Mrs. Perfect (23 page)

“But that was our house, Mom. That was where we lived,” Jemma protests.

“I know,” I murmur, carefully working at a knot in Brooke’s hair.

“Will we ever go back there again?” Brooke asks, wincing as the comb pulls on the knot.

I take the comb out of her hair and try to pull apart the knot with my fingers. “I don’t know.” Finally the knot’s out and all the girls’ hair is tangle-free. “Let’s try not to think about that house, not if it makes us sad.”

Brooke turns to look at me. “Does it make you sad?”

I look at their free, young faces. God, they’re still so young. “Yes, if I were to think about it too much. So I try to think about other things instead.”

“Like what?” Tori asks, scooting closer to me so she can claim my lap.

“This house,” I say.

“Ick,” Jemma answers, curling her lip.

“And Christmas in this house,” I continue. “And how the mantel on the fireplace is big so we won’t have any trouble hanging your stockings.”

Jemma’s still not happy. “But what about when Christmas is over?”

I shrug. “I’ll think of something else then. Something nice to think about, something that makes me feel good.”

“Like what?” she insists.

Struggling to think of something on demand, I look around the room, at the odd putty color I painted the walls in here. The color wasn’t supposed to be putty, it was supposed to be a toasty taupe, but for some reason it didn’t turn out that way. “Well, look at these walls. They remind me of graham crackers—”

“Gingerbread!” Brooke cries.

“Gingerbread, yes, that’s even better,” I agree. “We’re now living in a little gingerbread house. And if we tell ourselves it’s fun, and if we make it interesting, then living here will be fun and not sad.”

“But it is sad,” Jemma says with a shake of her head. “It is, Mom. We don’t have any of our furniture anymore. We can’t have most of our toys. We only have two TVs—”

“We didn’t need all the TVs,” I interrupt.

“Still. I don’t like it. I don’t like not having our own house. I don’t like knowing we have to move again at the end of the school year. I don’t like knowing we can’t have people over—”

“Now that’s just silly. Of course we can have people over. Our friends don’t care if we have a big house or not.” I pause and see the way Jemma’s looking at me, so I hurry on. “And our friends will like coming here for dinner. In summertime we can still barbecue.”

“But how can we barbecue without Dad?” Tori asks.

The girls all look at me and wait for my answer. I wait, struggling to come up with a good answer.

“Dad will be back,” I say at last. “He’ll be here by summer.”

Tori looks happy. Brooke looks hopeful.

Jemma’s just suspicious. “How do you know?”

I think about it, and I listen to that little voice inside me, the one I haven’t listened to enough these past few years.

“I just know.” I look at them and smile, and it’s a real smile. “Daddy loves us too much to not come back.”

An hour later, I finally have the girls tucked in their beds in their new bedrooms. They’re asleep, and I close all the blinds, lock the front and back doors, and turn off the lights except for the light in the hall that connects our bedrooms.

In the tiny bathroom that adjoins the “master” bedroom (an inane description of our minuscule bedroom if I ever heard one), I wash my face and brush my teeth and put on my antiaging lotion, but a thinner layer than I used to since the bottle’s almost empty.

This has been my bedtime routine for years. It’s as much a part of me as chatting with Nathan as he settles into bed to read.

I smile crookedly as I think about Nathan trying to read and me standing in the doorway trying to talk to him at the same time.

He would always put down his book, too. He’d always set aside what he wanted to do to listen.

My smile fades.

I miss him. I miss him so much.

After turning off the bathroom light, I climb into bed, turn off the table lamp, and lie in the dark in my new room and listen to the sounds of an unfamiliar street. A car horn blares outside, and a truck rumbles past. Lights shine through the cheap miniblinds at the windows.

I don’t know this room. I don’t know this house.

I feel like the girls right now. I miss our old house. I want our house. I want that life back.

The losses hit me so hard, I have to fight back to keep from falling apart. It’s going to be okay. Tomorrow it’ll be okay. Tomorrow it’ll be fine. The girls will go to school. Annika will pick them up—

And then I go cold all over. I knew I was forgetting something.

I don’t have Annika anymore. Annika’s gone. I have no child care.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I wake up to find an e-mail from Nathan. He wants to know how the move went and how our first night in the new house went. He hopes the girls’ furniture fits okay in their new rooms, and he wants me to have a locksmith come in and check all the locks and install dead bolts on the front and back doors.

I read his e-mail twice through before answering.
The house is fine. Ray checked out the locks when he was here and the windows, too. Maybe you can come see the house this weekend since you missed last weekend?

I spend my lunch researching prospective sitters and screening them before selecting three to interview, and then Marta lets me leave early Monday afternoon to pick up Tori from preschool. I bring Tori back to the office for a half hour, where she colors at my feet before we race back to school to pick up Brooke and Jemma.

I’ve scheduled interviews with the three sitters that evening, and I hustle the girls to their rooms after a hasty dinner of buttered noodles and carrot sticks. It’s a pathetic meal, but they’re kids, they’re full, and for now they’re happy.

The first sitter is a college student, and she seems sweet but arrives late, complaining of bridge traffic. “It’s such a long drive in traffic,” she adds. “Is there always traffic?”

I mentally cross her off the list.

The second sitter is a professional nanny looking for a full-time position. She also charges a minimum of $20 an hour and needs at least thirty-five hours a week.

Basically she wants more an hour than I earn.

I cross her off the list.

The third woman is a tall, large-boned, gray-haired Russian woman somewhere between forty-five and sixty. She’s sat for a lot of the families in the area. She doesn’t mind doing laundry, grocery shopping, or making dinner. She’s happy with an afternoon-only job, as she still takes care of a baby for another family in the mornings. She charges $14 an hour, but she has her own car and insurance.

She also has a mustache and a unibrow, but she’s available tomorrow afternoon to pick up Tori.

“What if we give it a try for two weeks and see what you think?” I say, realizing that maybe I need the two weeks to think.

She’s sitting on the slipcovered couch that I brought over from the bonus room of the Yarrow Point house, and she folds her hands in her lap. “You pay me every Friday.”

God, I’m desperate. “Yes.”

“Cash. No checks.”

I’m so desperate. “Yes.”

“Your girls. Can I meet them now?”

Oh, Lord. The girls aren’t going to be happy about this. “Yes.”

I go to Jemma’s bedroom, where Jemma’s lying on her bed and the two younger ones are on the trundle, watching a DVD movie. “Hey, girls,” I say, switching on the light. “Do you want to come meet Mrs. S?”

Jemma’s nose wrinkles as she sits up. “Mrs. S?”

“She seems very nice, and she’s taken care of a lot of children in Bellevue.”

“Did you hire her?” she persists.

I swallow my sigh. “Just come meet her. Please?”

The girls trail after me into the living room, walking single file with Jemma in front and Tori bringing up the rear. It’s not a long way, but I feel dread weighing on me with every step. Mrs. S isn’t what the girls are used to. They’re used to young and fun, blond and bubbly. Mrs. S is none of the above.

Hopefully the girls won’t notice.

Mrs. S remains planted on the couch as the girls walk in, her brow furrowing as she studies each of them in turn. “Hello,” she greets them soberly. “I am Mrs. S. I am your new child minder.”

“Child minder?” Brooke asks, glancing at me.

“Baby-sitter,” I whisper, but Mrs. S overhears me.

“But I am not a baby-sitter. There are no babies here,” Mrs. S answers, rising and extending her hand to Jemma. “And your name is . . . ?”

“Jemma Taylor.”

“It is good to meet you, Jemma. You may call me Mrs. S.”

“S?” she asks.

“Slutsky.”

“
Slut
sky?” Jemma chokes on muffled laughter.

I give Jemma a don’t-you-dare look and press Brooke forward for her introduction.

By the time Mrs. S leaves, the girls are thoroughly unhappy with me.

“Why her?” Jemma demands the moment the door closes.

“She’s available the hours we need, she’s experienced, and she’s . . . cheap.”

Jemma glares at me from across the living room. “You know she’s going to make us eat beets and borscht, don’t you?”

“No, she won’t.”

“Yes, she will. Devanne had a Russian housekeeper, and when her baby-sitter wasn’t there, the housekeeper made Devanne eat all kinds of weird things like cabbage and sausage and borscht.”

I check my smile. “You don’t even know what borscht is.”

“I do, too. It’s potato and cabbage soup with beets and beet juice and sour cream.”

Tori’s near tears. “I don’t want to ear borse. I don’t like borse—”

“It’s borscht, Tori,” Jemma flashes before turning on me. “Mom, you can’t hire her. You can’t. You’ve already ruined our lives enough.”

“I haven’t ruined your lives—”

“You sold the house. You made us give up our things. Kids are already talking about us. They’re saying we’re poor and our dad left and isn’t coming back—”

“That’s not true,” I protest.

“Now we have a hairy old Russian nanny?” Jemma, who never cries, has tears in her eyes now, and she balls her hands into helpless fists. “People will laugh at us even more, Mom. They’ll make fun of her name and her hairy lip and her funny dress.”

“But people won’t see her. She’s just going to watch you for a couple hours after school until I come home from work.”

“People will see her. My friends will see her. Brooke’s friends will see her. She’ll pick us up from playdates, or if our friends come here, they’ll see her here. They’ll smell the borscht and they’ll say our house smells funny.” Jemma takes a huge breath. “Mom, please. Think about us.”

I look at her and then Brooke and finally Tori. They’re children. They don’t understand. There are worse things than having your dad take a job out of state. There are worse things than moving into a smaller house. There are worse things than having a mom who works. There are worse things than having a caregiver who speaks English with a thick Russian accent. There are.

But right now, looking into the girls’ tear-streaked faces, I can’t remember what they are.

The girls are on the sullen side when I take them to school the next morning. They don’t want me to work anymore. They don’t want Mrs. Slutsky coming to the house in the afternoon. They just want me there.

Frankly, I’d like to be there, but I need the income. We need the income.

Nathan calls during my lunch to see how the move went. He called a few times over the weekend, but we could never say more than hi and bye, as I was always in the middle of something like loading boxes into the truck, or away from my cell, or just about to feed the girls Sunday night.

Now I start to tell him about the new house and the new sitter when Marta beeps in from Los Angeles, where she’s presenting to a commercial real estate company. “Nathan, I have to take her call. She only calls if it’s important.”

“Taylor, we really do have to talk.”

“I know.”

“When can we?”

“I don’t know. It’s so busy here. I’m so busy.” I can hear the beeping of Marta’s call still, and I’m panicking that she might hang up. “I’ll try you soon.”

“I’m heading into a meeting, Taylor—”

“Okay. Then we’ll talk after that. Sorry. Bye.” I hang up quickly and take Marta’s call, but the cloud of doom and gloom is on me again.

I’ve learned now that when Nathan says we have to talk, it means he has something to tell me, and it’s never good news.

I try to call Nathan back before leaving work, but I don’t reach him. He calls me while I’m making dinner. “Sounds like you’re busy,” he says, and I immediately feel defensive.

“I’ve just got three hungry little girls here,” I answer, trying not to be short and yet wanting to throw the phone. I’m tired. I really am. “You said you had something important to tell me . . . ?”

He hesitates. “I do.”

“So?”

“Maybe now is not a good time.”

I can’t hide my exasperation. “Will there ever be a good time?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice is so low and heavy that I immediately feel guilty. “Nathan, are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence seems to stretch forever.

“Nathan?”

“Maybe we should just do this in person.”

Do what? Panic replaces my guilt. “What, Nathan?”

“I miss you, Taylor.”

I have never heard so much sadness or hopelessness in his voice. My eyes burn and my throat aches. “Come home, Nathan. Please. Because if you don’t, I’m getting on a plane and going there.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll come home.”

“When?”

“Soon. As soon as I can. I promise.”

The rest of the week passes in a frenzy of activity. I wake up, tumble into clothes, hurry kids into theirs, and rush them out the door before hustling to Z Design; and then I’m rushing home, and it’s another frantic couple of hours of homework, housework, laundry, and dinner before bed.

For the first time, I understand what single moms and working moms go through. I’m so busy, I find myself looking at mail as I brush my teeth and leafing through new magazines while peeing. I’ve always been good at multitasking, but multitasking takes on a whole new meaning now.

But even though I’m busy, Nathan is never far from my mind. I think about him first thing when I wake and last thing before I fall asleep, and at night I dream about him, about us, I dream we’re together, we’re over, we’re strangers. I dream the girls miss him. I dream he’s dead. I dream it’s all just a dream and we’re really still in our house and together like we were. In the mornings, I wake up and lie in bed feeling flat, low, depressed.

I need to go to Omaha. I need to go see Nathan.

Marta’s back from Los Angeles, and she returns with a two-page to-do list that she wants taken care of before the holidays, and that’s only my list. She has lists for everyone on the team.

Friday, as it’s a half day, the others leave at noon, but I stay on, determined to get at least half of the company Christmas cards addressed this afternoon. Marta sends cards to 350 customers, colleagues, and contacts; she doesn’t believe in computer-generated labels, and the only way I can do a job like this is by breaking it down in chunks.

With a cup of coffee at my elbow, I work on the stack of envelopes in front of me. I try not to look at the size of the stack; instead I focus on one envelope at a time.

I’ve been working for only forty-five minutes or so when Marta enters the office, slides off her coat, and pulls a paper bag from her purse.

“Here,” she says, pushing the paper bag across the conference table toward me. “An early Christmas present.”

I look in the bag. I pull out a black-and-pink box. There’s a big-breasted blonde on the side and fancy script on the top. I turn the box over to the window and see what’s inside: a gigantic purple penis with silicone veins and a battery end.

Marta’s watching me. “It has great texture. Feel it.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a vibrator.”

“No, I know it’s a vibrator, but . . . what kind of gift is this?” Disgusted, I shove the box back in the bag and crumple it closed.

Marta leans across the table, takes the bag, and dumps out the contents. The box with the silicone penis falls out, along with a smaller box, this one silver and black with a hot pink font.

“And the pocket rocket,” she says, tapping the smaller box. “Every woman has to have one. I love it.”

“Yuck. I don’t want these.”

“Yes, you do. They’ll make you feel better and maybe help you stop pining for Nathan. A man who doesn’t even deserve you, I might add.”

“How can you say that?” I demand, grabbing the boxes and shoving them back into the crumpled bag.

“Because I see what I see. He’s not here for you, he’s not trying to be here for you—”

“Maybe I chased him away. Have you thought about that? Maybe I blew it. Maybe I was the one who messed everything up.”

“How?” She bends down low and looks me hard in the eye. “How did you mess everything up?”

“You don’t know the situation, Marta. You don’t know what Nathan had to put up with—”

“Put up with? Taylor, were you some psycho bitch?”

“No!” I cry, incredulous.

“Did you fly around your house on a broomstick?”

“No.”

“So what did you do that made you so awful?”

I know she’s trying to help me. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but she doesn’t understand. I do screw up. I have screwed up. I’ve chased Nathan away. And I don’t even know how, as I’ve spent the past twelve years trying to improve me. Trying to be a better woman, a better wife. I have dieted and exercised, I’ve studied fashion and interior design. I’ve taken cooking classes and sailing classes and even joined a wine group so I could appreciate wine with him.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Nothing I do is enough.

“What makes you the villain in this story and Nathan the good guy?” Marta persists.

I shake my head.

“No, I don’t accept that.” Marta is bent so low that we’re eye to eye, and it’s scary as hell. “Tell me. Why are you the bad guy?”

“I . . . have problems.”

“Taylor, everyone has problems. That’s why we have religion. To redeem and save us. To make us whole.”

“But I wasn’t always easy to live with—”

“So who is? And for that matter, did he ever complain before you had money troubles?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Marta returns to her desk, drops into her chair, and crosses her legs. “And I’ll tell you why. Because, Taylor Young, you’re beautiful. You’re smart and hardworking and a great mom and all-around successful. Everyone in the community knows you, and therefore knows him. Nathan isn’t what’s made your family the family it is. It’s you. You’ve created this gorgeous, beautiful family. You carried the babies. You designed the house. You furnished the house. You took care of yourself. You volunteered endlessly at school. You did everything asked of you. And more.”