by Xyla Turner
She sucked her teeth in the way only Caribbean women could, with a roll of her eyes. I could almost mimic it if I wanted to get smacked, and even at the age of twenty-eight, she would, indeed, smack me. At forty-seven, the woman still wouldn’t hesitate to discipline her child.
“Edness will call you so you can get a job.” Her dark but worn eyes leveled on me. Mama spoke to me in a tone that was not compromising but final. “You need a job, eh? Get a job. Art won’t get you a job.”
It would, but she didn’t understand. It would happen with perseverance, consistency, and sometimes, later in life. What my wise mother did know, was that I didn’t have the luxury to sit around and wait for success to come to me. It wouldn’t happen overnight and in any further nights either. I needed a blessed job, and that could happen overnight.
A nanny, though?
I did not look down on the profession, not one bit, because I knew its power. Mom had been one for most of her life for the rich people, and while there were horror stories, she didn’t have many. Well, not recently. She preferred not to do live-in situation since she had children of her own. All of her friends were nannies, and they had crazy stories for days—from bratty ass kids to wandering husbands or wives. The job, for the most part, entailed helping to raise kids, but it could be household management, but at a cost. The working parents did not have a lot of time to do much of anything. Commutes could be from thirty minutes to hours. Hours could range from four to midnight—or for some, weeks of not being around. It was quite interesting, the lives that hired nanny services.
I never cared for why they hired them, but I always wondered what the kids thought.
“Are you listening to me, girl?” my mom was in my face again. “Come from those clouds. Hear me.”
“Mama, I hear you!” I exclaimed. “Ms. Edness is calling, and I’ll go to the agency. I need a job.”
I stood up from the kitchen table in the small Brooklyn apartment. I had lived here all my life with my mom and sister, who moved all the way to Texas after she graduated from college. Cordelia, unlike me, had no tolerance for following in Mama’s footsteps or anyone for that matter. She wanted to get away from the generation of nannies. I did not set out to be a nanny, which is why I went to college. I wanted to have choices, and I loved art. I still do. It brings me peace and a sense of serenity. It’s almost as if anything is possible.
Not today, it wasn’t.
I had been a struggling artist for close to ten years, and the late bloomer of waiting for my career to take off had run out a year ago. I was late starting college, late finishing high school, late to the artistic world, and now, late with the nanny business. I knew what it took to take care of a house since Mama was grooming me since I was five. ‘How to keep a house’ is what she called it—how to take care of one, how to take care of a child. She’d tell me of her stories, the tricks she learned, the types of people she encountered, and how to survive them. She was preparing me every step of the way, so I was confident in my skills, but I did not have the required experience. This could pose a problem, but since I knew the assessment almost like I knew the Preamble, I would hopefully land with a good family.
“Good.” Mama nodded with a hesitant head roll. It was like she wasn’t sure that she really won that round of “Get Faith a job.”
“I’ll go tomorrow morning, Mama,” I confirmed so that she would settle down. The little money I did earn was not helpful with the household bills that were ever-increasing, especially now that Brooklyn was in full swing of regentrification. It meant that the pressure to leave the rent-stabilized home was on as well. The slumlord and not a landlord was bothering Mama weekly with incentives to move. I told her it was harassment, and she needed to tell the management company, but she wouldn’t hear it. She was paying less than a thousand dollars for rent, but he was charging the newcomers more than three thousand. Yeah, we were near the train station and a grocery store, but over two thousand for a studio apartment and three thousand for a one-bedroom was robbery. I knew it was the laws of supply and demand, but damn. The three-bedroom apartment we had would, no doubt, go for more than four thousand. But Mama would not budge, and quite frankly, I did not blame her. She would in no way, shape, or form find another apartment where she would pay anything remotely to what she paid now—nowhere in New York, that was for sure.
The next day, I found myself at the agency in downtown Flatbush, signing myself up to be a nanny. The good thing was, they knew me because I was Josephine’s daughter. I think this was strategic, too, because Mama wanted them to be familiar enough with me. So in the case of a moment like now, I was welcomed with “Oh my, darling, your hair, is growing nicely. You’re so fashionable like your Mama. Is she coming to play Tief’n Cassie, tonight?”
“Hey, Mrs. Edness,” I greeted the older woman. “Yeah, she’s coming to beat you all and brag about it all week.” I laughed.
“Nonsense,” she gasped. “That woman there cheats. I tell you, she cheats.”
The laughter rolled over like a tidal wave as I sat down on the other side of the manager’s desk for Trusty Nanny Services.
“Yeah, that’s what I keep hearing,” I finally replied and tried to get serious about my next steps.
“It’s true,” she replied but opened up my file. “Dear, you don’t have much experience, but I know you know this work. You have been CPR certified for adults, adolescents, and infants. You have your certification, and you’ve babysat.” She sucked her teeth while poking out her lips in that familiar way. “But I think we can do something about this.”
“Okay.” I nodded at the woman.
“Hmm . . .” She thumbed through some more files on her desk and said, “This family is looking for someone to watch their five-year-old son. He doesn’t have any special needs, is quiet, reserved, but the father is often away on business trips, and the mother owns her own company, and the couple needs help. It could be a live-in position, so that option is on the table. Right now, they need someone to get him to school, make his lunch, pick him up, clean the house, do laundry, help with homework, and cook. Ideally, you’d be our better candidate since you have a college degree, but they have interviews tonight.”
She looked up at me with her straight-back braids in a swirling style outlining her crown with the mixture of gray and what looked like a blondish color. The office was adorned with flyers of nannies and children, health, education, and allergy awareness all over the walls and in no particular order. The wooden desk consisted of files and papers neatly separated in piles, along with the standard stapler, scissors, tape dispenser, and a steel canister for writing utensils.
“Yeah, today works.” I nodded and was glad that I dressed the part so that I could go from here.
“Hmm, good.” She nodded. “They started this morning, but currently, there’s an opening at five. It is the last minute, but they haven’t been too pleased with people thus far. There are some on hold, but maybe you have a chance. They stress the experience, but I have a good feeling they might like you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to waste their time.”
“Every connection is for a reason. Even if it’s not for this job, it may be for something else. You never know, darling. Just go at five, be on time, and represent your Mama well. She’s proud of you, girl.”
I nodded and stood up, determined to see this through.
“Thank you, Mrs. Edness.” I smiled. “I’ll be there.”
“Good, check in with me tomorrow, and let me know how it went,” she answered with a nod of her own, and then she stood. “Tell your mama we’re on to her ways.”
“Will do.” I took the one-pager all nannies received about the families. “Thanks again.” As I was leaving the room, Mrs. Edness called my name.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered as I turned my head to face her.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this.” She nodded and waved me away.
I smiled and left out so that I could g
o to my make-shift studio, which was in the basement of a beauty supply store. My art was mostly posted up in the windows of the store, but maybe once a week, I’d get a sale. On a good week, it was five sales, but still, I was not getting enough to make a living. It was enough for it to be a hobby still.
I almost lost track of time as I began to paint one of my favorite things to paint—my city, Brooklyn and all its glory. It was something I’d seen every day of my life; therefore, I knew it on an intimate level because it was constantly before me—the streets, lights, brownstones, projects, buildings, construction, lots, cemeteries, and even the pedestrians and citizens of the great city. My current piece was of the walkup brownstone with its reddish bricks, stone steps, and spiral-rodded banister. It had a basement apartment with barred windows, a cement landing, and a bed of flowers in pots on the ledges lining the walkway. It was enough to bring color to the property but high enough to hide the trash can and recycling bin. This was a typical Brooklyn home, and it was beautiful to me. One day, I’d have my own place, and instead of writing the vision, I drew it.
Little did I know, the Vega family lived in a Brownstone near downtown Brooklyn. That meant it was almost half a million dollars to own one floor. All the ones in the area had been renovated already, so the price was astronomical. How I would ever afford one of these seemed to be far beyond what I could see, but I was a dreamer, and as far as I was concerned, anything was possible.
It was four fifty-two when I rang the doorbell of the main entrance. A few moments later, a woman answered the door with chestnut-brown hair, pink lips, tired eyes, and pale skin with freckles splattered on her cheeks.
“Hello.” She gave me a genuine smile. “You must be Faith. I’m Gail Vega.”
“Hi, Mrs. Vega.” I smiled back. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Come on in. You’re the last person we’re interviewing today. We’re a bit tired, but you came highly recommended,” she shared as she led me upstairs to the second floor to what I presumed was their apartment.
The interior wall was brick as well, which made me almost happy to be there. I’d only seen those in HGTV homes, but up close and personal, I could see the attraction.
“So, Faith, you’ll be meeting with me and my husband, Logan Vega. We’ve looked over your credentials already, so we have some questions for you.”
“Okay,” I replied as I went into the kitchen to see a small dining room table that sat four people.
“Have a seat, Faith,” the woman told me. “I’ll go and grab Logan.”
I sat down and took inventory of the large space that was hidden by the skinny outside of the home. One wall in the living room was that of a blackboard. It had scribblings at the bottom, love notes in different color chalk at the top, and on the side, it had schedules and agendas outlined for Mama Vega, Daddy Vega, and baby Vega. It was kind of cute—well, except Daddy Vega was gone most of the damn time. In his calendar, the man was away for weeks at a time, which seemed to be sort of crazy. How did they make that work? I guess a nanny was one way they would at least try.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Vega walked through the kitchen door with a tall man trailing behind her. Before I saw him, I stood to shake his hand, and then my eyes met his. Damn, he was tall. The guy looked like an older Zac Efron with those light gray eyes. He had shoulder-length hair that had a sprinkling of salt mixed in with his pepper. He was pretty tanned as if he were Italian-bred and had a runner’s body.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Vega.” I gave him a quick shake and took my seat again.
“Nice to meet you too, Faith,” he said but with a terse tone.
Well, he surely wasn’t friendly.
His wife looked at him but didn’t say anything. Then she began to tell me about her background, the fact that she designed adaptive clothing for special-needs children and her business was finally taking off. She also explained that her husband was a curator, which meant he was constantly traveling all over and it was quite a lucrative job, but both of them were extremely busy.
“Faith, how about you tell us about yourself and why you’re interested in being a nanny for our son, Casey?” Mrs. Vega asked.
I shared my experience in college, my art career or lack thereof, and then my interest in being a nanny for their son. I equated it to my experience of my mother, her stories and connections with the families, and more importantly, why working with Casey for an extended time was helpful for his development.
Mrs. Vega seemed very interested, but her counterpart was barely listening.
Mmkay.
She asked some more questions, then asked her husband if he had any questions. He nodded and said, “Mine is simple, and it’s not a question but a summary of what I just heard. You want this job because you failed as an artist. Do I have that right?”
Urrr.
I scoffed before reeling my temper back in. His wife, on the other hand, snapped her neck around and hissed, “Logan Vega, how could you be so rude? A word! Please.”
She stood up and marched to the back as I simply looked on in horror. I contemplated getting up and leaving because while Mama was against the whole art thing, she never said I failed or even spoke to me so crassly. For a moment, I thought it was good that he was away because the man was an asshole.
Adjusting my posture in my chair, I tried to put on all the professionalism I could muster and sat up straight. They came back to the table two minutes later, and since I didn’t make eye contact right away, I took in both of their outfits. Both had on khaki pants. She had on moccasins and a light-pink polo shirt that hung loose enough around her small but curvy frame. He had on a fitted T-shirt with his khakis cuffed and sneakers with no socks. He looked like a rich, entitled ass. Those eyes were piercing, and he had jutting chin and sharp jaw with a perfect set of teeth. He was the serious type, and she must be the free spirit or maybe just the Mama.
“I apologize for Logan’s comment,” Mrs. Vega said for him. “We were looking for someone with experience, and you seem to lack it but have some of the other qualities that we are looking for.”
I nodded but said nothing for fear that I would cross the line since he was a coward for not owning his shit. His wife had to speak for him. That was trifling. Mama always said not to judge a book by its cover. On the exterior, he was a heartthrob, but with our five-minute interaction, I realized if I had to deal with him on a regular basis, I’d have to cave in his chest with my fist or mess up his model-like face.
“For this position, Faith, it is a four-year commitment. Will you be able to do that?” The woman interrupted my violent thoughts toward her worse half.
Four years?
I thought it was two.
Wow, that was unusual. I thought about it—the money it paid and what was feasible. I’d likely not find a husband anytime soon, which meant I was free as a bird for the next four years.
“That won’t be a problem,” I answered. “Can I see Casey?”
Mrs. Vega looked at her husband, but he shrugged and nodded back to her as if to say this was her show.
“Sure, he’s in his room, playing video games. He likes the old-school ones,” she clarified.
I followed her, but the husband stayed put, which was good.
“Sorry again for Logan.” She shook her head. “We’re stressing about finding the perfect nanny, and it was a long day of interviews. Not that it’s an excuse for his rude behavior.”
I nodded but refused to say anything because I didn’t forgive him and would never forget.
“He’s through here.” She led me to a room at the other end of the two-bedroom house.
Inside was a little boy. He was so engrossed in what was on the screen that he didn’t hear us come inside.
“Casey,” his mom called. “Say hello to Ms. Jacobs.”
“Hi, Ms. Jacobs,” he called back but kept his eyes on the screen.
“Can you put that on pause, young man, and turn around, please?” she said in a stern voice.
/> His little shoulders went up and down with a sigh before he hit the Pause button and turned to view us.
“Hello, Ms. Jacobs,” he said with measured patience, reminding me of his father.
Two guys with attitudes.
Poor mom.
“What do you know about Mario and Luigi?” I probed the kid after watching what he was playing.
“More than you.” He smirked, catching on to my thought.
“Did you know Princess Toadstool is always in another castle until you get to world 8, and I beat Bowser, the real one?” I nodded with a lift of my nose.
“No wayyyy,” he exclaimed. “How?”
“And I didn’t use cheat codes.”
“No wayyyyyyyyyy,” he exclaimed again. “You have to show me.”
“Well, I only show people who get to world 5,” I told him. “Then I’ll know you’re skilled enough to handle the real Bowser.”
“World 5, level 4 or 1?” he asked.
Nodding at him, I said, “You’re a smart one. Okay, let’s say world 5, level 4.”
He huffed and said, “I’m only on world 3, level 4.”
“Well, it looks like you have a ways to go,” I countered. “Good luck and stop using Luigi because he’s really his sidekick.”
“Ahhh, thanks.” He quickly turned around and resumed playing again. “World 5 it is.”
His mom laughed, and I turned to see her looking at her son in admiration but also in sadness.
She closed his door and said, “When can you start?”
I blinked at her but saw the intensity in her eyes.
“Well, I can get some things in order with my studio, but with the hours being what they are, I will have time for the transition,” I answered honestly.
“You’ll have time while he’s in school. The cooking and cleaning won’t take that long, so you’ll have your own time.”
I nodded at her words since they were true. With a schedule like she proposed, I could still pursue my art if I wanted, and I could even pay for the rent and not do odd ends for the beauty supply store.
