Nanny Needed

by Georgina Cross

  Stephen interrupts my thoughts. “Take it one step at a time,” he advises, “and watch her carefully. As you’ve witnessed, her moods can swing at the drop of a hat.” He steps away and gives me an awkward wink. “See you around, cousin.”

  I’m left trying not to fiddle with my dress. But with no one to talk to, no clue as to what I should do, or who most of the people here are, I back away to a table, deciding I should help myself to the hors d’oeuvres, charcuterie platters with figs and warmed Brie, and pots of what looks like raspberry jam mixed with tiny slivers of peppers.

  From my corner, I eat slowly, taking small bites and trying to blend in at the fanciest party I’ve ever attended. But the truth is, I’m nervous, I’m lonely, and I’m starving. I knew I should have eaten before I left the apartment, but I’d been too excited.

  I’m biting into a crostini when I sense someone coming up by my side, someone in a crisp black tuxedo. And it’s not Stephen.

  “So…” he says slowly. “You’re my niece.”

  I nearly drop the crostini.

  I look up, desperately wishing I had a napkin to wipe my fingers, but there isn’t one handy so I rub them together instead, knowing I have no choice but to lock eyes with the intense stare of Alex Bird.

  “It’s Sarah, isn’t it?” he asks.

  I swallow and nod. He is even more handsome close-up.

  “How are you, Sarah?” It’s odd, the way he keeps repeating my name.

  “I’m okay,” I reply meekly.

  He chuckles. “Alex Bird,” he says, as if for clarification. “And as you can expect, we’re happy to have you. Collette is…well…” He gazes in the direction of his wife. “She’s happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. It can only be because of you.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve done anything…”

  “Of course you have.”

  My eyes dart away, an immediate blush warming my cheeks.

  “Now the other evening,” Mr. Bird says, and his voice quiets. “That was unfortunate.” I shift uncomfortably in my heels. “We were scared to death wondering where she was. I only wish she’d told someone and then we could have known she was okay.” He lingers on the word okay, and I wince, not knowing how to explain the situation.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for us to meet,” he continues. “I meant to visit sooner but Stephen has been taking care of everything, as he always does. He’s so good about managing things for me.”

  “Yes, he is,” I admit.

  “And how are you?” Just like his son, he asks, “How are you coping with all this?”

  “I’m learning.” It’s about as honest an answer as I can give.

  He steps closer and looks deep into my eyes. I can scarcely breathe, he is standing so close. “I know Stephen has explained how delicate our situation is.”

  “Stephen has told me everything,” I assure him. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  But Mr. Bird holds my look for several more seconds, as if trying to figure out if he can trust me, if I’ve truly grasped the gravity of their family secret. After the last few days, how could I not?

  “I hope that’s the case. Collette can be hard to handle and it’s difficult for people to understand. They don’t know what it’s like to lose a child—it’s horrific.” He looks again to Collette, my eyes following. “This is all I can do to keep her happy.” Fortunately, her back is turned and she doesn’t see us speaking. A trio of women keep her engaged in conversation. “I need you to understand that I will do everything in my power to protect this family.” His mouth turns into a hard line. “And I do mean everything.”

  “Of course,” I say, but find my voice is shaking. “I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Promise…” he says, repeating what I’ve said, and a smile appears on his lips as if mocking me. He looks away again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Collette makes it through most of the party on her best behavior, but what she doesn’t do is eat. And to make it worse, in the last twenty minutes, she’s been sneaking glasses of champagne.

  At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing is right. But there she is, taking a champagne glass with her to the bathroom and then knocking back another one in the hall. She claims she needs to disappear to her bedroom for some alone time too, but I’m almost positive she’s taking another pill.

  I announce this to Pauline and she quickly tells me to handle it since Freddie is calling for her in the kitchen. I try easing the champagne glass out of Collette’s hand, but she snatches it back from me.

  Another wobbly smile. “I’m fine, thank you,” she says curtly.

  Soon, Stephen is catching my eye, his jaw clenching. It’s time to wrap up the party, he knows it, and he works with his dad to escort the last remaining guests to the elevator.

  They’re just in time, because the pitch of Collette’s voice rises steeply, her speech beginning to slur. She’s stumbled upon another serving tray filled with champagne flutes and gulps them down, one by one. Stephen throws me a look as if to say, Get ahold of her, as I scramble to her side.

  Collette teeters in the center of the room. All the guests are gone. The violinists are packing up their cases too, and Stephen hands each of them a wad of cash as they move to the door. Without the music, all that’s left is the clinking of plates and glasses as they are stacked and whisked away. More clanking is heard in the kitchen; Freddie is telling someone to toss out the extra food. Collette’s strange little laugh sounds.

  She swirls into view, her eyes shining with a daring playfulness and champagne bravado. “The music,” she says. “Oh, it was lovely.” She dances in place, sashaying from side to side, her arms extended in front to mimic a partner.

  Stephen tries to ignore her, but his cheeks are reddening. Mr. Bird is already loosening his tie, and Stephen does the same.

  Collette dances close to her husband. “I did well tonight, didn’t I?”

  He smiles, but only for show. A member of the catering staff is still clearing a table.

  “I can do this now,” she tells him and stops swinging. “I can go to parties, no need to hide me away. I can drink too…” she adds, gleefully. “You don’t need to worry. I have Sarah to help me now.”

  Stephen whispers something to Pauline, who turns and directs the last of the servers to leave, her arms rounding their backs as they head for the kitchen.

  I’m left watching, not knowing what to do.

  “You looked stunning tonight, Collette,” Stephen tells her.

  She faces him and blinks her eyes slowly.

  It’s a compliment, but something happens in that instant. A cloud falling over her face. Collette raises her hand, a trembling finger, and points in Stephen’s direction, her mouth opening as if about to shout something—but why? If she screams, everyone in the apartment will hear.

  Stephen’s face blanches.

  I hurry into action. “Collette,” I implore. “Let’s go to your room, shall we? Put away our dresses?” My eyes are wide, eyebrows arched. I’m praying to God she listens, that she’ll turn and leave and not create a scene. I can save this night and keep Collette in a happier mood. I can prevent her from suddenly falling into pieces.

  Collette looks at me and drops her finger. She runs her hands through the feathers of her dress instead. “Sarah…” she says, a smile returning to her face. “Of course.” Whatever she’d been about to get so angry over is now forgotten.

  I hold her arm and coax her to follow, and she does, practically turning into putty at my touch. No more dancing feet. No more imaginary music in her head. She’s compliant, and more important, she’s leaving. I can take her to the bedroom and glide her peacefully into bed.

  Over my shoulder, both men are nodding, relief written across their faces. “Another scotch?” Mr. Bird asks his son, and th
ey disappear down the hall.

  Outside Collette’s bedroom, she stops short. “I’m not ready for bed yet.” She looks toward the playroom. “Please.” My plan to get Collette undressed and settled dissipates.

  She opens the playroom door and it creaks gently on its hinges. Two lamps light the corners of the room with a soft glow. Each room of the magical dollhouse is lit up too with its own miniature candelabra.

  Collette carefully removes her shoes and leaves them on the floor. She kneels in front of the dollhouse, her hand reaching for one of the dolls, and I notice immediately it’s a little blond girl wearing a pink dress.

  “Join me?” Collette asks.

  I remove my shoes too. Padding across the carpet, I kneel beside her, my hands remaining in my lap since I’m not sure what to do, not sure if she’ll want me to touch anything.

  Collette smooths the doll’s dress. The blond hair is tied with a ribbon, and she strokes the end of the ponytail too.

  “Would you like to hold her? Here you go.” Her eyes are wobbly as she thrusts the doll in my direction. “Take it.”

  I don’t move.

  “Sarah,” she says and places the doll directly into the palm of my hand. She squeezes my fingers until I have a better grip. “It’s Patty’s favorite. The most important.”

  Two inches in height, the doll weighs a few ounces, nothing more, and I’m holding it between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it until it’s eye level so I can inspect its small features: the carefully painted face with blue eyes and pink lips, the A-line dress, the tiny white bobby socks and buckled shoes. The doll is stiff but can bend at the waist, allowing it to sit at the miniature dining room table. The arms and legs extend.

  I gaze at the dollhouse and wonder which bedroom is hers.

  “Top right,” Collette says, following my gaze. “To the right of the stairs.”

  I should have guessed this room belongs to the girl doll. It’s covered in pink wallpaper with a pink bedspread too. Teeny tiny teddy bears and a toy train. The room a child like Patty would have picked for her most favorite doll.

  “There’s a whole family,” Collette says, and she points out the dolls in the other rooms. One of them has short brown hair and is wearing a suit. Another doll wears an apron and a blue dress, two brothers, a baby sister in a crib, a dog, a parrot in a cage, and two cats. “We used to have a pony,” Collette says. “But we can’t find it anymore.” Her eyes swirl, speech still slurring. “Silly Patty…she lost it…” And then she says, suddenly, “The doll’s hair is Patty’s.”

  Instantly, I drop the doll to my lap.

  It lands with the tiniest of thuds at my knees before rolling to the floor.

  Collette scoops it up. “Please don’t do that,” she scolds. “You must be gentle.”

  My hands shake. “I’m sorry.”

  Collette checks the doll’s face. “This was given to her on her birthday, it’s very important.” She gives me a warning look. “Please don’t drop her again.”

  My breathing has grown shallow. What is it with Collette insisting on keeping her daughter’s hair? The lock of it in her purse. The hair on this doll’s head.

  I stare at it again—the dead girl’s hair. Blond and tied with a pink ribbon. A shiver reaches down to my toes.

  “Patty didn’t like it at first when I asked to cut her hair,” Collette explains. “But when I told her it was for the new doll she was so excited. A toy to match her in every single way.” Collette clutches it tight to her bosom, blue couture dress, feathers, and all.

  I swallow the knot in my throat as she continues to stroke the doll’s face with her finger. She smooths the pink fabric at the knees.

  “We must keep it safe,” Collette says again, and she sets it on its bed. “Patty will come looking for it when she returns in the morning. She’ll want to play with it first thing.”

  And with that, she tugs a string for one of the miniature Tiffany lamps, switching it off, pulling at it and turning it on again. She does this repeatedly, both of us staring at the blinks of light coming from the lamp. My teeth grit at the repetitive clicking.

  Collette yawns. Leaving the Tiffany lamp on, she pats the Patty doll on the head.

  “I think I will go to bed, after all,” she says, yawning again, and rises to her feet, not asking me to go with her. I think she intends on sleeping in that dress.

  She steps away, abandoning her stiletto heels on the carpet.

  “Will you clean up this mess?” she asks.

  Perplexed, I look at the dollhouse. Everything is where it needs to be. My eyes sweep the rest of the room. Besides the storybook that remains open and the tea party still in progress on the table, glittery cubes of sugar resting in teacups, nothing is amiss. The room is spotless.

  Collette stops at the door before saying, “Good night, Sarah.”

  She is suddenly sad. Pale and lost, and I can’t imagine why. She’d been so excited to show me the Patty doll, but now it’s over. Her moods, ever-shifting.

  She leaves and I stare at the dollhouse for a little while longer. The last few moments have been downright eerie. My boss, an emotional roller coaster.

  Behind me, someone clears their throat.

  I whirl around—it’s Stephen—and my hands clamp to my chest.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Has my stepmother gone to bed?”

  “Yes, a few minutes ago.”

  He glances at the hall before returning his eyes to me. “I wanted to check on you, make sure everything was okay.”

  My voice turns somber. “Collette told me about Patty’s hair. On the doll.”

  He nods. “She insisted on cutting it from her head before she got too sick.”

  “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else that’s connected to Patty?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything else in this house made from Patty’s hair or clothes or belongings? Things I should never touch?” My eyes race across the room. “Things like that creepy lock of hair she carries around with her?”

  His eyes dart open with surprise. “I didn’t realize she was still doing that.”

  “You haven’t seen her carrying around your sister’s hair? She was gripping it when I came for my interview. She made me hold it the other day at the bar.”

  Stephen looks away for a moment. “She’s had a tough time.”

  “She’s delusional.”

  “I know.”

  “She really needs help.”

  “We’ve tried.”

  “I’m really worried about her.”

  Down the hall, we hear a scream.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Collette is cutting the designer gown from her body. Slashing at the material—making sporadic crisscross patterns across her belly, jagged lines at her thighs until tufts of feathers fly everywhere and blue silk lies in ribbons on the floor.

  She is wearing nothing but a strapless bra and panties and Stephen catches himself at the door, averting his eyes until I’m pushing against his back, squirming to get by him. I stammer at the sight of Collette Bird wielding a pair of scissors.

  Faint lines appear along her arms, stomach, and legs. In seconds, they grow darker, a bold red—the first trickles of blood against her skin.

  Oh, my God, she’s slashing at her body to get rid of the dress.

  I rush toward her.

  “Stand back!” she shrieks, waving the scissors. “Don’t come close!”

  What the hell is happening? She’d been showing me the Patty doll and the dollhouse. What changed during those few short steps down the hall? What enraged her to the point she would slice off her own dress? From one shoulder, more blood, a slow but steady streak, runs past her elbow.

  “Don’t come near me,” she breathes.

 
She looks sickly, her blue veins pressing hard against the paleness of her skin.

  Stephen takes a small step. “Collette,” he says. “Let go of the scissors. Please. Everything will be okay. We can help.” He’s trying to preserve her modesty, glancing toward her then averting his eyes quickly from the spectacle of his half-naked stepmother. “Please calm down and put the scissors away.”

  She jabs the points toward his head and screams. “Stand back! Don’t come close!”

  Stephen flinches. I rear back too, a cold fear spreading the length of my body.

  Collette teeters, the top half of her body swaying as her feet wobble unsteadily against the floor. She fights to hold herself upright, her mouth is a warped O, lipstick smudged at one corner, her hair a stringy mess as wet tears seep against the strands. But she’s raging. Her eyes are lit with hatred—Collette, a wild and uncaged animal; a scene straight out of a horror film.

  “Collette…” Stephen tries again. He holds up one hand, either in a sign of peace or because he’s planning to grab the scissors and use his other arm to shield himself if she attacks.

  She lunges forward anyway, the shiny gleam of the scissor points stabbing dangerously close.

  Both of us gasp, and I duck behind Stephen. Swinging my eyes toward the open door I’m thinking, Where in the hell is Mr. Bird? Why isn’t he dealing with this? This would be a great time to drop your scotch and help. Your beloved wife has turned on a dime again.

  But he doesn’t appear.

  No one is coming to help. This is up to Stephen and me to deal with.

  Collette is sobbing, her shoulders shaking as she mumbles and sputters with every word. “No one…” she says, “un-der-stands me…” She straightens her arm again, veering close, the scissors held out like a weapon to keep us back.

  “We’re trying,” Stephen says. “We’re really trying.”

  “Shut up! You don’t have a clue, you can’t possibly know. You never have. You never will.”

  I cower, my eyes peeping around Stephen’s shoulder.