~~~
My meeting with Jakob, the uncomfortable predictions he presented me, had me in a funk until my feet touched American soil. Suddenly that was all swept under the rug as I drank in the new country, the hot dog stands, the smell of butter and sweat, the sound of a million cars honking and jackhammers firing away.
New York City was like a tonic to me, and to Ingrid as well. Her face was constantly lit up by the vibrant pulse and life that the streets offered her. I could see the possibilities sink into her brain and I lived through that, that something I had only once, when I was young and Stockholm had been my oyster. My, that felt so very long ago.
Karl was constantly wiring over money into my bank account, so we were able to get Ingrid a small apartment on 53rd street next to a smelly Chinese food restaurant. We spent the first few weeks with me on the pull-out couch, living out of my suitcase, eating Chinese food until we burst. At the time, Ingrid was still very thin and didn’t give too much thought to what she ate, providing she remained the same size. That would soon change however, as the industry got a hold of her. Soon, everything changed.
It started with the modeling. I went with her on a few bookings, just to get the feel for things, but I knew I was making Ingrid uncomfortable and I stopped. It didn’t help that the ghosts were back in large numbers. The city had so many of them, it was overwhelming at times and I had to do everything I could to keep them at bay.
Ingrid got a lot of work and soon she was hanging out with the wrong crowd. They were on drugs, no doubt, skinny little trainwrecks. She began to party, she stopped eating, her weight dropped off and she began to change. Her ability to tolerate me disappeared and one day I came home to find all of my belongings packed. Her boyfriend, Stew or Drew or something, was moving in and I was moving out. I had no say in the matter, either. She was making money now and the rent was pretty much being covered by her earnings.
I knew better than to argue. She was seventeen and unstoppable. I had no power over her, I never really had.
So with an extremely heavy, helpless heart, I let Stew or Drew move in with his ripped jeans and scaly leather jacket and I put myself up into a roach-covered motel until I figured out what to do with myself.
The answer came in the form of a Help Wanted ad in the paper. A family on the upper west side was looking for a nanny to look after their two young boys, aged six and nine, and in exchange the nanny would receive room and board.
I had a fluttery feeling in my stomach about this, like it was a good idea. Being in another family would make me feel safe when I felt very much forgotten and alone. I knew I could have gone back to Sweden, to Karl and perhaps I should have. But even though I couldn’t live with Ingrid, I couldn’t leave her either. I would stay in the city and try and keep an eye on her when I could, be there for her if she should ever need me, as unlikely as it was.
The next day I took a cab from the hotel to the posh surroundings of a neighborhood on the rise and found myself in front of a narrow but tastefully decorated brownstone duplex. This was the home of the O’Shea’s.
It had been a long time since I had a job interview and being in my fifties with a heap of unwanted life experience did nothing to squelch my nerves. I watched the cab drive off with butterflies in my heart and took a deep breath before I climbed the steps of the brownstone.
I rang the doorbell and waited, admiring the good shape of the small porch area they had outside, the relative calm and ease that the eloquent but tightly packed neighborhood gave off.
At first I heard nothing but the echo of the bell, then silence. No children laughing or crying, no stampede of feet. I checked my watch to ensure it was the right time and the right date and just before I pushed the bell again, the door swung open.
On the other side stood a man well over six feet, with the darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen and though he was around my age, his hair was remarkably thick and free from grey hairs. His posture was straight, his clothes neatly pressed and immaculate, and even though he gave me a very winning smile, there was something closed-off and strained about him.
“You must be Pippa,” he said and offered his hand. “I’m Curtis O’Shea.”
His accent was 100% Irish though he worked hard to make it more Americanized. I shook his hand in return and found it firm and quick.
I greeted him and he ushered me inside.
The house was very bare and tidy at the area around the door. There weren’t any signs of children, no shoes or toys scattered about. Even the walls had pastoral scenes of Ireland mixed with modern art, but there were no pictures of the family or a child’s art work proudly displayed.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly, we only put the ad out yesterday,” he said, walking past me and down the hall. He looked over his shoulder to make sure I was following.
I quickly took off my shoes, not wanting to disturb the austerity of the area, and walked quietly after him. It felt like a house you couldn’t be loud in, a heavy feeling of tension sat in the air above our heads.
“Were there any other applicants?” I asked.
“A few. Come, let’s sit in the living room.”
He went through an opening to his left and I came after. As I neared, I snuck a look into the kitchen across the way. It was an utter disaster with pots and pans piled high in the sink, army trucks and dinosaurs scattered about the floor and dripping stains coming off the high-gloss counters.
Curtis caught me looking and I averted my eyes quickly. It was obviously something I wasn’t supposed to see, but then I suppose it would be my job to deal with messes like that.
“I’m not a very good caretaker,” he explained as I came in the room and he indicated I sit in on the sofa across from him. “You can see why we need a nanny.”
I nodded, sitting down on the slick leather and folded my hands in my lap. I could see he was embarrassed. “Are you a single parent?”
He gave me a quick smile, still handsome and still strained. “No. I am not. I have a wife, Régine. But…” He trailed off and did a quick sweep around the room with his eyes. “I’m an investment banker. I work very long hours and I’m not home often. Your job would be to take care of the children, cook their meals, clean the house…essentially do the job that Régine currently cannot.”
I didn’t want to pry, but I had to know. “Is there something wrong with your wife?”
He let out a sharp puff of air and tugged a bit at his hair. I opened my mouth to apologize for my bold question but he spoke, “She’s ill. Mentally. We don’t know what’s wrong with her. And she drinks too much. She’s…she’s been steadily going downhill and it’s coming to the point that I can’t even deal with my own family. I need someone else to deal with it for me.”
“Someone like me?” I asked. I was starting to wonder if I had applied for something that was well beyond my abilities. Certainly I was no spring chicken and had a hard enough time chasing after Ingrid all those years ago. Would I be able to handle two young boys and their alcoholic, mentally ill mother? It seemed like it was a bit too much for me.
Curtis caught the look on my face and as he twirled his wedding band around his finger, said, “I know I am not painting the best picture here but I want to be honest up front. My dignity means a lot to me and I need someone who will keep the image I have built up for myself. I am a good provider to my family and give them everything they wish to have. The boys, well the oldest anyway, are well-cultured and well-groomed. I work very hard to give them this life but I cannot be their mother. I don’t expect you to be their mother either, but the help would be more than appreciated. It would be better than what we currently have: A deadbeat.”
I flinched at hearing him speak about his wife like that but he didn’t seem to notice. “I must say, I don’t know if I am the right candidate. I am in my fifties and have seen better days. Are you sure you wouldn’t want someone fresh and new?”
He shook his head. “No. No, I saw quite a few fresh and new women this morning and I’m afraid they aren’t cut out for the job. It is not about the energy here. I doubt my boys will run you ragged, as I said they are, for the most part, very well-behaved. I need someone with the mental maturity to handle the situation with grace and class. For first impressions, you seem to have that.”
Curtis tugged at his hair again, a gesture that I realized was a nervous tick. I wondered how he still had such nice hair with such a habit. He looked up at me, his face very serious. “I’ll pay you handsomely you know.”
I didn’t want to assume as much, so I just smiled at him and ran things over in my mind, not really sure what to do. I didn’t know if such a household would be the right place for me, considering all I had gone through with my life. I certainly did not want to live it all over again. The fact that he would pay me well didn’t even factor into it.
“Jesus Christ,” he suddenly swore and I jumped in my seat. He got up and marched over to area between an armchair and the fireplace. He bent over and when he emerged he was holding a broken glass trophy in his hands. His eyes were wild with anger and I could feel it flowing off of him like it was steam. He looked to the mantel above the fireplace where I assumed the trophy once stood.
“That son of a bitch,” he said, his voice lowered, the full brogue coming out. As if I didn’t exist, he stormed past me and stuck his head out into the hallway.
“Declan Pierre O’Shea!” he bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the house. “You get your arse right down here this instant!”
I turned in my seat and watched Curtis. He was clutching the trophy so hard, I was surprised he wasn’t drawing blood.
“Is everything alright?” I asked him.
He shook his head, the anger never leaving his eyes, and waited by the doorway. I heard a shuffling and a small boy reluctantly appeared in front of his father.
He was the youngest, the six-year old, skinny as anything, with a tuft of messy black hair that matched his father’s. His eyes were downcast, staring at the floor, but I would have bet they would be the same mahogany brown too.
“Did you break Michael’s lacrosse trophy!?” Curtis yelled at him.
The child, Declan, didn’t move or say anything. I could see he was frigid with fear. I felt the same fear myself and my heart was catching in my chest.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Curtis growled. He grabbed Declan’s small arm and pulled him roughly toward him. “Answer me! Did you?”
He was right in the boys face now, the power of his words causing his hair to fly. Slowly Declan raised his eyes to his father’s. They were surprisingly hard. I had expected him to be crying but that was not the case.
“Yes,” the boy said in a flat voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Curtis said venomously. Declan tried to move out of his father’s grasp but Curtis tightened his grip to the point where it looked as if he’d break his own child’s bones and he pulled Declan in front of me. I gasped at the act, I couldn’t help it.
“This is Declan. He’s the only one who might give you trouble.”