Page 132 of The Good Girl Effect
“When is Camille coming back?” she whines.
“In two days,” I reply.
“I miss her already.”
“She left an hour ago,” I say. Placing my hands on the counter, I slump with a defeated sigh. This is all my fault. If I had just apologized weeks ago, then she might have stayed, but I wasn’t ready. I was too afraid that if I tried, she wouldn’t accept it and then really leave for good. And I didn’t want to ruin Bea’s Christmas like that.
“You miss her too,” Bea says, noticing my glum demeanor.
“Of course I miss her too,” I reply.
“Can you call her?” she asks. “Tell her she can sleep in your bed again, and maybe she’ll come back.”
My head snaps up, and I stare at her in shock. “Beatrice,” I say in a scolding tone, without fully knowing what I’m supposed to be scolding her for.
“What?” she asks innocently. “When Camille slept in your bed, she was much happier.”
“She never slept in my bed,” I argue, which is a lie.
“Yes, she did. Sometimes, I would get up in the middle of the night, and she would be in your bed.”
I’m appalled. My jaw hangs open as I stare at my daughter, suddenly humiliated that she found hernannyin my bed. I should be ashamed of myself.
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” I mutter quietly.
She only shrugs. “I love Camille. I think you should call her and tell her she can sleep in your bed again so she comes back.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Because Maman went to sleep?” Bea seems to get smaller as she says that. Playing with sprinkles between her fingers, she almost looks ashamed of even bringing up her mother. What a mess I am. I haven’t even spoken with my own daughter about this.
Rounding the corner, I sit in the chair next to Bea and take her hands in mine so she can look into my eyes. “Beatrice, you know your maman didn’t go to sleep, right? She got very sick and died.”
“I know,” she mumbles sweetly, scrunching her lips.
“You do?” I ask.
“Yeah. Tante Elizabeth told me. But I don’t want to hurt you, Papa.”
My chest cracks and shatters at hearing my daughter say that. Pressing my molars together, I lean forward and pull Bea to my chest, wrapping my arms around her. “You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart. You won’t hurt me if you talk about your maman. In fact, you can talk about her as much asyou want. And if you have any questions about her, you can always ask me. I promise it won’t hurt me.”
Her tiny arms squeeze around me as we hold each other.
“I love you very much. You know that, right?”
“I love you too, Papa.”
I don’t know what I was so afraid of. I was terrified that talking to Bea about Em would cause my daughter more trauma and pain, but I was so wrong. Asking about her mother isn’t hurting her or me. Instead, she smiles against my shirt, letting out a delicate sigh.
“Is that why Camille can’t sleep in your bed anymore?” she asks after we pull away from the hug. “Because Maman died?”
“No,” I reply. “She wasn’t supposed to sleep in my bed because she’s your nanny.”
Why am I even telling my six-year-old this?
“So she can stop being my nanny,” Bea replies, moving her attention back to the icing and sprinkles. “Tante Elizabeth doesn’t have a nanny, and she has ladies who sleep in her bed all the time.”
“Beatrice!” I snap, staring at her in shock. “How do you even know that?”
