Afterward, he gave her two thumbs up, calling her “sweet and smart enough,” and accused me of being overly picky when I pointed out the red flags—namely her Rolex, Jimmy Choo sandals, and oversized Vuitton tote, along with her proclamation that housework wasn’t really her “thing.”
But I had to admit, she did have a good rapport with the kids, especially Ruby, who seemed to instantly adore her—or at least adored her long hair and magenta toenail polish. And she is better than the last three sitters we interviewed. One spoke little English; the next was a vegan who refused to even touch meat; the third an ideal Mary Poppins with clearly fictional references. And at this point, Carolyn is my only path to freedom—or at least freedom for ten hours a week. So I say her name as calmly as I can.
“Uh-huh?” she says, cracking her gum, as I plan my “I told you so” speech to Nick.
“I need to go upstairs and do a few things before you go. Would you please read them a book?”
“Sure,” Carolyn says perkily.
“And put some warmer clothes on Ruby?”
“Sure,” she says again. “No problem.”
“Thank you very much,” I say with exaggerated patience. Then I give both kids a perfunctory kiss, which only Frank reciprocates, and head up to my office, which is really more of a small alcove off our bedroom. It is one of the many things I wish I could change about our house, a Tudor built in 1912 that is long on charm but short on functional space.
For thirty minutes, I answer a few e-mails, order several long-overdue baby gifts, and download several hundred photos. Then, something compels me to open an old document, a syllabus for a class I taught called “Games and Sport in the Victorian Novel.” It was only two years ago, but it seems much longer, and I feel a sudden wistfulness for the discussions I led, the lectures covering chess and sexual politics in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, social game-playing in Vanity Fair, and outdoor sports and the genteel dance in The Mayor of Caster bridge.
Then, as I hear a loud shriek from Ruby that I determine is one of glee not pain, I am overcome with a feeling of regret, an intense pang of missing my old life. The oasis of calm in my on-campus office, the afternoons I had to meet with my students, the intellectual stimulation and, frankly, the escape from my mundane world. A sense of loss washes over me, and I tell myself to get a grip. I’m just having a bad day. I’m just upset about the fight with Nick last night, the unsettling conversation with April, the chaos downstairs. Which is how life goes—when there is discord in one sphere, it spills over to all others.
I pick up the phone to call Cate, to get a much-needed pep talk. But all Cate wants is what I have—at least that’s what she thinks she wants—and I don’t really want someone telling me how great I have it. I’m not even in the mood to talk to Rachel, who always knows the right thing to say, perhaps because, as much as she complains, I think at core she loves being a stay-at-home mother. I even consider calling Nick, just to clear the air and vent about April, but I know he won’t be available to talk. And besides, I can just hear his neat solution to the problem, something like Get your job back or Find new friends or Fire Carolyn.
As if it’s that simple or straightforward, I think. As if anything in life is ever that simple or straightforward.
14
Valerie
Nick returns to check on Charlie every hour on the hour, until his last visit of the day when he shows up wearing Levi’s and a gray turtleneck sweater, a black bag and wool coat slung over his shoulder, clearly on his way home.
“How’s everyone doing?” he asks in a soft voice, glancing from a sleeping Charlie, to Jason, then finally to Valerie.
“We’re fine,” she whispers as Jason interrupts and says, “Hey, Doc. I was just telling Val she needs to get out. Go get some fresh air. Don’t you agree?”
Nick shrugs, feigning helplessness, then says, “Yes. But she never listens to me.”
“Yes I do,” Valerie says in a tone that sounds more girly than she intended. She looks away, feeling transparent, exposed, as she pictures Nick’s house and that golden light in the upstairs bedroom window.
“Oh, yeah?” Nick asks with a coy smile. “So you get plenty of sleep? And you eat three meals a day? And you avoid reading worst-case scenarios on the Internet?”
She blushes, mumbling, “Fine. I’ll go. I’ll go.” Then she stands, puts on her coat, and grabs her purse from her rocking chair.
“Where’re you going?” Jason asks.
“Not sure,” she replies self-consciously, aware that Nick is listening and watching her. “I’ll probably just pick up some takeout. Do you want something? Mexican?” she asks her brother.
Jason makes a face. “Nah. Never thought I’d say this—but I’m sick of burritos.”
“Have you tried Antonio’s?” Nick asks them both.
Valerie shakes her head and says, “No. Is it nearby?”