“Collette’s caretaker,” I interrupt.
Stephen’s face blanches. But after a beat he says, slowly, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
I fold my arms, the unease growing in my chest even as everything I’ve just heard is slowly sinking in. The contract I’ve signed is binding. I’m trapped in this job for at least three months or they’ll sue me…and how else had Stephen put it? We’ll bring down the hammer.
My arms squeeze tighter.
“I’m here to make her think she needs a nanny,” I say, surprised at how flat and even my voice has become. “I need to make sure she makes believe there is a child, that I also see Patty.”
He nods. “Yes.” And this time, he gives me a small smile, a look on his face that says he hopes I’m coming around to the idea.
“My real reason for being here is to watch over Collette. Make sure she doesn’t stop believing and go off the deep end.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Help you maintain this façade you’ve expertly created. Prevent a family crisis while keeping her locked up in this penthouse.”
Stephen raises his hands. “I wouldn’t say locked up.”
I shoot him a look. “Controlled. Maintained. Never to leave the twelfth floor, however you want to phrase it.” I shrug. “But I get what’s going on here. I’ve got it. No kid, no real job except to watch over Collette.”
My heart aches again. Poor, poor Collette.
“It’s just that…” I say, and stop.
I pause for a long time, not knowing how to form my next words. The excitement I’d once had about being a nanny, about watching over a young girl, is now dashed.
I whisper, “It’s just that I thought I was going to be a nanny.” And I blush, knowing how ridiculous I sound. I love sitting with Collette, but there is no child. And that was before—things have changed so drastically. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this…”
And holy God, my voice is strained. I’m brokenhearted at what’s really in store: long hours in the morning when Collette will expect me to stay in the breakfast room as I watch her eat, lunches with only the two of us while Pauline and Freddie pretend to ignore us in the kitchen. Day after day of oversize puzzle pieces and playdates in a girl’s long-abandoned bedroom. The ghost of her in every corner. Collette at the center of it all, acting as if everything is normal and wonderful.
But Stephen only looks at me. “Does it matter?” he asks.
And the sharpness in his voice stops me cold.
“The nannying part, I mean?” Stephen peers at my face until I’m squirming in my seat. “After all,” he says, slowly, his mouth settling firmly, “how hard can it be?”
* * *
—
A crash. The sound of glass breaking followed by the hard tumble of what could be a chair—chair legs and a wooden seat wobbling and splintering against marble.
Stephen leaps up. “Collette.” And he races from the room.
We find her in an area of the apartment I have not yet seen. It’s a sort of lounge with a baby grand piano and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the books grouped together by color. A ridiculously large gold clock hammers away the seconds on a wall, the incessant ticking sound followed by Collette’s wailing and broken glass that she’s pushing aside with her feet.
She’s swaying. The woman is wailing and rocking her arms.
I glance again at her feet—they’re bare. She must have removed her sandals before kneeling beside the tub.
How long has she been in here? Where is Pauline?
And why isn’t Collette still in the bathroom doing whatever it is she was doing—talking to Patty and running more bathwater?
Instead, she’s alone and crying, her shirtsleeves wet and slipping from where they’d been rolled with half her blouse soaked up to her chest. My God, did she fall into the tub? Her face is streaked with tears, black mascara running down her cheeks in horrid thin stripes, her once beautiful face looking overrun with savage war paint. The woman before me is in so much pain.
Alarm bells clang loudly in my head telling me to get out of here, but I can’t. I know I should leave this place, but I don’t move. I stay put. Collette is so desperately in need of help that something inside my heart tears open.
Collette stares at Stephen, then at me. She cries and hiccups, her bare toes stepping in and around the mess she’s made, at the shards of broken glass, as if trying to see how close she can step without cutting herself.
I look to see what she’s broken and spot the chunks of a glass along with thicker pieces that have come from a tumbler. Next to that, a knocked-over chair with a clear liquid splashed across one side. The distinct smell of vodka. A bottle, I see, that is cracked in half with the bottom smashed to pieces.
I again look for Pauline. How could she have left? How is she not running in here right now, rushing to Collette’s aid?
Is Collette wasted? She’s upset, that much is clear, but is she also drunk—and before midday? What changed between the bathroom and here?
“I’m so sorry,” Collette says, her voice shaking with tears. She casts her eyes shyly at Stephen, then the floor, her hands twitching and fidgeting by her sides. “I didn’t mean to…I’m so sorry…” she repeats.
Stephen moves to her, hushing, “Now, now,” as he treads carefully around the broken glass. He kicks a larger piece away with his shoe.
I peer at her feet and look for blood, for a toe streaking crimson against the marble, but somehow, miraculously, she has avoided cutting herself.
She cries harder and clings to Stephen. She’s barely able to look him in the eye, she’s that overcome with shame. Stephen holds her too, but only formally. His shoulders are tight and pulled back as he pats his stepmother awkwardly on the back.
“Now, now,” he repeats.
Collette is quieting, her cries evening out until she’s sniffling. She sweeps her unkempt hair behind her ears, her gaze dropping to her shirt, at the skin she sees peeping through the wet material. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and then her face jerks up, remembering that I’m standing there, and her eyes bulge at the realization I’m witnessing her in this state.
She gives out a yelp. “Oh!” she says and covers her face with both hands. “Oh, Sarah, I’m so sorry…” She glances again at her wet blouse, the trail of broken glass she’s left on the floor. “I’m such a mess, such a fool. What you must think…I apologize.”
What I must think? I’m still struggling with everything that is going on here.
Collette steps back and takes Stephen’s hands in her grasp. “I got upset,” she tells him. “You coming into the bathroom like that. I’d been running the bath for Patty, and then Sarah was there, and then she was gone. You took her and everything got topsy-turvy. I was confused—angry too—Patty getting out of the tub and running off the way she does. She hasn’t been listening to me…” Collette pouts. “I tried to get her back into the tub and then look what happened.” She holds out her arms. “I got soaked and Patty didn’t care if Mommy ruined her shirt.”
“I’m sorry that happened,” Stephen tells her. He’s quick to let go of her hands and gestures to the floor. “But you can’t come in here and break everything. You can’t cause a scene. Tell me you weren’t drinking again. You promised.”
Her shoulders shake. “I wasn’t. I saw the bottle and wanted to get rid of it. Get it out of my sight before I could…you know…” Her eyes dash away. “Give in.”
Stephen looks at the bookshelves. His eyes flick to the piano. “What’s vodka doing in here anyway?” He turns furiously to the door as if wanting to interrogate someone, possibly Pauline or Freddie.
“I don’t know how it got here,” Collette continues. Stephen shoots her a look. “I promise. I got upset, but I didn’t drink any of it.” She’s crying again, woeful tears running down her cheeks. The sway of her body
is returning.
I can’t tell if she’s lying or not; can only watch, frozen to the spot. But now Stephen wants us to move.
“We need to get you in bed.” He looks at me. “Will you help?” He holds out one arm, asking that I come to Collette’s side and allow her to lean on me.
I’m jolted into motion. The nannying of Collette is officially beginning.
I stand beside Collette and she whimpers. The wet material of her blouse pushes against me as she holds my wrist for support. With her so close, I breathe in the woody jasmine scent of her perfume.
Her eyes shift to me. Her hair is a mess, mascara runs to her chin, but she’s still trying to apologize. For a moment, she recovers, but only slightly.
Because she peers at me and says, “Don’t forget to look after Patty.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Stephen checks on me twice before suggesting I cut out for the rest of the day. Collette is still sleeping and since she’ll likely be out most of the day—I’m almost positive he’s given her a sedative—he says there’s nothing much for me to do. I don’t have to sit with Patty. I want to remind him there is no Patty but decide against it and instead grab my jacket and head for the elevator.
It’s a relief to push out of the apartment building, the glass door releasing me from the steady heat and heady scent of gardenias in the lobby to the colder air of the city street. I almost run smack into Malcolm. He’s about to smile but takes one look at my face and stops. Something flickers in his eyes—camaraderie? An apology? Is he in on the secret too?
I don’t ask. I just want to move away from here.
But half a block later I stop at the corner. Craning my neck, I look up and take in the apartment with a different pair of eyes this time, acute knowledge in my gaze. Staring at the twelfth floor, I take another good look at the penthouse that, as of three days ago, I couldn’t wait to see.
The corniced roof carved from stone, resembling the looped swirled icing of a wedding cake topper. Decorative beams rising above each window. The drapes that are pulled to prevent people from looking in—who could possibly look in their windows that high up? And what I know the curtains are hiding inside: marble floors mopped to a shine, priceless décor, and gilded furniture. A covered-up framed picture of a little girl. A family who puts on the most epic of fronts with an unwell woman trapped inside. The dark façade of a building hiding decades of tragedy. A girl’s playthings that someone should have packed away a long time ago.
I turn and walk at a steady pace, eager to put some distance between myself and that building.
Two blocks later I’m rounding the outer gates of the Museum of Natural History when my phone rings. I’m almost afraid to look—the same 1-800 number that keeps hounding me. Their calls, relentless and harassing. The fear lodges a stone at the back of my throat.
On top of everything, and after these last few hours, I still have this to contend with: a collections agency asking for the one hundredth time if I have the funds to pay my credit card—the one I maxed out when Aunt Clara was sick and I’d stayed multiple nights at a hotel closer to her treatment facility. We’d charged groceries and prescription medicine to that card too. And now, the credit agency is demanding what I owe.
I can almost time it by now. A week between calls from the hospital billing office. The credit card company, far more aggressive, with three to four calls a week. Sometimes every day.
With shaking hands, I shove my phone back inside my pocket and let the call go to voicemail.
A few more steps and I’m taking the first pathway into Central Park. My head ducks under the shade of maple and elm until I’m joining joggers and dog owners out for a stroll. A young man hurls a tennis ball into the air for his cocker spaniel to retrieve. A throng of tourists walk together enjoying an audio tour, headphones hanging around their necks as they stop for a group photograph. The Manhattan skyline looms in the background.
If I keep walking, I’ll eventually make it to the lake and I slow my pace. I’m not sure where I want to go, but I’m positive I’m not ready to go home yet. Jonathan will still be at work, which means the apartment will be empty, and I’m not ready to sit in a room by myself. But if he was home, I’m not sure what I would tell him. How to explain this?
And to think Jonathan’s biggest worry had been a pervert dad who hits on nannies.
But then my heart stalls—I can’t tell Jonathan. I signed a contract. I can’t tell anyone. Jonathan can never know and I must keep this hidden.
We’ll bring down the hammer…
Collapsing on a park bench, I close my eyes against the afternoon sun. A breeze ruffles my hair and the bench seat feels cold beneath my legs but that doesn’t stop me from slouching down farther, my face turning toward the sun with a few rays breaking through the clouds to shine on my cheeks. Another couple of hours remain before my shift at Hearth.
My stomach turns. Why couldn’t this have been a normal family? Why did I have to pick the one nanny posting that involved caring for a dead girl? If only I hadn’t seen that listing. If only I hadn’t made that phone call. I wouldn’t know anything about this family.
But I wouldn’t have met Collette—the pull I feel toward her, even now.
And I did make the call. I signed the contract. This is the deal I must contend with.
I think about Aunt Clara—what would she tell me to do? Would she worry over me? I wouldn’t be able to tell her the details either, but would she sense my discomfort and tell me to push through?
I remember, when I was in high school, Aunt Clara coming home from work, exhausted, more so than usual. The deepening lines around her mouth, an increasing overwhelmedness in her eyes. Distressed and lost. She’d switched to a new job selling insurance for a much smaller agency, a single boss with Aunt Clara as the only other staff member in a one-room office. They were handling hundreds of claims with no signs of slowing down. While they worked to keep up, the boss was cracking under pressure.
At first I didn’t know what was going on. But then Aunt Clara started bringing more work home. Piles of it. Errors she found in her boss’s paperwork. Applications that hadn’t been processed. She was working overtime to finish the work of both of them.
And then the screaming began. Instead of being thankful, her boss was furious about how she thought Aunt Clara was undermining her. But my aunt had only been trying to help. She didn’t want the agency to go under since she needed to keep this job.
But the verbal abuse increased. At dinner, Aunt Clara would look crestfallen, overworked, but then she’d explain how she couldn’t give up. Not only was she ensuring new policies were selling and higher commission rates would start rolling in, more money for us, but she’d also discovered some new things about her boss, Linda, explaining her rage.
Linda’s husband had left her for a younger woman and was hardly seeing his kids. She was struggling to work while also raising three children. Without knowing a better way to cope, she was taking it out on Aunt Clara. My aunt’s picking up her slack made Linda feel insufficient, and then resentful.
“Now that she’s told me,” Aunt Clara explained, “now that she’s apologized, I understand where everything is coming from. I can’t let this agency fall apart. We’re going to find a way to make this work together.”
“But she shouldn’t be screaming at you,” I said.
“No, but it’s gotten better now that she knows I’m not the enemy.” She made a face. “Is it perfect? No. But I can live with it for now.”
Aunt Clara worked for that woman for two more years before finding a job at a much bigger agency. She’d put up with Linda and persevered for me. Above all, she’d given Linda empathy.
And I know I must do that for Collette—have empathy. And I must persevere for Jonathan. This nannying job is not even close to what I thought it would be. It’s going to test my limits, but
the money is worth it. The rent money is worth it—wait until I tell Jonathan about the added bonus.
I swallow the thought—the bribe.
I can do this for him. I can stick it out three months if that means Jonathan and I can get ahead of my debt. We can finally plan our wedding and set aside money for our future.
* * *
—
“You’re late, Larsen!”
Once again, I’m sprinting into Hearth and rushing to tie my apron around my waist, swishing my hand in my front pocket looking for pens and doing my best not to show I’ve run the last ten blocks and am badly out of shape.
“I’m sorry!” I shout.
I’d lost track of time in the park, having finally called Jonathan during his break to tell him the only part I could—that our rent was taken care of.
Jonathan had stammered on the phone. “They’re going to pay for how long?”
“For as long as I work there.” My heart skipped a beat telling him the news. I could almost picture him standing at the back of the kitchen, wide-eyed and smiling in disbelief, the rush of color that fills his cheeks when he hears something good.
But Jonathan had also sounded perplexed. “Why? I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is absolutely incredible. But why didn’t they mention this when you interviewed?”
Nanny Needed Page 8
