lashes and making jokes that were never fully jokes at all.
It took a while for Brant to warm up to the idea, and I blamed his reluctance at the time on his upcoming travel schedule. When he finally agreed, I credited his acceptance to his guilt over his disproportioned work-life balance and the fact that I’d never asked for anything of him, ever.
Now I fear he’s simply biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to shatter my heart and burn our life together to the ground. Only I’m not sure what his plan is . . . because he’s the one with the fame, but I’m the one with the money.
The house. The cars. I bought them all with family money from my trust fund. Brant makes a healthy income on his own, I’ll give him that, but without me, his standard of living would take a noticeable hit. Not to mention, you can’t put a price on never having to worry about money a day in your life.
As far as I know, Brant hasn’t saved a single penny of his earnings, but mostly because he didn’t need to. Our future is set, at least financially. We always treated his income as fun money, money he could spend on anything he pleased because he earned it and we didn’t necessarily need it.
If that child truly is his, I imagine much of his earnings are going to the girl’s mother these days.
Up ahead, the exhausted woman with the tired toddler must feel my stare, because without warning, she careens her body toward mine, her eyes tightening when we lock gazes.
This isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me.
I’ve been an “outsider” ever since we moved here. Doesn’t matter that I’ve lived here for over a decade, I’m still just that “rich bitch who lives outside of town.” People see me with my curated, wrinkle-free outfits and French designer handbags, they see the lack of worry lines on my forehead, the lack of bags under my eyes, and they think I have it all.
Once upon a not-so-distant time . . . I did.
I offer a smile, and her expression softens when she realizes I’m not judging her, that I’m not as unapproachable as I seem. And if I wouldn’t come off as some kind of overly personal weirdo, I’d tell her how lucky she is to wear leggings and topknots each day and to get to vacuum crushed goldfish crackers from the crevices of her minivan seats and plan easy, kid-friendly menus.
What I wouldn’t give to have a taste of an exhaustion so meaningful.
Turning away and repositioning her body, she blocks the sight line between myself and her child—as if I’m not welcome to look at him any longer—and I get it now. She thought I was staring at her child.
Years ago—long before we moved here—there were a couple of kidnappings in the town, both of them babies and both of them snatched in broad daylight. The locals never got over the fear, never got over the trauma of knowing something evil lurked in their precious Stillwater Hills. A slew of families even moved away, driven out by the fear of not knowing which child would be next.
I don’t blame any mother who tries to protect her child.
It’s her right, her duty.
“He’s adorable,” I say as I push my cart past her and her blue-eyed boy, hoping to subtly let her know I’m not a threat in the least.