Page 23 of The Good Girl Effect

“You speak French so well,” I say. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

“No,” she replies. “I moved here when I was eighteen. It was actually Bea’s maman who taught me French. She was a good teacher.”

There is a spark of despair in my chest, seeing the way she looks at the little girl. Even if Elizabeth moved here when she was eighteen, she can’t be any more than twenty-three now. Soit’s still quite impressive how fluent she is. Bea’s mom must have been a very good teacher.

The woman leans down to Bea and mumbles something softly to her in English. I give them their moment, stepping back before Elizabeth stands up again to say, “I think I’ll take Bea tomorrow if that’s all right. She’s been wanting to come up to the dance studio for a while, and I figure you’ll probably be off on Sundays.”

“I am,” I say. “Phoenix was going to come over for the day, but?—”

“I’ll tell her,” Elizabeth says. “I’ll see her today.”

“Okay,” I reply. “It was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” she says. A hint of a smile crosses her face before she turns and leaves Bea and I standing in the market.

Later that evening, as Bea and I are doing a puzzle at the table in the living room, the front door opens, and Jack walks in.

“Bonsoir, Papa,” Bea calls to him.

I pause, watching for his reaction. He stands at the door in the foyer of the apartment, his eyes on his daughter at the table next to me. My attention is glued to him, waiting for him to give her something. This poor child just needs a parent. A touch of affection. Attention.Anything.

But he’s staring at the two of us sitting here as if this is somehow offensive to him. As if us just existing is hurting his feelings in some way.

“Hello, Bea,” he says, replying to her in English in a raspy, grief-stricken voice.

Normally, when Jack comes and goes from the apartment, it’s a beeline straight from the front door to the stairs. I’ve never known him to go to the kitchen or her room or anywhere else in the downstairs portion of the home.

But this time, I notice him hesitating. He stands statue-still and regards us as if he’s mentally considering doing something other than fleeing the room. In my mind, I’m begging him to walk over to her. Touch her hair, kiss her head, smile at her.

“How…” He clears his throat. “How was your day?”

Bea and I both freeze, taken aback by the sudden conversation from him when he’s stayed so quiet before.

“Super,” Bea replies enthusiastically. Then she rattles off more in French, and I notice him wincing before holding up a hand.

“English, Beatrice.”

She halts her story as she stares up at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

The room is thick with tension as he rubs his forehead before opening his eyes and glancing at me. I feel as if I’ve done something wrong. Just by being here or just by being…French?

Then his expression morphs into remorse. He looks lost. The hard shell dissipates long enough for me to get a glimpse of the broken, aching man underneath.

“It’s okay,” he says to the little girl. He hesitates before nodding stoically and marching toward the stairs, climbing them quickly as if to escape us.

My eyes dash over to Bea, watching her reaction. She is only five, still so little. She’s just a baby, really. It’s so unfair that she’s already been dealt such a hard hand. Losing her mother and now essentially her father. Although he lives here, he’s not here. He’s not present. He’s not raising her.

I glance down at my watch to see that it’s already 7:30.

“It’s bedtime, little Bea,” I say.

“Aw,” she whines. “Five more minutes?”

“No, I’m sorry. We’re actually a little late as it is. I should have had you in bed fifteen minutes ago. Come on. Let’s go get pajamas on.”

It didn’t take long, but Bea is getting comfortable with me now, which means she likes to push back against my authority. It makes everything more difficult. Bedtime, dinnertime, and getting ready for school in the morning. I think I underestimated how difficult caring for a five-year-old could be.

After a lengthy and tiring negotiation period and a tiny tantrum, I finally have Bea settled in her bed, her book read, and her teeth brushed. I brush her hair from her forehead and boop her softly on the nose before leaving the room and shutting off the light.