“Why is that?”
“She’s a great boss. Don’t get me wrong. I’m very lucky. But she’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. Nor was she in a position to empathize with Isabel having a tough time.”
“What do you mean?” Nanny #2 asked, patting the blanket down over her baby’s legs.
Cynthia paused; I couldn’t tell if it was for dramatic effect, or genuine hesitation. She seemed to be enjoying sharing both her gossip and her wisdom. “It’s just . . . easier for some women than others. I’ve been with them since Phoebe was six weeks. Vanessa had her on a schedule, was already back in the gym. No squeeze bottle or witch hazel pads still lying around. No pumping bras and nursing pads to wash, since she formula feeds.” This was news to me. Vanessa had implied many times in our meetings that she was nursing. I thought so, anyway. Maybe I was wrong. But hadn’t she said something about stopping by her place to feed Phoebe during the day? I supposed that could have meant bottles, though. “Hell, if you’d asked me,” Cynthia continued, “I would say there was no way she could have just given birth! Some women are blessed like that, though. Just snap back into their bodies like they were never pregnant at all. Point is—Isabel was going through something that Vanessa wasn’t. Assuming that Naomi was what had her so upset, of course.”
I hoped the other nanny would press her further, and thankfully, she did. “What did she say to Isabel when she was upset?”
“From what I heard, she just kept telling her to press on, that it would be fine, which actually isn’t terrible advice, when you think about it. Look, she’s a lovely woman and a great mother. I’m grateful to be with them. She’s just not the person I’d choose as a shoulder to cry on, that’s all. She also doesn’t seem . . . as worried as you might expect, about Isabel. She’s going about her business like her friend isn’t missing. But of course, people hide their fears and sadness all the time. Especially people like Vanessa. Miss Perfect.” She clicked her tongue with overwrought sadness. “Poor Isabel. Pray they find her safe and sound.”
“I hope so, too. For that little baby’s sake. Poor thing. Probably missing her mother. Babies know when their mother is near.” I’d heard that before, but in the context of my presence somehow being hindersome to my baby’s feeding and sleeping schedule. Hearing it in this new context put things in perspective once more: how lucky I was to have my baby close to me, both of us safe and sound.
“Do you mind if we sit for a second? I have to make a bottle.” They sat down and Cynthia took out a Comotomo bottle filled with water and dumped powder from a plastic baggie into it. She shook it vigorously, carefully lifted Phoebe out of her stroller, and started feeding her. “There’s a girl. There’s a sweet girl. Drink your milk, baby. By the way, how is your son doing at college?” And with that, they moved on from Vanessa and Isabel.
I turned left out of the park, exiting onto Eighty-Third Street and Riverside Drive. I was winded, either from the short hill or the adrenaline rush from overhearing what I had.
Clara woke up with a scrunchy face and a wail. I knew she would be hungry, and I didn’t want her to cry all the way home. I felt like whenever she started crying in the stroller, people glared at me—as if I didn’t know I was inadequate and they needed to confirm it with their concerned looks. Even the most well-meaning interventions, like a woman who’d recently asked if I needed help as Clara shrieked through the last few minutes of a walk in Central Park, left me shaken. “I promise it gets better!” she’d said with a sympathetic smile. I knew she was being kind, but I was still embarrassed.
I sat on another bench on Eighty-Fourth and Riverside, shaded by trees and overlooking the section of park where we’d just been walking, and fumbled with my nursing bra, nursing cover, and Clara’s head, until at last she was latched, tangled in my layers.
I allowed my mind to race, replaying their conversation. Lots of women bounce back quickly from delivery. （Not me, obviously, but I’d seen pictures on Instagram of Kristin Cavallari in a bikini, like, nine days after giving birth, and Hilaria Baldwin on a run the day after coming home from the hospital. So I knew it could happen.） The fact that Vanessa looked trim and was already exercising when Cynthia met her didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean that she was incapable of understanding the plight of other postpartum women who were perhaps struggling more than she was. Nor did it mean that she wasn’t also fighting her own private battles. Especially since she was doing it all on her own.