EvEn bEforE I knEw
what had happened, a feeling of dread consumed me, filling me up until I knew there was no other truth than that impending moment of horror. I stepped up onto the cheap, rickety deck of the aboveground pool. The water was still, serene. The pool looked peaceful, like nothing bad could ever happen there. If I focused on one spot in front of me, I could believe it.
If I ignored the lumpy, sagging form anchored by the far drain, I could believe that everything would be okay. If I could rewind to two hours ago and stop there forever, everything would be okay. So many “ifs.”
I stepped closer because I had to. Her little hand reached out to me. She was long dead and still asking for help. Anyone could see she was way past saving. If only she’d been facedown. But she lay on her back just below the surface of the water, her eyes wide open and gaping, her mouth frozen in an expression of fear that I’d never seen before. It broke my heart. I only wanted her to die without experiencing that kind of fear. If she had to die, I wanted her to die innocent, free of any sense of the horror that could exist in this world.
Her hair was knotted in a big mass and tangled in the drain. She had fallen in, and then it had sucked her deeper. I wondered if she’d died screaming for help, if she’d believed I could save her up until the very last second before she lost consciousness.
It was a dream, but it was also a memory. It was the kind of memory I fought to escape during the day. I hadn’t experienced it so vividly at night since I’d moved to the Bay Area. I’d thought I was getting better, moving past my sister’s death.
A frantic need to scratch my left shoulder pulled me more fully awake. The itch traveled down my thigh, my calf. I looked at my body: it was covered in red welts and vestiges of blood and raw skin from where I’d apparently been scratching all night. I couldn’t stop itching. My fingers moved of their own accord, anxiously, as if eager to release the feelings I’d kept underneath for so long. My eyelashes were glued together where my tears had rendered my mascara a gooey, sticky pulp. I didn’t remember scratching myself, but my legs were covered in red streaks beneath the hem of my cotton jersey skirt and there were bloody scabs, freshly congealed, on my arms. I looked under my fingernails and there were little flecks of it, red and black grime from dirt and skin and blood.
As I emerged from my haze, I remembered two things: First, that Owen and I had broken up. Second, that before I’d dreamed about Lissa, I’d dreamed a million tiny worms with hooks were burrowing their way under my skin, threatening to change me into one of them. The memory of my dream made me itch more. I felt a tingling under spots in my right thigh and calf, both of my forearms, my neck. It spread and spread, the itch overwhelming my body until I felt as though my skin were on fire. For a brief second I imagined the worms were real, that my dream hadn’t been a dream at all. That they were there, wriggling under my skin with their miniscule hooks, taking the me of me away and replacing it with Nanny, only Nanny. I swallowed hard to prevent myself from vomiting. I begged my fingers not to move. I thought if I could control them, I could control the sensations on my skin, too. But my fingers were aching to do more than just itch: the hollow feeling in my chest where all my love for Owen used to reside made me want to claw at my face. And the vivid reminder of Lissa made me want to shred my eyes. Physical pain was so much easier to bear.
It was the first time I’d called my feelings for Owen love— but why not? I cared for him as much as I’d ever cared for anybody. But maybe I wasn’t capable of actual love. The one thing I couldn’t trust after all of this was my gut.
My phone read eight o’clock. I eased out of bed carefully and padded toward Zoe’s room, my head throbbing. Zoe was still asleep, her eyelids puffy and her hair a tangled mess. I smoothed her hair gently from her forehead and headed downstairs. The house was empty; there was no note. I knew Walker was now in Shanghai for a conference, but I didn’t know what Libby could be doing so early. I peeked out the back window at the pool; the water was unbroken. I helped myself to a cappuccino and hoped Zoe would stay asleep a while longer. My brain throbbed.
The kitchen was a mess. Libby rarely cleaned anything, but she rarely cooked either, so we ordered in a lot or ate whatever gourmet snacks she’d purchased. I’d grown accustomed to foie gras and salmon roe in the past months—it had been a bizarre and varied education, varied because for every pâté there was a carton of goldfish crackers and hot dogs. Some days, I let Zoe design our menu.
Maybe Libby had a solo binge , I thought to myself, though I knew better. (Libby didn’t eat.) There were open cheeses with huge chunks taken out of them and a slab of tenderloin doused in mushroom sauce. There were chocolate-covered strawberries with the bottom halves bitten off. It looked like the meat had been left out all night. A cluster of ants congregated atop it, drunk and drowning in excess. I hadn’t noticed the mess when I came in last night, but I’d been so caught up in my own anxiety that it wasn’t altogether surprising.
I walked to the coat closet and pulled out one of Libby’s many cashmere “dusters,” which were basically just long, fancy sweaters. I picked the red one. I wrapped it around me, enjoying the way its soft fibers brushed against my skin. I picked up my coffee in one hand and padded out to the front yard barefoot. It was a beautiful day. I wanted to sit in the sun awhile before I cleaned up the mess.
I wanted to sit in the sun forever. It warmed away the chill that had covered my skin since the night before, easing the intensity of the itchy rash that had wound its way over my arms and legs. There were welts now; I could see them. They’d popped up in mere moments. It was getting worse. I’d have to see a doctor once Libby came home. Sitting cross-legged on the lawn wasn’t helping. I ran my fingers lightly over the spots the blades of grass had antagonized and prayed I’d have the strength to resist clawing at my skin. It was already looking so awful. Nothing was uglier than broken, diseased skin. Nothing was uglier than I was right then.
NExT dOOR, a curtain in Owen’s room fluttered gently. I kept my eyes trained on his window, all aloof pretenses gone. I wanted him to see me. I imagined he’d come save me again. From what, I didn’t know. I waited for his message in the window. I remembered the day he formed a heart with his hands and hoped for that all over again.
But it wasn’t Owen’s familiar face I saw outlined against the shadows of the window; it was a decidedly feminine bone structure with long, flowing hair. Alexis. It darted through my head, Alexis, just like that. Alexis so fast and so painful I couldn’t keep it away. It wasn’t her, it couldn’t be her. It wasn’t Alexis. He wouldn’t do that, not so soon.
A truck pulled up, a mail truck. It stopped in the driveway. A man got out of the truck. He moved toward me on the grass like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. There was a mailbox right in front of him, but he looked at me like it was supposed to be my decision whether he dropped the mail there or not.
“It’s okay,” I told him from the grass. “You can drop the mail in the mailbox.” He nodded and smiled just a little, and I smiled back at him reassuringly to let him know it really was okay, I hadn’t just been saying that. He dropped the mail and got in his car and drove away. And then I stood up and tried not to look at that face in the window. I looked anyway. But it was gone. I would call Owen when I got inside. I grabbed a handful of mail. One of the pieces of mail was addressed to Ms. Annie Phillips. It was from SFSU. I walked inside and put that letter in the trash without opening it and without really knowing why I didn’t want to.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed Owen. It rang once, twice, three times . . . seven times . . . voicemail. “You’ve reached Owen, leave a message at the beep. Beeeeep.” I called him again. I needed to know who Alexis was. I needed to know how he could do this to me. Seven rings and voicemail again.
I tried again.
Again.
Again.
I walked outside and his car was gone. They went away. I
pictured them looking at his phone and laughing at my calls. Getting creeped out when I kept it up and then calling me a freak, a weirdo. I don’t know what I saw in her, he’d say. And she’d say, Yeah, and didn’t she smell like the Goodwill bin? I didn’t feel jealous, exactly. What I felt was something more complicated than that. I felt inferior. I felt like the little kid playing at having a boyfriend. And I felt like an idiot—how could I have ever thought he’d be capable of falling for me when he could have someone like her?
I couldn’t turn off the sounds in my head, so I turned on the iDock from where it was connected to Walk’s iPod. The sounds of Pearl Jam came through. I nodded along absently to Pearl Jam and started to clean up. But I was ravenous. There was a knife still on the counter, covered in steak juice and mushroom sauce. I cut myself a long slab and picked it up with my fingers. I took a big bite out of it like it was a slice of meat pizza, and I chewed. It was tender and only a little dry on the outside from being out all night. It was cooked medium rare, the way Libby always ordered steak. I waved away a fly as the warm red juice trickled down my chin and through my fingers. It was so, so good.
I reached for one of the cheeses. I didn’t bother with a knife because I was already so messy anyway. The cheese wrapper was still there, crumpled next to the wedge. It read “taleggio.” I picked up the quarter-pound wedge and took a bite. Its flavors blended with the steak in an unfavorable way. I picked up one of the half-eaten, chocolate-covered strawberries and ate that to erase the bad tastes in my mouth.
When I finished my lunch there wasn’t a whole lot left to clean except my own hands. I gave a quick wipe to the counters and gathered the trash into a neat pile on the counter to push into the garbage bin. Finally, when I was done, I called Owen again. He didn’t answer.
Zoe still hadn’t gotten out of bed, so I decided to take advantage of a good thing and get some more sleep myself. I walked upstairs and took off all my clothes but my underwear and tank top and crawled into bed. I knew I was falling asleep when the worms reappeared and began digging into my skin and I could no longer control my hands. They were their own species and could do as they pleased.
Libby was standing over my bed and waving around a piece of paper, and for a minute I was sure I was still asleep and dreaming. Her face was beet red. I yawned and stretched and pulled myself up into a sitting position.
“Why are you yelling?” I didn’t mean for it to sound whiny and petulant, but it did anyway.
“It’s four in the afternoon, Nanny,” said Libby. “Four in the afternoon on a work day, and my daughter is running about the house doing whatever she damn well pleases, because her nanny can’t be bothered to wake her drunk self up to check on her!”
“I’m not drunk,” I protested, still trying to work out the details of the scene in front of me.
“What you are is a failure,” Libby said coldly.
“I got up to clean,” I said, hating the sound of my trembling voice. “I cleaned the whole kitchen. I was only lying down for a nap.”
“Wow,” Libby said with an edge of sarcasm. “Thank you so much for cleaning the disgusting mess you made in the first place!”
“What do you mean?” I was genuinely perplexed.
“Your mess. You must have ruined two hundred dollars worth of food last night. Easily. A bite here, a chunk there. Like you tore everything apart with your hands. It’s disgusting.”
“It wasn’t me. I went to sleep early.”
“It wasn’t there when I went to bed at eleven.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then tell me—who?”
“Stop it,” I said, trying desperately to keep my voice even. “Stop trying to make me crazy.” I put my hands over my ears. “La la la la la la la,” I sang over and over.
“What is wrong with you?” shouted Libby, gripping my wrists and prying my hands away from my ears. But I kept on singing, just louder. Finally she slapped me.
The sting of the slap burned across my face. My face was on fire. I couldn’t think of anything but the pain. I could think of only the heat I was sure was permanent, as though her hand had been tattooed across my face. The only thing I could hear was the panting sound of each of us coming down from our rage.
“I found this in the wastebasket,” Libby finally said. “I think it couldn’t have come at a better time. You need help, Nanny. Real help.” She handed me the envelope from SFSU. She’d ripped it open, her nails tearing a jagged line down its center. It wasn’t like her. Libby’s mail was always opened straight, precisely, then stacked in neat piles. Her letter opener was sterling.
“Why did you open this?” My hands trembled. The shock of it spread down my spine to my entire body.
“Oh, don’t act all sanctimonious,” Libby snapped. “You went through our private belongings in the garage, for god’s sake. I opened one measly letter. And thank goodness I did.”
“What do you mean?” I was afraid. I didn’t want to know what was in the letter.
“Open it. See for yourself.” Libby crossed her arms over her chest and stared at me until I unfolded the letter and read its contents.
Dear Ms. Phillips, it started.
Our records show that your attendance has been unsatisfactory for more than one of your courses. Your course administrators have corroborated as much. Your academic average, too, is just barely over passing. With only a few weeks left in the semester, you risk failure.
As it is our job to ensure that our students’ financial and academic wellbeings are in order, we are reaching out to you with your options. The dean of the School of Design has offered to defer you to next year’s incoming freshman class. Your student record will be erased (though you will be reimbursed proportionate to your unfinished credits alone).
Your second option is to continue on with a strong risk of failure. Professor Meyers and Professor Malone have on separate occasions expressed concern. Each has now reported that you would have to score 97 percent and 99 percent respectively on your final exams in order to pass their courses. These high scores, as I’m sure you know, are seldom achieved consistently at a university level.
We are writing as your advisors and friends. We care about each one of our students, and we trust that you will make the best choice for you. Please do write us at [email protected] sfsu.comsfsu.com 273-1192 to set up an appointment with an advisor, if necessary.
All best,
Dean Graham
I leaned back on my pillow, not exactly breathless, because I’d seen this coming. It was why I’d been afraid to open the letter in the first place. How could I possibly have passed when I’d skipped over half my classes to babysit or because I was recovering from something or other? I’d never had any real time to study, either. I’d been a diligent and responsible student in high school, but now I was overworked, overwrought, high-strung.
Walker appealed, you know. We got notice first.”
“You got notice? Why?”
“Because we’re writing tuition checks from here,” she
I shook my head. It was true that they paid chunks of my salary over to the school. I saw only a small portion of payment for the work I was doing. But it was better that way. It allowed me to manage my money instead of spending it before I could get around to paying tuition.
“How about a thank you,” she said then. “I doubt they’d have been as lenient if Walker hadn’t done something.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and she walked over to sit next to me on the bed.
“Thank you, what?” she wanted to know.
“Thank you, Libby,” I said in reply. Sure enough, she smiled wide and clasped my hands in hers.
“Just think, Nanny! You can put school on hold and act as an apprentice at my company! You can work more hours and put money aside in savings. It’s going to be fabulous.”
“You hate Zoe, don’t you?” I cut in.
“What?”
“You hate your own daughter. You never ask about her. It’s four P.M. right now and of course she’s awake, but you probably don’t even know where she is.” Libby looked around nervously.
“Of course I don’t hate her,” she said firmly. “Why would you say such a terrible thing?” Libby’s face went white. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re even sicker than I thought. It is your job to watch Zoe, not mine. I have my hands full with the baby and my job. You know that.”
“You don’t love her,” I whispered, my eyes welling with tears. “You don’t care about her at all.” Libby leaned close to me, gripping my jaw with one hand. I struggled to move away from her grasp, but she held me firmly. She forced me to look into her eyes.
“Stop transferring your own life onto hers,” she hissed. Then she stood back up abruptly and strode toward the door. “Nanny,” she said, turning back toward me, “I’m going to figure out what to do with you. We can’t continue on like this. For now I want you to stay here. You’re not well enough to be around the children.” The threat hung in the space between us until she shut me in, imprisoning me in my yellow tomb. Just before the door swung shut, though, I saw little Zoe’s frame hovering in the hallway behind Libby. She was sucking her thumb and staring sadly into my eyes. I couldn’t tell how much she’d heard.