"Quick, close the door! I'm not ready yet-too many of those people out there." Despite the many mingling artists and writers, the majority of attendees this evening are donning tuxedos, which is the one thing, as my father will emphatically inform you, he does not wear. For anyone. Ever. "Who are we, the goddamn Kennedys?" has been his thoughtful retort whenever my grandmother attempted to involve him in the planning of this black-tie affair. I, on the other hand, never have to be asked twice to step into a gown and am all too eager for the rare occasions on which I can hang up my sweatpants and head out like a lady.
"Not to be too much of an enabler, but I come bearing gifts," I say, handing him a glass of champagne. He smiles and takes a long gulp, placing the glass down on top of her mirrored dressing table beside his propped-up feet. He drops the Times crossword he's been working on, motioning for me to sit. I plop onto the plush cream carpet in a pile of black chiffon and take a sip out of my own flute, while muffled laughter and big band music wafts in.
"Dad, you really should come out-it's not so bad. That writer guy is here, the one from China. And he's not even wearing a tie- you could hang out with him."
He takes off his glasses. "I'd rather spend time with my daughter. How's it going, pixie? Feeling better?"
A fresh wave of rage washes over me, breaking the celebratory mood I've enjoyed for most of the evening. "Ugh, that woman!" I slump forward. "I worked, like, eighty hours a week for the past month and for what? I'll tell you for what. Earmuffs!" I sigh exasper-atedly, looking out through my hair to where the row of black kitten heels along the wall transitions into a colorful array of Chinese slippers.
"Ah, yes. It's been a whole fifteen minutes since we had this conversation."
"What conversation?" my mother asks as she slips in the door with a plate of hors d'oeuvres in one hand and an open bottle of champagne in the other.
"I'll give you a clue," he says, wryly, while holding up his glass for a refill. "You wear them instead of a hat."
"God! Are we back on this again? Come on, Nan, it's New Year's Eve! Why don't you take a night off?" She falls back on the chaise, tucking her stocking feet up under her, and hands him the plate.
I sit up and reach for the bottle. "Mom, I can't! I can't let it go! She might as well have just spit in my fate and put a bow on my nose. Everyone knows you get a hefty Christmas bonus; it's just how it's done. Why else would I have put in so much extra time? The bonus is for the extra, it's the recognition! Every stupid person that works for them got money and a handbag! And I got-"
"Earmuffs," they chime in as I pour myself another glass.
"You know what my problem is? I go out of my way to make it seem natural that I'm raising her son while she's at the manicurist.
All the little stories I tell and the 'Sure, I'd be happy tos' make her feel like I live there. And then she forgets that I'm doing a job-she's totally convinced herself she's letting me come over for a play date!" I grab a bit of caviar from Dad's plate. "What do you think, Mom?"
"I think you've got to confront this woman and lay down the law or let it go already. Honestly, you should hear yourself, you've been talking about this for days. You're wasting a perfectly good party on her, and somebody in this family, other than your grandmother, should take advantage of the band out there and dance." She looks pointedly at my dad as he pops the last crab puff in his mouth.
"I want to! I want to lay down the law, but I don't even know where to begin."
"What's to begin? Just tell her that this is not working for you and if she wants you to continue as Grayer's nanny then a few things are going to change."
"Right," I say with a snort. "When she asks me how my vacation was I just launch into a diatribe? She would slap me."
"Well, then you're really in business," Dad pipes in. "Because you can sue for assault and none of us will ever have to work again."
My mother, now fully involved, plows on. "Then you just smile warmly, put your arm around her and say, 'Gee, you make it hard to work for you.' Let her know in a friendly way that this is not okay behavior."
"Mooommmm! You have no idea who I'm working for. There is no putting your arm around this woman. She's the Ice Queen."
"All right. That's it. Throw her the mink," Mom commands. "It's Rehearsal Time!" These rehearsals are the cornerstone of my upbringing and have helped me to practice everything from college interviews to breaking up with my sixth-grade boyfriend. Dad tosses me the stole that's been hanging next to him and reaches over to pour us another round.
"Okay, you're Mrs. X, I'm you. Hit it."
I clear my throat. "Welcome back, Nanny. Would you mind taking my dirty underwear with you to Grayer's swimming class and scrubbing it while you're in the pool? Thanks so much, the chlorine just works wonders!" I pull the mink up around my shoulders and affect a fake smile.
My mother's voice is calm and rational. "I want to help you. I want to help Grayer. But I need some help from you, so that I can keep doing my job to the best of my abilities. And this means that we need to try together to make sure that I am working the hours upon which we both aGREed."
"Oh, you work here? I thought we had adopted you!" I raise my pinky to my mouth in mock alarm.
"Well, while it would be an honor to be related to you, I am here to do a job, and if I'm going to be able to keep doing it then I know you'll be more conscious of respecting my boundaries from now on." Dad claps loudly. I fall back on the floor.
"That'll never work," I groan.
"Nan, this woman's not God! She's just a person. You need a mantra. You need to go in there like Lao-tzu ... Say no to say yes. Say it with me!"
"I say no to say yes. I say no to say yes," I murmur with her as I stare up at the floral wallpaper on the ceiling.
Just as we hit a fever pitch, the door flies open and music floods the room. I roll my head to see my grandmother, cheeks flushed to match her layers of red satin, leaning against the door frame.
"Darlings! Another masterpiece of a party and my son's hiding in the closet at his fiftieth, just like he did at his fifth. Come, dance with me." In a cloud of perfume, she sashays over to my father and kisses him on the cheek. "Come on, birthday boy, you can leave your tie and cummerbund here, but at least dance a mambo with your mother before the clock strikes twelve!"
He rolls his eyes at the rest of us, but the champagne has worn him down. He pulls off his tie and stands up.
"And you, lady." She looks down on me sprawled at her feet. "Bring the mink and let's boogie."
"Sorry to disappear, Gran. It's just this whole earmuffs thing."
"Good lord! Between your father and his tuxedo and you and your earmuffs, I don't want to discuss apparel with this family again until next Christmas! Up and at 'em, gorgeous, the dance floor awaits."
Mom helps me to my feet, whispering in my ear as we follow them back to the party. "See, no to say yes. Your dad's chanting it right now."
Many dances and bottles of champagne later I float back to my apartment in a bubbly haze. George slides up to my heels as soon as I unlock the door and I carry him back to my corner of the room. "Happy New Year, George," I mumble as he purrs under my chin.
Charlene left this morning for Asia and I am giddy with the three weeks of little freedoms this affords me. As I kick off my heels I see the light on my answering machine FLASHing in a soft blur. Mrs. X.
"What do you think, George, shall we risk it?" I bend over to let him down before pressing the "new message" button.
"Hi, Nan? Um, this is a message for Nan. I think this is the right number . .." H. H.'s slurred voice fills the apartment.
"Oh, my God!" I scream, turning to check my appearance in the mirror.
"Right. So um, yeah.. . I'm just calling to say 'Happy New Year.' Um, I'm in Africa. And-wait-what time is it there? Seven hours, that's ten . .. eleven ... twelve. Right. So I'm with my family and we're about to head into the bush. And we've been having some beers with the guides. And it's the last outpost with a phone . .. But I just wanted to say that I bet you had a hard week. See! I know how you've been working hard and I just wanted you to know, um ...that I know ... that you do ... work hard, that is. Um, and that you have a happy New Year. Okay, so then-I hope this is your machine. Right. So that's all, just wanted you to know. Um ... bye."
I stumble to my bed in utter euphoria. "Oh, my God," I mumble again in the darkness, before passing out with a grin plastered to my face.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hi, you've reached Charlene and Nan. Please leave a message." Beep.
"Hi, Nanny, I hope you're in. I'm sure you're probably in. Well, Happy New Year." I crack one eye open. "It's Mrs. X. I hope you've had a good vacation. I'm calling because .. ." Jesus, it's eight o'clock in the morning! "Well, there's been a change of plans. Mr. X apparently needs to go back to Illinois for work. And I, well, Grayer's- we're all very disappointed. So, anyway, we won't be going to Aspen and I wanted to see what you're up to for the rest of the month." On New Year's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the phone. I unplug the receiver and throw it on the floor. There.
I pass out again.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hi, you've reached Charlene and Nan. Please leave a message." Beep.
"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X. I left you a message earlier." I crack one eye open. "I don't know if I mentioned, but if you could let me know today ..." Jesus, it's nine-thirty in the morning! On New Year's Day! I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the phone and this time actually manage to pull the right plug out.
Ahh, peace.
"Hi, you've reached Charlene and Nan. Please leave a message." Beep.
"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X," Jesus! It's ten o'clock in the morning! What is wrong with you people? This time I can hear Grayer crying in the background. Not my problem, not my problem, earmuffs. I stick my hand outside the covers and start flailing for the answering machine. I find the volume. "Because you didn't say if you had any plans and I just thought-" Ahh, silence.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Oh, my God, it's my cell phone. It's my goddamn cell phone.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Aaaahhhhh! I get out of bed, but I can't find the source of the goddamn ringing. Such a headache.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
It's under the bed. It's under the bed! I start trying to crawl under the bed, still in my evening dress, to where George made a soccer goal with the cell. I extend my arm, grab it, still ringing, and throw it in the laundry hamper, dumping everything on the floor in on top of it.
Ahah!! Sleep.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
I get out of bed, march over to the hamper, retrieve the phone, go in the kitchen, open the freezer door, throw in the phone, and go back to sleep.
I awake five hours later to a very patient George waiting at the end of my bed for breakfast. He tilts his head and meows. "Been on a bender?" he seems to ask. I pad to the kitchen in my very rumpled black chiffon to feed George and make some coffee. I open the freezer and see the GREen glow of the phone from behind the ice trays.
"Number of calls received: 12," the face reads. Oh, Lord. I make some coffee and go sit on my bed to listen to the messages on my machine.
"Hi, again. Hope I'm not repeating myself. So, Mr. X has decided he won't be able to make it to Aspen and I really don't want to be out there by myself. The groom and the groundsman live all the way down the road and, well, I'd feel very isolated. So I'll be in the city. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you could come in a few days a week. How's Monday for you? Let me know. The number here again is-"
I don't even think or chant. I just reassemble the phone and dial the number for the Lyford Cay Inn.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. X? Hi, it's Nanny. How are you?"
"Oh God, the weather here is just awful. Mr. X hasjbarely been able to play a round of golf and now he'll be missing his skiing, as well. Grayer's been trapped inside the whole time, and they promised us someone full-time, like last year, but there's a shortage or something. I don't know what I'm going to do." I can hear Pocahontas in the background. "So, did you get my message?"
"Yes." I brace my pounding temples between my thumb and pinky finger.
"You know, I think there's something wrong with your phone. You really should have it looked at. I was trying to call you all morning. Anyway, Mr. X is leaving today, but I'm staying the weekend and won't be back until Monday. Our plane gets in at eleven, so could you meet us at the apartment at noon?"
"Well, actually"-earmuffs-"I already made plans since I wasn't supposed to start back until the last Monday of the month."
"Oh. Couldn t you at least give me a week or two?"
"Well, the thing is-"
"Can you hold on a moment?" It sounds like she's put her hand over the phone. "We don't have another video." Mr. X says something I can't quite make out. "Well, play it for him again," she hisses.
"Urn, Mrs. X?"
"Yes?"
I know we'll be having this conversation for the next thirty-six hours unless I reach for a small white one. "I took your suggestion about Paris. So I can't start back until, let's see, two weeks from Monday. Until the eighteenth." No to say yes. "Also, we didn't really have time before you left to discuss how much more an hour I'd be getting this year."
"Uh-huh?"
"Well, typically I go up two dollars every January. I hope that's not a problem."
"Well... No, no, of course. I'll talk to Mr. X. Also, I'd appreciate it if you could go by the apartment tomorrow-you know, while you're out and about-and refill the humidifiers."
"Um, I'm actually going to be on the West Side, so-"
"GREat! See you in two weeks. But please do let me know if you can start any sooner."
James holds the door open as I pass. "Happy New Year, Nanny. What're you doin' back so soon?" He seems surprised to see me.
"Mrs. X needs her humidifiers filled," I say.
"Oh, does she now?" He gives a wicked grin.
The first thing I notice when I open the Xes' front door is that the heat is actually on. I step slowly into the silence, feeling a bit like a thief. I am just slipping my arms out of my coat when Ella Fitzgerald's "Miss Otis ReGREts" comes blaring out of the stereo system.
I freeze. "Hello?" I call. I clutch my backpack and follow the wall into the kitchen, hoping to grab a knife. I've heard about doormen in buildings like this using the apartments when the tenants are away. I swing open the kitchen door.
There's an open bottle of Dom Perignon on the counter, pots are bubbling on the stove. What kind of sick person steals into an apartment to cook?
"It's not ready yet. Ce n'est pas fini," a man says in a thick French accent as he emerges from the maid's bathroom drying his hands on his checked trousers and adjusting his white chef's coat.
"Who are you?" I ask over the music, taking a step backward toward the door. He looks up.
"Qtti est vows?" he asks, putting his hands on his hips.
"Um, I work here. Who are you!"
"Je m'appelle Pierre. Your mistress hired me to faire le diner." He returns to chopping fennel. The kitchen is a phantasm of productivity and delicious aromas. It's never looked so happy.
"Why you stand there like a fish? Go." He waves his knife at me.
I leave the kitchen to go find Mrs. X.
I cannot believe she's back. Of course, why bother to call Nanny? Ooh no, it's not like I have anything better to do than keep her oil paintings moist. Oh, oh, I am definitely not working tonight if that's her game. It's probably just one, big ruse to get me to work. She's probably got Grayer tied up in a net over the humidifier and is planning to drop him on my head the minute I pour the water in.
"SHE RAN TO THE MAN WHO HAD LED HER SO FAR ASTRAY," the stereo blares, following me from room to room.
Well, fine. I'll just let her know I came by like I said I would and then I'm out of here.
"Hello?" I practically leap right out of my skin. There she is, strutting out of the bedroom, a silk kimono tied carelessly at her waist, her emerald earrings sparkling in the hall light. My heart jumps to my throat.
It's Ms. Chicago.
"Hi," she says, as friendly as she was in the conference room three weeks ago. She glides past me, out toward the dining room.
"Hi," I say, scampering behind her, untying my scarf. I round the corner just as she throws open the French doors onto the dining room, revealing a table set for a romantic dinner for two. A huge bouquet of peonies, the purply black of squid ink, sits among a ring of glowing votives. She leans across the gleaming mahogany to straighten the silverware.
"I'm just here for the humidifiers!" I call out over the stereo.
"Wait," she says, going over to the hidden control panel in the bookcase and expertly adjusting the volume, tone, and bass. "There." She turns to me, smiling placidly. "What were you saying?"
"The humidifiers? Are, um, dry? They run out of... water? And the pictures, well, they can really, uh, suffer? If they're dry? I was just supposed to water them. Only once. Just now, today, 'cause that should last them till... Okay! So, I'll just do that, then."
"Well, thank you, Nanny. I'm sure Mr. X appreciates that, and I do, too." She retrieves her errant glass of champagne from the sideboard. I kneel and unplug the humidifier from the floor.
"Okay, then," I grunt, heaving the machine into my arms and letting myself out into the kitchen.
I refill all ten water tanks, schlepping them back and forth to the laundry room, while Ella keeps right on trucking from "It Was Just One of Those Things," through "Why Can't You Behave?" and "I'm Always True to You, Darlin', in My Fashion." My mind is reeling. This is not her house. This is not her family. And that most definitely was not her bedroom that she came out of.
"Are you done yet?" she asks as I plug in the last one. "Because I was wondering if you could run to the shop for me." She follows me to the door as I grab my coat. "Pierre forgot to get heavy cream. Thanks." She hands me a twenty as I open the door.
I look down at the money and then at Grayer's little frog umbrella in the stand, the one that has two big frog eyes that pop up when he opens it. I hold the money out to her. "I can't-I have, um, an appointment, a doctor thing." I catch a glimpse of myself in the gilt mirror. "Actually ... I just can't."
Her smile strains. "Keep it, then," she says evenly. The elevator door opens, while she attempts to look casual leaning against the door frame.
I put the bill down on the hall table.
Her eyes FLASH. "Look, Nanny, is it? You run home and tell your boss that you found me here and all you'll be doing is saving me the trouble of leaving behind a pair of panties." She steps back into the apartment, letting the door slam shut behind her.
"Like, literally panties?" Sarah asks me the next day as she tries on yet another shade of pink lipstick at the Stila counter.
"I don't know! Do I have to look for them? I feel like I have to look for them."
"How much are these people paying you? I mean, do you have a line? Is there a line they could cross?" Sarah is furiously puckering. "Too pink?"
"Baboon butt," I say.
"Try one of the plummy shades," the makeup artist behind the counter suggests. Sarah reaches for a tissue and starts over.
"Mrs. X is coming back tomorrow. I feel like there's something I'm supposed to be doing," I say, leaning against the counter in exasperation.
"Um, quitting?"
"No, out here in the real world, where I pay rent."
"TOOOOOTS!!!!!" Sarah and I freeze and look across the atrium to where two piles of shopping bags are calling Sarah's high-school nifkname, which rhymes with "boots." The bags make their way around the balcony toward us, parting to reveal Alexandra and Langly, two of our classmates from Chapin.
Sarah and I exchange glances. In high school they lived in Birkenstocks and followed the Dead. Now they stand before us, Alexandra at nearly six feet and Langly at barely five, in shearling coats, cashmere turtlenecks, and a shitload of Cartier.
"TOOTS!" they cry again as Alexandra envelops Sarah in a big hug, nearly clonking her on the head with one of her shopping bags.
"Toots, what's up?" Alexandra asks. "So, do you have a man?"
Sarah's eyelids lift. "No. Well, I mean there was someone, but..." She's starting to sweat, foundation beading on her brow.
"I have a faaabulous man-he's GREek. He's soo gorgeous. We're going to the Riviera next week," Alexandra coos. "So, what are you up to?" she asks me.
"Oh, same old, same old. Still working with kids."
"Huh," Langly says quietly. "What're you gonna do next year?"
"Well, I'm hoping to work with an after-school program." Their eyes narrow, as if I had just switched languages unexpectedly. "Focusing on using creative arts? As a tool for self-expression? And, um, building community?" I am getting completely blank looks. "Kathie Lee's really involved?" I offer as a last-ditch effort to ... what?
"Right. What about you?" Langly almost whispers to Sarah.
"I'm going to work at Allure."
"Oh, my God!!" they squeal.
"Well," Sarah continues, "I'm only going to be answering the phones, but-"
"No, that's awesome. I. Love. Allure," Alexandra says.
"What are you guys doing next year?" I ask.
"Following my man," Alexandra says.
"Ganja," Langly says softly.
"Well, we better run-we're meeting my mom at Cote Basque at one. Oh, Toots!" Sarah is once again molested by Alexandra and they head off to poke at their seafood salads.
"You're too funny," I say to Sarah. "Allure?"
"Fuck 'em. Come on, let's go eat somewhere fabulous."
We decide to treat ourselves to a chic lunch of red wine and robiola cheese pizzas at Fred's.
"I mean, would you actually leave your underwear in someone's house?"
"Nan," Sarah says, shutting me up. "I just don't understand why you care. Mrs. X works you like a mule and gave you dead-animal headgear for a bonus! What is your loyalty?"
"Sarah, regardless of what kind of a whackjob employer she might be, she's still Grayer's mom and this woman is having sex with her husband in her bed. And in Grayer's home. It makes me heartsick. Nobody deserves that. And that freak! She wants to get caught! What's up with that?"
"Well, if my married boyfriend was dawdling about leaving his wife I guess I might want him to get caught, too."
"So, if I tell, Ms. Chicago wins and Mrs. X will be devastated. If I don't tell it's humiliating for Mrs. X-"
"Nan, this is not even within a million miles of your responsibility. You don't have to be the one to tell her. Trust me-it's not in your job description."
"But if I don't and the panties are floating around and she finds out that way ... Ugh! How awful! Oh, my God, what if Grayer finds them? She's so evil I bet she'd put them somewhere he'd find them."
"Nan, get a grip. How would he even know they were hers?"
"Because they're probably black and lacy and thonged and he might not get it now, but one day he'll be in therapy and it'll just kill him. Get your coat."
Sarah GREets Josh in the front hall with a glass of wine. "Welcome to Hunt the Panties!, where we play for fabulous prizes, including earmuffs and a trip to the broom closet. Who's our first contestant?" "Ooh, me, me!" Josh says as he takes off his jacket. I am on my hands and knees in the front hall closet, looking through every coat pocket and boot. Nothing. "Jesus, Nan, this place is amazing-it's like the fucking Metropolitan Museum."
"Yup, and about as cozy," Sarah says, as I run frantically into the living room.
"We don't have time to shoot the breeze!" I call over my shoulder. "Pick a room!"
"So, do we get points for any undergarments, or must they have a scarlet A on them?" Josh asks.
"Extra points for crotchless and edible." Sarah explains the rules for the game I am not finding amusing.
"All right!" I say. "Listen up! We are going to be methodical. We are going to start in the rooms that get the most use, where the panties would be uncovered the soonest. Joshua, you take the master bedroom, Mrs. X's dressing room, and her office. Sarah Anne!"
"Reporting for duty, sir!"
"Kitchen, library, maid's rooms. I'll take the living room, the dining room, the study, and the laundry room. Okay?"
"What about Grayer's room?" Josh asks me.
"Right. I'll start there."
I turn on each light as I pass, even the rarely used overheads, illuminating the darkest corners of the Xes' home.
"Nan, you can't say we didn't try," Josh says, passing me a cigarette as we sit by the recycling bins in the back stairwell. "She was probably bluffing, hoping you'd tell Mrs. X so she can start redecorating."
Sarah lights another cigarette. "Besides, whoever finds them in this apartment deserves to find them-they're so well hidden. Are you sure this woman works with Mr. X and not the CIA?" She passes me back the lighter.
Josh is still holding the porcelain Pekingeser dog he picked up on his search. "Tell me again."
"I don't know, two, maybe three thousand dollars," Sarah says.
"Unbelievable! Why? Why? What am I missing?" He looks down at the dog in complete disbelief. "Wait, I'm gonna go get something else."
"You better put that back exactly where you found it," I say, too tired to chase after him to be sure he does. "I'm sorry I made you waste your night looking for panties," I say, stubbing out the cigarette on the metal railing.
"Hey," she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. "You'll be fine. The Xes have jewelry that has jewelry-they'll be fine."
"What about Grayer?"
"Well, he has you. And you've got H. H."
"Okay, I don't got nuthin'. I have an answering-machine tape in my jewelry box and a plastic spoon I carry around in ray purse as a souvenir and that might be as far as it goes."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Can I mention the plastic spoon at the wedding?"
"Honey, if we make it that far you can carry the plastic spoon at the wedding. Come on, let's get Josh and wipe our fingerprints on our way out of here."
When I get home the answering machine is blinking.
"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X. I don't know if you've left for Paris yet. I couldn't reach you on your cell phone again. We may have to get you a new one with better coverage. I'm calling because Mr. X gave me a week at the Golden Door for Christmas. Isn't that wonderful? Lyford Cay is so awful and I still haven't recovered from the holidays-I'm just exhausted, so I've decided to go next week. Mr. X will be around, but I was wondering if you'll be back, just so I can tell him you'll be available if he needs you. Just so we know it's covered. I'll be in my room this evening. Call me."
My first instinct is to call her and tell her never to leave her house again.
"Mrs. X? Hi, it's Nanny."
"Yes?"
I take a deep breath.
"So, will that work?" she asks.
"Of course," I say, relieved that she isn't asking about my housecall.
"GREat. So, I'll see you Monday morning-a week from tomorrow. My flight's at nine, so if you could arrive by seven that would be great. Actually, we better say six forty-five, just to be on the safe side."
I roll over for the eighth time in the last fifteen minutes. I'm so tired that my body feels weighted, but every time I'm about to drift off, Grayer's hacking cough echoes through the apartment. I reach over to pull the clock back toward me and the red numbers read 2:36 A.M. Jesus.
I hit the mattress with my hand and roll onto my back. Staring up at the Xes' guest-room ceiling, I try to add up the few hours of sleep I've managed to get in the past three nights and the total makes me even heavier. I'm bone tired from spending twenty-four/seven keeping Grayer entertained as his mood has blackened and fever risen.
When I arrived she GREeted me at the elevator with a list in her hand, her bags already waiting in the limo downstairs. She just wanted to "mention" that Grayer had a "tiny bit of an earache" and that his medicine was by the sink, along with his pediatrician's number-"just in case." And the kicker: "We really prefer that Grayer not sit in front of the television. You two have fun!"
I knew "fun" was hardly going to be the word for it as soon as I found him lying on the floor next to his trafen set, listlessly rolling a caboose on his arm.
"Any idea when Mr. X will be home tonight?" I had asked Connie, dusting nearby.
"Hope you brought your pajamas," she replied, wagging her head in disgust. I've come to look forward to Connie's arrival over the past few days; it's a relief to have another person in the apartment, even if she is only a whir of dusting and vacuuming. As the temperature has held steady at seven deGREes Fahrenheit, we've been under house arrest since my arrival. This would have been bearable, ideal even, if H. H. hadn't had to go right back up to school for reading period. He said I could take Grayer upstairs to pet Max, but I don't think either one of them is up to it. Grayer's "tiny" earache may have improved, but his cough has only worsened.
And, needless to say, his father has been completely MIA-he simply failed to return home my first night. Numerous phone calls to Justine have unearthed only the voice mail of a suite at the Four Seasons in Chicago. Meanwhile the reception desk at the spa is screening Mrs. X's calls as if she were Sharon Stone. I took Grayer back to the doctor this afternoon, but his only advice was for Grayer to finish the pink amoxicillin and wait it out.
Another round of raspy coughs-he's even more congested now than he sounded at dinnertime. It's so dark and so late and this place is just so big that I'm starting to feel as if no one will ever come back to get us.
I get up, draping the cashmere throw around my shoulders like a cape, and shuffle over to the window. Pulling the heavy chintz drapes to the side, I let the streetlight from Park Avenue spill into the room and rest my forehead against the cold windowpane. A cab pulls up to the building across the street and a boy and girl stumble out. She's in tall boots and a skimpy jacket, leaning against him as they swerve past the doorman and into the building. She must be freezing. My forehead chills quickly from the glass and I pull back, touching it with my hand. The curtain falls closed, taking the light with it.
"Naaanny?" Grayer's small, scratchy voice calls out.
"Yes, Grover, I'm coming." My voice echoes in the big room. I shuffle through the darkness of the apartment, lit up in weird shadows from passing cars outside. The warm glow of his Grover night-light GREets me along with the whir of his Supersonic 2000 air filter. The minute I step through his doorway my stomach drops-he is not okay. His breathing is labored and his eyes are watering. I sit on the corner of the bed. "Hey, sweetheart, I'm here." I put my hand on his forehead. It's boiling. The moment my fingers touch him he starts to whimper.
"It's okay, Grover, you're just real sick and I know it's yucky." But I don't know any more. His wheezing alarms me. "I'm going to pick you up now, Grover." I reach my arms under him, the cashmere wrap dropping to the floor. He starts to cry fully, the movement agitating him as I pull him up to me. I go into automatic pilot, running through options. The pediatrician. The emergency room. Mom.
I carry him to the hall extension and lean against the wall for support as I dial. My mother answers on the second ring. "Where are you? What's wrong?"
"Mom, I can't get into it, but I'm with Grayer and he's been sick with an ear infection and this cough and they've had him on antibiotics, but the cough keeps getting worse and I can't get a message through to Mrs. X because the receptionist says she's been in some sort of sensory-deprivation tank all day and he can't seem to breathe and I don't know if I should take him to the hospital because his fever won't go down and I haven't slept in two nights and-"
"Let me hear him cough."
"What?"
"Put the phone to his mouth so he can cough." Her voice is calm and steady. I hold the phone near Grayer's mouth and within a second he has erupted into a deep cough. I feel the vibrations of this effort where his chest is pressed to mine.
"Oh, God, Mom, I don't know what to-"
"Nanny, that's the croup. He has the croup. And you need to take a deep breath. You may not fall apart right now. Breathe with me, in..."
I focus on her voice, taking a deep breath in for Grayer and myself.
"And out. Listen, he's okay. You are okay. He just has a lot of fluid in his chest. Where are you right now?"
"Seven twenty-one Park Avenue."
"No, where in the apartment?"
"In the hall."
"Is this a cordless phone?"
"No, she doesn't like the way they look." I can feel the panic start to well up again as he whimpers.
"Okay, I want you to go into his bathroom, turn on the shower so it's comfortably warm-not too hot, just warm, and then sit on the side of the bathtub with him in your lap. Keep the door closed so it gets nice and steamy. Stay in there until he stops wheezing. You'll see, the steam will help. His fever is trying to break and it will be down by morning. Everything is going to be just fine. Call back in an hour, okay? I'll be waiting."
I feel somewhat soothed knowing that there is something I can do for him. "Okay, Mom. I love you." I hang up and carry him back though the darkness to his bathroom.
"I'm going to flick the light on, Grayer. Close your eyes." He turns his sweaty face into my neck. The light is blinding after being up for so long in the dark and I have to blink a few times before I can focus in on the gleaming silver of the faucet. I grip his body as I lean over to turn on the shower and then sit down, balancing on the edge of the tub with him on my lap. When the water hits our legs he really begins to cry.
"I know, sweetie, I know. We are going to sit here until this wonderful steam makes your chest feel good. Do you want me to sing?" He just leans against me and cries and coughs as the steam fills the bright tile around us.
"I... want... my mommmmmm." He shudders with the effort, seemingly unaware that I am here. My pajama pants soak in the warm water. I drop my head against his, rocking slowly. Tears of exhaustion and worry drip down my face and into his hair.
"Oh, Grove, I know. I want my mom, too."
The sun shines in through the shutters as we munch on cinnamon toast among Graver's stuffed animals.
"Say it again, Nanny. Say it-ciwomen toast."
I laugh and poke him gently in the tummy. His eyes are bright and clear and my relief at his 98.6 has made us both giddy. "No, G, cinnamon, come on-say it with me."
"Call it 'women toast.' You say it with me-" His hand pats my hair absentmindedly as the crumbs dribble around us.
"Women toast? You crazy kid, what's next? Men eggs?"
He giggles deeply at my joke. "Yeah! Men eggs! I'm so hungry, Nanny, I'm dying. Can I have some eggs-men eggs?"
I crawl over him, grabbing his plate as I stand.
"Hello! Hello, Mommy's home!" I freeze. Grayer looks up at me and, like an excited puppy, scrambles to get down from the bed. He runs past me and meets her as she comes to his door.
"Hello! What are those crumbs doing all over your face?" She spatulas him and turns to me. I see the room through her eyes. Pillows, blankets, and wet towels all lying on the floor where I finally crashed when Grayer fell asleep at six this morning.
"Grayer's been pretty sick. We were up late last night and-"
"Well, he looks just fine now, except for those crumbs. Grayer, go in the bathroom and wash your face so I can show you your present." He turns to me with wide eyes and skips to the bathroom. I'm amazed he can even set foot in there.
"Didn't he take his medicine?"
"Yes, well, he has two more days to go. But his cough got really bad. I tried to call you."
She bristles. "Well, Nanny, I think we've discussed where we prefer for Grayer to eat. You can go now, I've got it covered."
I focus on smiling. "Okay, I'll just go and get changed." I walk past her with the plate in my hand, hardly recognizing the apartment filled with sunlight. I stuff everything into my bag, pull on jeans and a sweater and leave the bed unmade as my one act of rebellion.
"Bye!" I call out, opening the door. I hear Grayer's naked feet hitting the marble as he runs out in his pajamas beneath a cowboy hat that is much too big.
"Bye, Nanny!" He throws his arms open for a hug and I hold him tight, amazed at the difference a few hours have made in his breathing.
"Mrs. X? He still has two more days of antibiotics so-"
She emerges at the other end of the hall. "Well, we have a big day planned-we've got to get a haircut and go to Barneys to pick up a present for Daddy. Come on, Grayer, let's get dressed. Good-bye, Nanny."
My shift is over-point taken. He follows her to his-room and I stand alone in the hall for a moment, pick up my bag, and override the temptation to put the antibiotics by her cell phone.
"Bye, partner." I pull the door closed quietly behind me.
The old nurse went upstairs exulting with knees toiling, and pat' ter of slapping feet, to tell the mistress of her lord's return.
