The Watcher Girl(19)

“You’re fine,” I assure her, watching as the two get settled. “How’s your day so far?”

As much as I want to throw a grenade’s worth of inquiries at her the instant she sits, I opt to ease into this conversation with small talk.

Gigi picks at her Cheerios, occasionally struggling to pinch them between her stubby fingers. I keep the crayons and coloring book out of sight on the seat beside me. She’s clearly not there yet, and there’s no need to illustrate how incompetent I am when it comes to kids.

“Nothing too crazy,” she says to me, though her focus is on her daughter. “Yourself?”

“Worked for a couple of hours.” I sip my coffee, wallowing in the awkwardness of this moment but determined to trudge forward anyway.

“What is it you do for work?”

“People hire me to remove things about them from the internet.” I take another drink.

Her brows lift. “That’s got to be interesting.”

“It used to be. In the beginning. Now it’s mostly boring or disturbing. Not much in between.” I shrug and hope she doesn’t ask for specifics. Over the years, I’ve trained my mind to compartmentalize the worst of the worst of the things I’ve seen. “Did you work? Before Gigi?”

Her face softens. “I did. I was an ER nurse.”

I’ve never understood how people can spend all that time and money working toward a career—only to discard it all the second they bring a human life into the world. I mean, I get it. Raising children not to be assholes is important. It’s the lord’s work. But Campbell and Sutton are young. And it’s not like they’re raising a gaggle of kids. It’s one baby. Surely they can afford the best childcare, right?

I try to recall if Sutton and I ever had that conversation. At times (mostly when he’d been drinking) he would wax poetic about what our ideal future would look like. Most of the time, he’d paint this Leave It to Beaver picture that would stir a swell of nausea in my middle, and I’d end up tuning him out. But I’m almost certain I mentioned hiring a nanny once, and he didn’t balk.

“You think you’ll ever go back to nursing?” I ask.

She shakes her head without pause and then grins at her daughter as she shoves a palmful of crushed cereal into her drool-covered mouth.

“My husband prefers that I stay home with her,” she says before biting her lip. It’s as if she didn’t realize how archaic the notion sounded until the words touched her lips. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.” Campbell brushes hair from Gigi’s forehead. “I can’t imagine going back to work and leaving her with someone else all day.” She sucks in a quick breath and leans in. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not something I could do. Personally.”

All the excuses and the overexplaining—it’s as if she feels the need to qualify her opinions. Another sign of abuse, or is she simply insecure in her opinions? Desperate to be liked? It’s hard to be sure without getting to know her better. And I fully intend to do that.

“I’m sure if you looked hard enough you could find someone amazing,” I say, just to test her reaction.

She doesn’t strike me as someone with trust issues—especially given her hospitality the other morning—but maybe it’s a new mom thing?

Daphne stayed home with us until . . . she went to prison. But we always had summer nannies and a rotation of babysitters. She had no qualms about leaving us in the care of other people so she could run errands and get manicures in peace.

“I’m sure.” She sips her coffee, leaving it at that. Like the topic isn’t up for debate. Like the issue has already been decided.

“You think you’ll have more?” My question is invasive, and I wouldn’t normally say something like this to someone I hardly know, but I’m trying to establish a dialogue here. And I want her to feel like she can open up to me.

“God willing.” She doesn’t look up from her daughter. “My husband wants four.”

I know. I remember.

My insides cinch at the thought of bringing life into this world. They cinch tighter at the thought of four. My thighs fasten together.

“What about you? How many do you want?” I ask.

Her delicate fingertips graze the side of her coffee cup, and she draws in a long breath, as if she has to think about the answer. “I don’t know . . .”

She doesn’t know? She’s “always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom,” but she doesn’t know how many kids she wants?

“I’m an only child, so I’ve always liked the idea of a big family,” she says. “I just don’t know how big. Gigi keeps me on my toes. Can’t imagine having three more of her. Maybe when she’s a little older?”

I think of Campbell and Sutton five years from now, then ten years from now. Flecks of gray at his temple (his father went gray quite early). Maybe an extra ten or fifteen pounds because . . . life. Coaching Little League on the weekends. I picture Campbell’s cute little car replaced with a glossy red minivan, fully embracing the Whitlock family lifestyle.

Campbell runs her fingers through Gigi’s hair. From the moment they sat down, I don’t think she’s stopped doting on her for two seconds.

She’s a good mom. Loving and attentive. Sutton chose well in that department. She’s a hell of a lot better than I’d have been.