Chapter 9 #2
“Where are Summer and Henry?” I glance out the sliding glass door to a map of color painting the patio and a couple dozen boxes taped together. The fact that Summer remembered Quinn likes to color… it’s something a nanny would do. A thoughtful gesture that’s hard to ignore.
“I sent her home,” Caroline says without looking up at me.
“You what?” I shove my hands in my pocket as I approach the table in quick strides.
What is it going to take for her to get that she doesn’t have custody over Quinn?
“This is an apple. Can you say, aaaa-ppple.” Caroline enunciates the word and ignores my proximity as I tower over her.
Quinn climbs on her lap. “Appow.”
“That wasn’t your call to make,” I interrupt.
She finally lasers in on my face. “You’d rather have your daughter spend time with some stranger than her grandmother?”
“She’s not a stranger,” I argue. In fact, as far as Caroline knows, Summer is the woman I hired to be Quinn’s nanny.
She can’t just dismiss her when she wants to.
That’s my job. And after the day I had, I wasn’t exactly ready for Summer to go home yet.
For more reasons than simply not being in a great headspace to parent right now.
Whether or not it’s appropriate to be thinking about how much I liked seeing Summer in my home is an entirely different question.
“Are you sure about that? How much do you really know about this woman?”
She’s acting like I’d trust my daughter with anyone. Summer’s son goes to school with Quinn. And I can bet Quinn had a hell of a lot more fun drawing on the patio and playing in that impressive box creation than she is working through a stack of flashcards.
I don’t like the look in Caroline’s eyes. The Blackwoods are a highly connected family around here. They frequent country clubs and board meetings. It wouldn’t be impossible for her to know something about Summer that I don’t.
“I know plenty, thanks.” I turn away from her, taking long strides toward the island, because now I’m questioning everything.
A list of things I don’t know about Summer unravels like a rogue roll of toilet paper in my mind.
I don’t know her last name or where she lives, other than with a friend.
Which seems odd if she’s married. I don’t know where she works or who Henry’s father is.
And those aren’t even things I’d find on a criminal record if she had one.
Does she have one? Would El have trusted Summer so quickly?
Being the only grandchild on both sides, we haven’t needed to leave Quinn with so much as a babysitter.
I convince myself this is simply new for everyone involved.
And I owe Caroline some grace. She lost her daughter and is having to face watching her grandchild grow up without a mother. I get that it’s hard on everyone.
It doesn’t mean I’m a bad judge of character. Or that I should be taking the brunt of what she’s working through. I’m a good parent. I show up if her teacher says she’d like to have a meeting with me. Something I’d use to prove myself to Caroline right now if I were okay with her knowing about it.
When I’ve determined how I feel on this subject, I turn to face her.
“I trust Summer.”
Caroline raises an eyebrow. “Did you know Henry isn’t her son?”
I hide my shock as a sick feeling stirs in my gut.
How did you find this out? I want to ask, but that would give me away. Because no, I did not know that information.
Even when the muscles in my jaw want to lock, I force myself to relax. No matter what, I’ll get to the bottom of this.
“Quinn and I have plans this evening,” I say.
It’s a lie. The only plan I have is getting Caroline the hell out of my house and figuring out what I’m going to say to Summer.
Caroline gathers her flashcards into a pile but leaves them on the table. Her way of suggesting I use them after she’s gone, I’m sure.
“I’ll show myself to the door. Bye, Quinny.” She wraps her in a hug and exits without another word.
The rest of the evening I try so hard to be present with Quinn. We watch Inside Out 2 but I miss most of the context of the movie. All I can relate to is the character Anxiety, and how it’s taking over my own control center.
Summer had so many opportunities to tell me she isn’t Henry’s mother. Why didn’t she?
Near the credits, Quinn falls asleep tucked against my arm. I carry her to bed, then head for the bathroom. I should be out in the studio, but after a day like today, it would be fruitless. Words won’t come. The same way it’s been this entire week.
I brush my teeth, use the bathroom, and strip down to my boxers. The relief I feel when the mattress that was delivered today molds to my body is the one bright spot I hold on to. Especially when the emptiness around me threatens to pull me under.
I have a love-hate relationship with nighttime.
It’s dark and quiet and lonely. I swipe a hand across the side of the bed El once occupied, missing the way she’d curl her leg over mine.
She’d rest her head on my chest and tell me about her day.
Now the only weight I feel there is the anxious ball that threatens to collapse my lungs at any given moment.
The constant reminder that it’s all up to me now.
I flick on the lamp, slide on my glasses, and pull out the journal I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand.
I add a few necessary lines before tucking it back where it belongs.
When that doesn’t help me feel better, I pull up the empty text box that’s been taking up way too much space in my head all night.
I consider myself a good judge of character.
Todd, for example, wasn’t the first manager who offered me representation.
One guy who did is behind bars for three DUIs, and another is facing a lawsuit for selling the intellectual property of a fellow artist. I’ve never been wrong with who to trust before, and it’s driving me crazy that I might have been too quick to trust this time.
That I was acting in desperation and didn’t know Summer as well as I thought I did.
I’m basing my decision on seems instead of knows, but she seems too nice to find herself behind bars isn’t enough. This is why I don’t ask for help.
Summer deserves a thank-you for dropping everything last minute. More than one thanks, actually, in the ever-growing list of ways she’s saved me. But, it seems, she’s also been lying to me, and I’m still pissed about it. I war with myself.
When I finally hit send, the frustrated side of me wins.