How To Save A Life

by P. Dangelico

  Also, important to note that the door swung open before I hit the bell. Yes, the doorman called up, but it looks like the Grim Reaper is on a hair trigger today. His eyebrows are in a super slanty V and he’s showing a modicum of emotion. This is big for him.

  “Is it?” is his response to my greeting.

  Needless to say, the name suits him. What else do you call someone who only wears dark colors and possesses two emotions: none or irritated.

  What’s with all the black and grey clothes anyway? Today is another uninspired choice: black button-down shirt, dark gray graphite slacks. I shouldn’t be taking note, but it’s hard not to when he seems to be making a statement…sending a message…whatever.

  “Are you going to stand there all day or are you coming in?”

  Caught musing, my cheeks flare.

  Because I’m a stickler for punctuality myself, I cast a sneaky glance at the phone in my hand. Two minutes late.

  “Sorry, it won’t happen again. I promise. The subway––”

  West turns and walks away, headed for the kitchen while I’m in the middle of my clumsy excuse.

  “No more subway,” he announces. “You’ll take a car service.”

  “I can’t––” I start to explain, chasing after him, a theme developing between us.

  “I’m paying for it.”

  “Well, in that case…”

  In the kitchen, Maisie is in a pen entertaining herself with a set of soft blocks. She’s wearing the helmet. This can’t be healthy.

  When she hears us enter, she glances up and smiles at us.

  “Pick up,” the little one commands.

  Glancing sideways, I find West’s expression blank. I can’t tell if he’s trying to figure out what that means, or how to go about it.

  “Can I take the helmet off? Why is she wearing it anyway?”

  Maisie is playing in her pen. Is that really necessary?

  “No,” is his singular and confusing reply.

  “Please?” I stare at my new boss with a softly hopeful look on my face. Nothing on YouTube said anything about helmets. Not anywhere online to be honest.

  He gets that resolute look about him that says I would have an easier time moving a mountain. “She walks. She could hurt herself.”

  He can’t be serious. Then again he may know less about kids than I do and wants to play it safe. That must be it.

  I glance around. The entire apartment has an open floor plan and very few doors. You can see from one end to the other in some cases. There’s a noteworthy lack of furniture in the living room across the way. Like someone removed all the hard objects out of the room and all that’s left are the soft couches and chairs. Which sums up the situation neatly: he’s safety obsessed.

  “There’s nothing on YouTube about helmets on toddlers. I looked everywhere.”

  “YouTube?” he says, genuinely confused.

  “Yes, YouTube.”

  “You get your information from YouTube?” Confusion has switched to mild amusement…for a cadaver that is.

  “Have you been on it lately?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  Like any toddler Maisie has an issue with patience. She doesn’t have the time for West to make up his mind, so she takes matters into her own tiny pudgy hands. Grabbing the side of the pen, she hoists herself onto her little pink feet and lifts her arms in the air, her dark almond-shaped eyes full of hope. “Pick up.”

  “I think she means you,” I say, tone more than a little tentative. I don’t want to be giving my new boss orders, but that baby has an on-the-verge-of-screaming look on her pretty face.

  “Not now, Maisie. Riley needs to pay attention to what I have to tell her. It’s important for your welfare.”

  Lord Jesus, he’s talking to a two-year-old like she’s an employee.

  His attention shifts over to me. “I have to get you up to speed.”

  “Hmm,” I say keeping a close watch on the baby. Her eyes are getting glassy, and she’s making soft agitated noises. Not good.

  “Riley, are you listening?”

  Then the unthinkable happens, that little chin of hers starts to tremble like she’s about to blow. Time to jump in.

  It’s not a conscious decision. I’m operating on pure gut instinct. I mean, I’m new at this babysitting thing. I take the baby in my arms and she comes willingly, hooking her little legs around me as if she’s done it a thousand times before. Maisie smiles, then I smile and a reserve of warmth unfurls in my chest. West does what he does, which is look distant with a touch of constipation, emotional and otherwise.

  “I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”

  “You can go. We’re good here,” I tell him, smiling at Maisie.

  “No, we are not good here. We have a list of rules to go over––Riley, are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  He sighs. “Phone. Have this one on you at all times and keep it on. You are to answer when I call.” He pulls a brand-new iPhone out of the cash drawer––the newest model––and slides it across the kitchen counter. “There’s a code for the house,” he continues. “It’s automated. Your personal one to get into the elevator and the house are programmed in the phone under my name. Keep the phone locked for obvious reasons.”

  I nod, head spinning already. He keeps going with nary a pause. In the meantime, Maisie plays with my hair. She seems fascinated by it, wrapping the curls around her hand.

  “Credit card”––Jordan slides a Visa card with my name on it across the counter. I stare at it in disbelief––“and cash is always in the drawer. I am trusting you.”

  He looks pointedly at me, laser focused. He’s intimidating when he gets like this. All I can do is nod.

  “The baby––she walks. Watch her carefully. She is to have the helmet on at all times when you go out.”

  He’s a wannabe dictator. My new boss is a control freak. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “But don’t you think––”

  “Yes, I do. And you shouldn’t,” he says, talking over me. “You’re paid to follow orders. Remember our deal? She could get hurt. The helmet stays on. I will text you when I’m on my way home. I don’t need to know your whereabouts during the day, but you are to be here when I get back.”

  Finally, he pauses, takes a deep breath. His gaze softens to butter when he looks at Maisie. Then quietly, ever so quietly in that deep voice of his, “I like to be here when she has dinner.”

  He averts his gaze as if there’s something shameful in that, fusses with the drawer. I finally found his soft spot. Nice to know he’s got one.

  “Will do,” I say, desperately trying to hold down a smile. The Grim Reaper wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “If anything comes up, anything at all, call me. No matter how small the problem.”

  “Got it.”

  “Don’t take anything into your own hands. Call me.”

  “I’ll call you if anything should go wrong, but it won’t.” He doesn’t seem convinced. The worry lines are still there, etched between his brows. “You don’t have to worry Jordan. I’ll take good care of her.”

  “One more thing. The most important one,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, his countenance very serious. As opposed to just serious like it always is.

  I nod and await this most important command.

  “Don’t ever lie to me, Riley. I can’t stand liars. Whatever it is, tell me the truth.”

  An uncomfortable feeling stirs in my gut. I hate lying too but not all lies are created equal.

  “Promise,” I tell him. I just hope I can keep that promise.

  He exhales. “Okay. Let me see you change a diaper.”

  “Not straight enough…No higher. You have to secure the diaper higher on her waist or it will be at her ankles in ten minutes. Higher, I said.”

  I’m starting to sweat under his scrutiny. The man is worse that a Marine drill sergeant. The way he’s been carr
ying on for the past thirty minutes you would think if the diaper isn’t applied to his exacting standards a mortal disaster could happen. On top of which, he keeps checking his Rolex because he has a meeting to go to.

  Earlier, he led me to this makeshift baby room with a crib and a changing table and proceeded to blow my mind. I watched him change a stinky, shit-filled diaper with proficiency while I stood by desperately trying not to gag and throw up in my mouth. Not my best moment. And credit where credit is due. The man can change a diaper.

  The good news is that Maisie keeps giggling and kicking out her legs every time I tickle her belly. From what I’ve seen so far, she’s a happy baby.

  “How’s this?” I ask, securing the last tab. Two perfectly clean shredded diapers lay on the floor in a discarded pile of test runs deemed not good enough by Grim.

  He eyeballs my handiwork and checks his watch for the third time. “It’ll have to do for now. I’m late.”

  He starts to leave and turns. “Don’t forget. Phone on. Be here when I get back. All food needs to be organic––”

  This one’s new. “All food?”

  “Yes, Riley, all the food you give this baby needs to be organic. What’s difficult about that?”

  I mean, it’s kind of difficult. “Is there a reason?”

  “The reason is I say so. Toxins and heavy metals introduced in the body at a young age contribute to illness later.”

  I’m seeing a pattern here. Safety obsessed and now illness obsessed too. Hmmm. He walks out of the baby’s room without a farewell. Probably for the best.

  A week later…

  “He’s gone,” I coo at Maisie, bouncing her on my knees. I set up a play area in the kitchen so I can cook and watch Maisie at the same time and Grim and I had words about it. It’s been a rough week with a steep learning curve.

  This morning was another doozy. Jordan introduced me to the stroller. “You know how this works?” he said, pulling it out of the hallway closet. I gave it a rough examination.

  “I know how to use a table saw. I think I can figure this out.” This did not go over well with Mr. Safety Obsessed. I probably should’ve anticipated that. For the transgression, I received a ten minute lecture reminding me that I’m handling a baby, not a piece of wood. As if I needed reminding.

  Maisie giggles and screeches when I lift my knees off the counter stool I’m sitting on and bounce her higher.

  “Gone, gone, gone. The dictator is gone.”

  “Gone!” she yells.

  “That’s right baby girl.”

  “Not quite,” the man who pays my salary says, standing in the threshold of the kitchen with dare I say a ghost of a smile on his face. “Forgot my tablet.”

  I bury my smile in the baby’s neck and plant a kiss there. Retrieving it off the kitchen counter, he leaves for good this time.

  Today is the first official day of us braving the great outdoors. Maisie and I have decided on a stroll in the Park. I’ve even scoped out a playground not too far from the apartment. Jordan’s irrational fear of just about anything harm related has not lessened one bit and I try not to trigger it which is why we haven’t gone out yet. This is a shining example of how my day generally goes…

  Grim: What are you doing right now?

  Me: Showing Maisie how to build a pipe bomb.

  Grim: Is she wearing the designated safety attire for handling explosives?

  Me: *sends picture of Maisie getting her dirty diaper changed wearing a helmet.*

  Grim: I’m impressed with your progress. Carry on.

  The only time he seems to have a sense of humor is in written form. I’ll take whatever I can get.

  I strap Maisie in her stroller, pack drinks and snacks––something I’ve learned to always have on hand lest I get tears from her I’m not very well-equipped to handle––and out we go. It’s a beautiful day and New Yorkers are enjoying everything the Park has to offer. We stroll by joggers and Rollerbladers. Sunbathers. People on bikes. A horse drawn carriage.

  “Horsey!” Maisie shouts, pointing at the animal. Which sounds more like “Hosey!”

  Then, “Dog!” and “Birdie,” or more accurately, “Buhdi.”

  It’s kind of sick how much secondhand joy I’m getting from her excitement. I’m finally starting to understand why people have kids. I should’ve taken her out a week ago, but I was reluctant thanks to Grim and his phobia.

  We make it to the playground by late morning and it’s already packed with kids of all ages, their nannies, and two stay-at-home dads.

  “Which one’s yours?” the dark-haired girl sitting close to me on the edge of the sandbox asks. She’s been on her phone, texting, for the last fifteen minutes––basically since I’ve been here––so her question surprises me.

  “The girl with the pink helmet.”

  Maisie’s currently attempting to take a little plastic beach shovel away from a boy around her age. She’s much more assertive with other children than I anticipated she’d be which makes me oddly proud. He slaps her in the head with it, but she’s wearing the helmet so we’re all good. The hell I’m going to tell Jordan, however. All he’d need is encouragement and he’ll have her wearing an entire peewee hockey outfit.

  “Mine’s the boy.”

  I’m keeping a close eye on the situation. Before an all-out brawl breaks out. Maisie’s getting a strange look in her big eyes.

  “Does yours eat poop?”

  “Excuse me?” I turn to get a better read on this girl. Is she right in the head?

  “Poop. I’m Clea, by the way. That’s Madison.” She motions to a blonde girl around my age on the other side. She’s talking to one of the stay-at-home dads, not paying attention to her kid. “Hers does. Mine does occasionally. We all laugh about it.”

  Is she for real? “What do you mean by poop?”

  “I mean some of them stick a hand in their diapers and––”

  “Don’t,” I implore. That’s the last image I want in my head. “No. Maisie does not eat poop.” Thank the Lord. I don’t think I like this girl’s attitude either. She seems to be taking joy in it. “So…you just let them? Like…aren’t you supposed to change the diaper when it’s dirty?”

  “The bitch didn’t even give me the Fourth of July off. I had a house in the Hamptons with ten of my friends and I couldn’t go. Dirty diapers are discretionary.”

  This is so wrong on so many levels that I don’t even know how to respond.

  My iPhone rings with a FaceTime call, another one of Jordan’s annoying habits. Why can’t he just text like normal people.

  “Hi,” I answer.

  “Where are you?” he says right out of the gate and it’s not curiosity I’m sensing. He’s wearing a slight frown already.

  “Outdoors. I know, very risky to breathe fresh air.”

  “Riley…,” he warns. I’ve been testing his boundaries as much as Maisie has lately. It’s impossible not to when he’s so painfully rigid.

  “Let me see, Maisie.” He’s checking to see if I’ve been following orders. How predictable. I can’t imagine he trusts anyone which is why he seems to have a serious dearth of friends.

  I turn the phone around, onto the sandbox where Maisie and the little boy are still working out who gets to keep the shovel longer. While the camera is on her, the little boy rips it away.

  “Keep a close watch on that boy. He’s very aggressive.”

  Facing him again, “They’ve been going back and forth for half an hour. He’s not aggressive.”

  “Is that the parent? What a dick,” the girl next to me says loud enough for him to hear.

  Grim looks immediately irritated. “Who’s that?”

  “No one. Bye, Jordan.”

  I end the call before he gets worked up.

  “See what I mean? Diapers are discretionary,” Clea, the sadist, says smugly. “Then there’s the animal poop.”

  Maisie, having had enough of the boy taking the shovel from her, wrestles it away from him
. He begins to scream and cry. The playground is turning out to be a very bad idea.

  “Did you say animal poop?”

  “Yeah, in the sandbox. Rats, squirrels, sometimes dog. We don’t always check.”

  I bolt up and go grab the baby. The playground is officially off-limits.

  Chapter Seven

  Riley

  It’s funny how quickly experiences can change a person. Funny intriguing, not funny haha. One minute you think you’ve got it all figured out. You know what you want and how to go about getting it. And the next minute life suggests something different and it makes you question everything.

  I genuinely like my new job. Three weeks into it and I still wake up energized for the day ahead. The schlep from Manhattan to Staten Island every night is a chore, but other than that I am genuinely happy working for free…which is essentially what I’m doing when I hand over my paycheck every week to Tommy and his bookie. The added bonus to actually liking my work is that it’s been incredibly easy to leave Staten Island and all my problems behind, something I hadn’t anticipated finding so liberating. It feels almost sinfully good. Like when I would ditch class in high school.

  “What are you two doing today?” says the man who takes pleasure in riding me like I’m a beast of burden. Yeah, he hasn’t eased up at all. When he offered me the job and said he can be hard on people, he wasn’t overstating it.

  I glance away from Maisie playing in the pen with a new doll Jordan bought her. It should hold her attention for another ten seconds at the most. Standing next to the brewing coffee pot, Grim is wearing another cheerful combination today, a dark gray suit with a black shirt and a gray tie. It does, however, make his jaw look sharper and his eyes greener so maybe the desired effect was achieved. The undertaker look works for him.

  The coffeepot beeps and shuts off, done brewing. Jordan grabs two mugs out of the overhead cabinet. For a man raised with a silver spoon in his beautiful mouth, he’s very self-sufficient. He feeds himself and never asks me to do his chores––like going to the dry cleaners or food shopping. Bags of fresh groceries are mysteriously delivered to the house daily. And the cleaning crew comes in and out with military precision. He refuses to depend on anybody…kinda like me, I guess.