I return my eyes to Mrs. Bird and shift my feet awkwardly, hoping to capture her attention. I think about clearing my throat, but I’m not sure if she would notice. She’s lost in her own world, a private moment with her child.
After a few more moments, I try speaking. “Mrs. Bird?” But my voice comes out as a peep.
Collette Bird doesn’t move. But then she says, “One second, darling,” and I’m not sure if those words are directed at me or at her child on the floor.
I stand and wait, more seconds going by until Mrs. Bird finally looks up, the hand she’s been using to caress her daughter slowly moving to her lap and covering her other hand, which is anchored by a large sapphire ring with a thick band of diamonds wrapped around it. The fingers of that hand are closed together. She’s grasping something tightly. Whatever it is, she presses the item firmly against her belly.
Collette Bird raises her eyes, and I take a long look at the woman before me: the philanthropist who gives millions to children’s hospitals.
Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a plum-colored sheath dress, not tight but elegantly conformed to her body. Her face is heavily made up but not overdone, bearing the look of someone who can afford expensive makeup and has the leisure time to spend hours experimenting with it. Her hair is blond and pulled back, revealing dark golden highlights around her face. And on her feet, one-of-a-kind sequin-encrusted pumps—actual Manolo Blahniks, I’ve seen them featured in a magazine—deep purple to match her dress.
The awe hits me immediately. She’s breathtaking, almost regal. An effortless beauty that I’m almost positive she has passed along to her daughter; the pair of them, I imagine, mirror each other perfectly. She looks kind too. She is everything you could wish for in a mother and I can’t help wondering, with a pang of guilt toward Aunt Clara, what it would have been like having someone like Collette Bird raise me instead.
She’s taking me in too. Nervously I smooth the bangs I’ve been trying to grow out the last six months and tuck them behind one ear. I’m grateful to be wearing my hoop earrings, a gift from Aunt Clara that I know are simple but elegant enough. She’d told me they’d be my good luck charm, and right now, I sure hope she’s right.
My lips are dry but I resist licking them. I’m fidgeting endlessly. It’s impossible not to feel self-conscious standing in front of someone like Collette Bird.
“Hello,” she says, and her tone is warm and friendly, much like the housekeeper’s.
I smile in return.
Mrs. Bird twists again in her seat and reaches for her daughter behind the chair.
I take my chance. “Is that your little one?” She halts, and I take a step back. “Is she shy? She doesn’t have to be shy. Not around me, at least. She can come out whenever she wants.”
At this, Mrs. Bird’s hand relaxes, and a part of me relaxes too. Another stroke of her fingers, a gentle smile across her face as she murmurs something to the girl before turning around to face me.
At last, she points to a chair and motions for me to sit. I do so carefully, acutely aware of the one-of-a-kind Turkish rug beneath my feet, the three inches of plush padding, and the antique Baroque chair she is directing me toward. I place my purse on the floor and take another peek at the drapes, yards of embroidered French silk falling to the floor; the glass sculptures on the table clearly cost tens of thousands of dollars.
“I always marvel at people who want to be nannies,” she begins. “So loving. So willing to take care of other people’s children. Do you have any children of your own, Ms…. ?” She glances around as if looking for a sheet of paper.
“Sarah Larsen,” I supply. And then, “No,” I confess. “No children.”
She glances at my empty hands, making a point of looking at my purse next. “Did you bring a résumé?”
I squirm and decide the best way to handle this is to come clean.
“I have to tell you something.” I suck in my breath. “I’ve never been a nanny before.” I wait for a reaction but there isn’t one, only a serene smile. I keep going. “I wait tables in the East Village.” She raises her eyebrows and I feel like a sham, wondering how much longer she’ll let me sit before politely asking me to go, thanking me for my time, a gentle reminder that no family in their right mind would leave their child with someone who had no experience.
I wait, expecting her daughter to laugh out loud too, but neither of them makes a sound.
Instead, Mrs. Bird has the wide-open look of someone who wants me to keep speaking. She’s waiting to hear what else I have to say.
Okay, she’s giving me a chance.
“But I’d very much like to be a nanny,” I add. “I’m good with children. I’ve dealt with hundreds of kids while working in restaurants. I cared for my aunt while she was sick. I’m young, have lots of energy, and I think that if you give me an opportunity, if you let me try, I could be of really good use to you and your family. I would be good to your daughter. She’d grow to love me, I know she would.”
I pause, letting my gaze drop to my lap, knowing I’ve made the most pathetic case and I’m seconds away from finding myself back on the street.
She blinks. “I really like your honesty,” she says, and the tightness in my chest starts to ease. “It’s truly hard to find in people anymore. I believe you when you say you’re good with children. It’s funny how you can tell that about a person so quickly.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “Is your commute here very long?”
If she means the walk to the L train, a quick jaunt to Union Square, followed by the 1 train north and the walk from the subway—then no, not too long. Thirty to forty minutes tops.
What I want to tell her is I would walk miles to this place.
“Not far,” I say.
“Sometimes, when it’s urgent, I’ll have the driver pick up the nanny. He’s done it on a number of occasions. East Village, you said?” I nod. She does too. “That’s something he could handle.” I feel a pitter-patter in my chest; the tone in her voice sounds promising. She picks at an invisible piece of lint on her dress. “Tell me about yourself. What should I know about you?”
What could someone like Collette Bird possibly want to know about someone like me?
“I grew up in Virginia Beach,” I tell her. “I went to college for a little while and waited tables until a year and a half ago, when I moved to New York.”
“And what made you come here?”
“A new chance. Seemed exciting. The true melting pot of the world, right?” I offer another detail. “My dream has always been fashion design, that’s what I used to study. New York has all of that, doesn’t it?”
She smiles. “It certainly does.” And she crosses her one-of-a-kind sequin pumps. “So Virginia Beach, you say?” She stares past my head. “I can’t remember if I’ve ever been. I’ve traveled to so many places but that one…” She frowns. “It doesn’t stand out.”
“It wouldn’t,” I tell her. “Unless you really love crowded beaches and not-so-great seafood restaurants.”
Another smile. “Again, more honesty.”
I take a deep breath. I might be winning points here.
“Your family?” she asks. “Where are they?”
“My parents died when I was young.” Her eyes pinch in the familiar look of sympathy I’m given whenever I share this detail about my life. But I’m used to it by now and don’t let it get to me anymore. And besides, I was only five years old when they died. I don’t remember them except for what Aunt Clara told me and a handful of pictures she kept in an album.
“My aunt raised me,” I tell her. “I helped care for her before she passed away a few years ago.” Another grimace, and now it’s my turn to let my eyes drop. Three years since her death and it never gets easier. Unlike those of my parents, memories of Aunt Clara are always with me and it’s hard to mention her, even now. Sh
e’s the one who taught me everything, and it had been excruciating watching her get sick and being unable to make her better. With the limited resources we had, we did the best for each other.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Bird says.
I raise my eyes, not wanting her to think I’m an emotional basket case, that I won’t be able to handle this job. I can’t risk the chance of bursting into tears, not now.
“My aunt was very special, and when she died, I didn’t feel the need to stay in Virginia anymore. She told me how much she loved New York and had always wanted to move back.”
This earns a surprised look from Mrs. Bird. “She was from New York? Whereabouts?”
“Brooklyn. She took the train in every day while working at an insurance company.”
“What brought her to Virginia Beach?”
“She wanted someplace to take care of me after my parents died. And she did everything she could. Taught me how to ride a bike. Volunteered at my school. Tutored me in math.”
“She sounds like a wonderful person.”
“Absolutely.” I nod. “The best.” The memories bring a warm rush of emotion. And now I regret wishing Aunt Clara had had money like Collette to show how much she loved me. She showed me in every way possible.
“And now you’re following in her footsteps,” Collette says, her eyes sparkling. “You’re keeping her memory alive by bringing her spirit to New York.”
I tilt my head—I’d never thought of it this way. Aunt Clara had made this city her stomping ground, and before she died, she told me where to find the best bagel shops and the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings in Bryant Park, the best clubs for hearing jazz. She talked about taking free ferry rides to Staten Island so she could go out into the harbor and admire the Manhattan skyline.
I used to picture her—a younger, excited version of herself. Her brown hair in a ponytail as she often used to wear it, long before the cancer turned her hair into a shaggy bob and then took it away altogether. I’d listen to her stories and imagine her leaning against the ferry railing, her eyes looking out past the water, the large city before her with all its promise of a future, of the man she loved—the man and career she’d leave behind to raise me in a different state, alone.
Aunt Clara had dropped everything for me.
And when I stop to think about it, I guess I have been living my aunt’s dream by moving to New York and bringing her home. All along, I’ve had a fairy godmother looking out for me at every turn.
Mrs. Bird has stopped asking questions. She’s looking at me curiously, as if she’d give a million bucks to share the memories that are now running through my head. But she doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry, only lets me sit and enjoy them.
Five minutes in and this is the strangest interview I’ve ever had in my life.
“Yes, I suppose I have brought her spirit to New York City,” I tell her, and she smiles.
I change position in my seat and try refocusing on the task at hand—this interview—and wonder if this is the right time for me to ask some questions of my own. After all, I still haven’t met her daughter. I’d love to know more about her. Remarkably, the little girl remains quiet behind the chair.
“How old is your daughter?” I ask.
“She’s nearly four. I also have a thirty-two-year-old stepson, my husband’s son from a previous marriage. He lives with us sometimes.” She tilts her chin. “I think you’ve already spoken to him on the phone?”
I nod, waiting for her to say more about her daughter, but she lets out a small laugh, realizing her goof. “I’m sorry, I’m acting like I’ve never done this before.” Another giggle, one hand covering her mouth, red creamy lipstick revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “You must think…” But she stops and takes a breath, steadies herself. She’s almost as nervous as I am, which is bizarre since she’s the one doing the hiring. “My little girl’s name is Patty,” she says, beaming a smile. “And she’s my absolute most favorite, most important person in the whole wide world. Her fourth birthday is this July.”
A girl named Patty who turns four this summer. I can handle that.
I take another look toward the chair. “Can I meet her?”
“Soon,” she says, adding, “I typically like to meet with the nanny candidates first and let Patty listen. Then whoever makes the cut can come back for a follow-up.”
“Of course,” I say. “What’s she like—Patty?” My eyes dance toward the floor but the girl remains hidden.
Suddenly, I wonder if there’s another reason this family wants to hide her identity. Besides absolute privacy, is something else at stake? Does she have an illness? Has she been in an accident and suffered a deformity? Though if that were the case, wouldn’t they be hiring someone who can provide real medical care?
But Mrs. Bird doesn’t reveal any such thing. “She’s wonderful,” she continues. “Petite, angelic. Blond like me. Well…” She touches her hair, another laugh. “She’s a natural blonde whereas I’m still trying to be. She loves make-believe and fairy-tale princesses, the colors blush and bashful, which is a riot since she picked that up from some movie somewhere. She hates peanut butter. Doesn’t like tube slides—I think the thought of getting stuck in one terrifies her. Doesn’t like to fly, which is a shame because we used to travel so much, but we’re hoping she’ll grow out of it. She loves Disney movies and tea parties. Fairy tales and story time.” There’s a sharp intake of breath, her excitement building. “She’s starting kindergarten next year, which is crazy—I can’t believe it’s already here.” She shakes her head, amused. “It’s remarkable how time flies.”
“She sounds wonderful,” I tell her, and mean it. If she’s anything like Mrs. Bird is describing, taking care of this little girl should be a dream. Avoid peanut butter sandwiches and tube slides, I can do that. Should be easy enough.
I’m already picturing the places I can bring her: the shop off Columbus Circle where I’ve seen children’s parties with cookies and teacups laid out on trays with teddy bears and slices of rainbow cake decorating the counter. A child’s dream.
If Patty would come out, I could tell her all about it. We could make plans to go there together.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Larsen, you don’t get to pick when you show up!” I’m late for my shift at Hearth and Paul is pissed.
I try coming up with excuses but then catch Jonathan’s warning look from the other side of the restaurant—Go easy, he seems to be saying—and I look at his section, how it’s already set up, tables wiped, and silverware rolled.
“I’m sorry.” I rush to shove my purse in a locker.
Paul mimics me. “Sorry,” he grumbles. “You’re always saying you’re sorry. That’s your third sorry in a week.”
I roll my eyes where he can’t see me and hurry to tie the black apron around my waist. Back in the dining room, Jonathan points at my section, where he’s already swept around the tables and I mouth, Thank you. Clipping a few pens to the front pocket of my apron, I flash him a grin to show him I’m okay, that I’m in good spirits and think the nanny interview went well.
Amelia swings by to check on me too. She hands me an order pad and says, “Chick, you’ve gotta start showing up on time.”
I give her a little nod. We’ve become friends since about six months ago, when a group of us started going out together after work. I know she’d pick up my shifts if I was in a pinch, but like Jonathan, she also knows I can’t afford to miss out on tips.
“I know,” I tell her. “I got caught up.”
She nudges her chin at Jonathan. “Your beloved set up your section for you.” I follow her gaze. “That one’s a keeper,” she tells me with a wink and then pulls away, spotting a hostess leading a group to her table.
I spin away, too, thinking I’ll tell her about the nanny interview later. She won’t blame me for wanting
an extra job. She knows how up to my eyeballs I am in debt and that I need desperately to find a way out. More than once she’s picked up my bar tab when she knows it’s gotten rough.
And even as I hurry to roll my silverware, there’s a buzz in my back pocket. One look and I see a 1-800 number glaring at me. Another call—another demand for payment—and I swallow down the fear, the sickness in my stomach each time they ring, and slide the phone back into my pocket, hoping I can avoid them for another day.
* * *
—
When I check my phone later that night, I have a minute-long voicemail from Stephen Bird, not his stepmother, asking for a second visit. He tells me Mrs. Bird thinks I will be a good caregiver for her daughter but they still want to go over a few more things with me. He asks if I can return the following day at 3:00 p.m.
I can’t believe it. I knew Mrs. Bird and I had a connection but assumed she’d want to talk to more qualified candidates, and now she’s giving me a second opportunity. A thrill pulses its way across my chest. If I can start making more money, I can finally answer those debt collectors’ calls. Finally, hope at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
But then I grimace. Three p.m. I’ll miss the entire first part of my shift and Paul won’t like it, not with me having been late today. He was shooting me disapproving looks when I passed him in the kitchen all night. I beg Jonathan to take my hours, his only day off, and he accepts, squeezing my hands as he tells me, “You can do this. They’d be crazy to want anyone else.”
* * *
—
In the afternoon, the doorman greets me. “Hey, hey, you’re back. Round two, huh?”
I smile eagerly with a bounce in my step, the excitement filling my chest. Not only do I have a chance at this job but there’s a chance I’ll see Mrs. Bird again. I’ll get to meet Patty.
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