I grabbed a seat on a bench overlooking the Hudson, trying to relax and enjoy my coffee, despite—well, everything. Clara had already been sleeping for about forty minutes. I actually wished I had a book with me. I hadn’t been able to focus on a book since she was born, but I needed something else to occupy me besides obsessing about Isabel—what the hell had happened to her, seriously?—and my inexplicable Google Doc, my mom, Tim, Selena, all of it. I knew that Selena was right—I had no right to go nosing around in Isabel’s business by visiting her home again, and I especially shouldn’t have been trying to recruit Selena, or anyone else, to join me.
Two women pushing strollers were walking toward the bench I was sitting on; they were older, in their fifties maybe, so I assumed they were nannies. Both of their babies were sleeping in their strollers, with muslin blankets shading them from the sun. I should have thought to do so. Nannies always made it look so easy. Even the ones caring for multiple kids just seemed to intrinsically know how to make the kids do exactly what they were supposed to: nap in the stroller, take a bottle, play safely, wait quietly. I almost never saw babies screaming with their nannies, and if they did, it seemed they were calmed within seconds. I, on the other hand, took all Clara’s meltdowns personally, like criticisms. I felt her wails in my own chest, my own head. My obstetrician, a mom of three, had jokingly told me that kids are like dogs: they can smell fear. I’d thought she was kidding, but it made sense to me now, and I wondered if my stress and anxiety were contributing factors to Clara’s fussiness.
As the nannies got closer, I realized that one of them was pushing Vanessa’s daughter, Phoebe. I couldn’t actually see Phoebe, as she was ensconced in her bassinet, but I recognized Vanessa’s chic beige stroller, as it stood out from the huge, clunky black ones that most other moms, myself included, had.
The nannies were talking in hushed voices, so as not to wake the babies, but I heard Vanessa’s nanny—I thought her name was Cynthia—say “Naomi.”
They were talking about Isabel.
Though I’d half-heartedly resolved to take Selena’s advice and butt out, I was overwhelmingly curious. They might know something, have seen something, maybe.
I decided to follow them. It was innocent enough—I was going for a walk in the park with my baby, just like they were, like so many other mothers and caregivers were. I just happened to be walking at the same pace as them, and at a relatively close distance that allowed me to hear their conversation.
Completely innocent. Casual.
“She was at their apartment a few days before she went missing,” Vanessa’s nanny was saying, gesturing to Phoebe in the stroller. “So sad. Poor woman. I remember she was crying when she was over. The baby was napping, so I mostly stayed in the kitchen, to give them their space. But she was very upset.”
Everyone touts their proximity to tragedy. It’s human nature. She could have been exaggerating the degree to which she’d borne witness to Isabel’s troubles. But this was interesting, to say the least. I hadn’t realized that Vanessa and Isabel hung out on their own. And it sounded like they were close, that Isabel had confided in Vanessa.
“It’s so terrible,” the other nanny said. “What do you think happened?”
“Who knows,” Cynthia said, shaking her head. “Nothing good, though. Poor woman. She was over all the time, you know.”
Vanessa certainly hadn’t made it seem like their relationship was that extensive when we brought food over to Isabel’s. She hadn’t said anything about Isabel being over “all the time.”
“What was she like?” the other nanny asked.
“Very considerate. Spoke to me by name. Usually the boss’s friends don’t even acknowledge us, right?” The other nanny rolled her eyes and nodded knowingly. “But she always went out of her way to ask me how I was doing, where I grew up, that kind of thing. She did seem overwhelmed by the baby, though. Not sure why—Naomi seems easy enough. But she seemed intent on being the perfect mother. If Naomi spit up even a drop on herself, Isabel would change her entire outfit immediately. And I heard her tell Vanessa all about how she wasn’t sure if she could do it, it was too much, something like that. I remember feeling that way when all three of my kids were born—a lot of it is the hormones, of course. And you just do what you think you can’t do, and as time goes on you realize that you’re doing it—then, lo and behold, you’re a mom. Fake it until you make it, right? None of us know what we’re doing in those early days.” She paused, and I could tell she was about to say something else. I picked up my pace to inch a little closer. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised that she was looking to Vanessa for help.”