The Watcher Girl(16)

“You have a beautiful little family,” I say.

She presses the photo against her chest. “Thank you. These two are my whole world.”

Her ordinary brown gaze turns luminescent, and she pauses to drink in the photograph as if she’s trying to imagine it through someone else’s eyes: how blissful they appear, how two perfectly ordinary-looking humans created a miniature version of themselves so adorable she could grace the labels of baby food jars all across the world. She places the picture back on the desk and returns to the table, chin resting on her hand as she studies me.

“This is going to sound weird, but you look so familiar,” she says. “Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?”

Because you did. Yesterday.

“I get that a lot,” I lie.

“I do, too. Some people just have those kinds of faces.” She takes a careful swig of water. “So you said you grew up here . . . where do you live now?”

“Kind of live all over the place,” I say, “but for now, home base is Portland.”

“Maine or Oregon?”

“Oregon.” I always forget there’s a different Portland tucked up into the northeast. Quiet. Minding its own business. Out of sight, out of mind. Much like I used to be . . .

She smiles. “Ah, yes. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard good things.”

It’s what you say when you have no intentions of traveling somewhere, but I don’t judge her. Portland’s not for everyone—especially if her idea of nirvana is the kind of family-friendly bubble Monarch Falls encapsulates.

Little Grace—Gigi—smacks her hands on her high-chair tray table and babbles something incoherent. I get the impression she’s not used to sharing her mother’s attention with strangers.

“Are you done with your snack, sweet girl?” Campbell tends to her immediately, scooping her up and bringing her to the table to partake in our girl talk. Bouncing her daughter on her knee, she turns to me. “You have kids?”

I shake my head. “Not my thing. I mean, I love them, don’t get me wrong. I’ve just never been bitten by the motherhood bug.”

The motherhood bug . . .

I sound like an idiot, but I’m trying to be honest without going deep.

She twirls a wispy, three-inch strand of her daughter’s hair. “It’s definitely not for everyone, that’s for sure. Hardest thing you’ll ever do.”

I’m not sure how I missed it before, but a hint of blue-purple settles beneath her eyes, like two subtle half moons. Is she sleep-deprived? I don’t know much about babies, but I’m pretty sure they’re sleeping through the night by this age.

“How old is she?” I ask, despite knowing her birth date. It’s in Sutton’s file in my Watchers and Guardians app. April 3. She’s fourteen months.

These two don’t sit still for more than three-second intervals. I’ve barely budged, and I’m exhausted just watching them. Constant squirming and readjusting. Always touching. And people willingly live like this?

This’ll be Rose soon.

She’ll make it look posh, though. Thousand-dollar stroller. Mommy-and-Me-and-Mozart classes. Designer onesies. Not that any of those things are bad—but if she’s anything like our mother (and she is), she’ll make motherhood look chic and fabulous, and she’ll be the envy of her social circle and then some.

I’ve often wondered if all our mother’s fanfare was to distract from the fact that she was in over her head with motherhood. With her marriage. With her life.

“Gigi’s fourteen months . . . going on fourteen some days.” Campbell snickers through her nose, and I do the same out of politeness. It’s an overdone joke that parents always make when they want to humbly brag that their kid has sass and personality. I don’t take Campbell as a humblebragger, though. I think she’s simply naive. Maybe a tad unoriginal. But mostly naive.

“How long have you lived in Monarch Falls?” I need to get this conversation back on track. It has to be useful, otherwise I’m wasting both of our time.

Her forehead creases. “A couple of years now?”

“You like it so far?” I take a swig of water.

“It’s okay. People aren’t as friendly as I’d hoped. Or maybe it’s just me.” Her voice fades with each word, as if she’s second-guessing whether or not she’s the problem in real time. “I sit inside all day with this little one, and it’s impossible to meet people. Guess it’s lonelier than I expected. Thought about signing up for some Kindermusik or Baby Gym classes . . . Just haven’t gotten around to it, I suppose . . .”

Her words fade, shaded with despondency like a murky, muted watercolor.

I imagine it’s pretty hard to make new friends in a new town when you’ve got a baby glued to your side twenty-four seven.

“Have you made any friends in your neighborhood or anything?” I ask, thinking about the older gentleman who held her baby as she got the mail yesterday. They seemed friendly, and obviously she trusted him enough to hand over her firstborn child for a few seconds. Then again, she’s not exactly the poster child of wariness.

“Not as many as I’d hoped by this point.” She glances sideways as if she wants to add something. I stay quiet, an old psychological hack that gets people to talk more when they’re having reservations. “There was this couple that moved in next door last year. We had a couple of cookouts with them. A few double dates before Gigi came along.” Campbell pauses, lips pressed tight. “I guess after a while we didn’t really hit it off?”