She takes another sip of her coffee. “The family fired that man immediately. It was an insane idea. Everyone knew Collette would never harm her own child. Alex felt it necessary to have the funeral as soon as possible and it was too fast for Collette, in my opinion. It was too much for her to process in such a short period of time, and I was worried about how she’d react to that too. Her whole world came crashing down, and she was denied the closure of seeing her little girl one last time. She began to drink heavily, and I mean heavily.” She looks me in the eye. “Have you heard of someone drinking themselves to insanity?”
I nod. If this is what happened to Collette, if she really did drink herself to insanity, that would explain so many things.
“Well that’s what happened to Collette. She drank herself into a state we’ve never been able to repair. No number of doctors or amount of counseling could do the trick, and everyone panicked. The first nanny—Ms. Fontaine, the one who was with us when Patty came home from the hospital—left. She’d grown so attached to the girl, and when Patty died, she was heartbroken, just like the rest of us. But she left with no goodbyes, only a note, packed her bags in the middle of the night. Collette felt abandoned all over again, and she went into a tailspin, spending hours in the girl’s playroom wishing that both her daughter and the nanny were by her side. Imagining the girl was still with her.” Pauline drops her eyes to her lap. “The second nanny helped for a bit.” But then she backtracks. “Well, she helped her, but also dragged her into a deeper mess.”
One hand drops to her wrist. Pauline tugs once again at the elastic band there, making it snap. Catching my gaze, she quickly lays her hand flat.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Therese thought it would be good for Collette to talk about Patty out loud.”
Therese…I remember the name. “The second nanny.”
“Yes,” Pauline says. “She lasted fifteen years.”
My breath catches. “Fifteen years?”
“She stayed with us a long time.” Pauline’s mouth presses together. “But to Collette, time makes no sense. Patty remains a three-year-old while Therese’s fifteen years seemed like only a short while.”
I wait for her to continue, my mind struggling to understand how this nanny lasted as long as she did.
“Collette was in and out of hospitals for years and nothing worked,” Pauline continues. “And as you’ve already been told, suicide attempts came next, many of them. Alex hired Therese as a personal aide, someone who could monitor Collette while also keeping her company. Someone she could talk to. Slowly but surely, Collette began to improve, and with each day, she got stronger and was capable of having conversations again.”
Pauline’s face shines with admiration at this point. “Therese did wonders for that woman, I’ll admit that. She coaxed her through some of her most difficult days and got her up and able to participate in outings once again. But soon, something changed. Collette insisted Therese was the nanny. I don’t know where she got that idea from, but she insisted Therese was there to care for Patty and not her. She claimed she could see Patty everywhere. The little girl was in the apartment with us. And strangely, Therese went along with these thoughts, almost encouraged her like it was some form of therapy. They pretended Patty was right there with them. They held her hand. They laid out her dresses, took her to the park, spent hours in the playroom. I was never comfortable with it, but it worked.
“Collette got better,” Pauline continues. “She was delusional, yes, but at least she was back in the land of the living. What Therese was able to do was nothing short of a miracle and Collette stopped drinking. They dusted Patty’s playroom furniture, folded her bedspread. They brought the girl cookies and pretended to show her how to paint. But then it went overboard. Collette would stay up until three or four in the morning talking to her daughter. She’d go shopping and bring home bags filled with new dolls when there was no one to play with them. I admit, it got creepy. Therese said at least it was keeping the woman alive; she was finally going out in public and seemed happy again. No more suicide attempts. That’s what we had hired her for, wasn’t it? But Collette was believing it more and more and getting extreme. It was like she could reach out and touch Patty—as if she could see her, just as clear as she was seeing me and Therese. She’d spend hours holding a pretend Patty in her arms.”
Pauline’s eyes flash angrily now. “That should have been the first sign the plan was backfiring. But despite my protests, Therese encouraged Collette to speak to her daughter. Tell her the many ways she loved her, her favorite things about the little girl. Her wishes for Patty when she grew up. And it’s like Collette got stuck. Frozen in denial.”
Pauline shrugs, but the shrug is so heavy, her shoulders sag. “Something changed with Therese too. Maybe she started falling for it also, spending so much time pretending a woman’s daughter was still alive.”
I look at Pauline and remember how she’d stood transfixed in the bathroom, staring at the tub. She’d almost appeared ready to see Patty pop out from beneath those bubbles.
I suppose it could happen to anyone—if you let it. Spend enough time around someone saying certain things, believing certain things, and you could lose your grip on reality.
“But the worst part,” Pauline says, straightening her back, “was when Therese came up with the idea of throwing Patty a birthday party. She must have thought it would be a nice gesture, seeing as Patty didn’t make it to her fourth year. But Collette clung to the idea like a maniac. She loved it, thinking it was exactly what Patty needed, and unfortunately, it’s something she has done ever since.”
She’ll be turning four this July…
She’s starting kindergarten…
The continuous loop. The never-ending story.
The child who is always about to turn four.
The birthday party Patty missed.
My heart lurches—my contract with the Bird family will cover July. Am I going to have to plan a party for a dead girl?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A buzz from the wall in the kitchen. I whip my head around—it’s coming from an intercom system.
Pauline looks at me. “That will be Collette. She’s up and waiting for us in the breakfast room.”
I slide from the stool, readying myself to see her. Will her eyes be puffy from crying?
But just as before, Pauline says, “Finish your coffee.” And she drinks hers down, motioning for me to do the same. It’s an odd habit, but I comply anyway—anything to keep this woman on my good side. I don’t want to appear wasteful, but it’s odd, the way she watches me take every gulp. She doesn’t move until I finish.
We find Collette sitting at the same glass breakfast table. Pauline places the grapefruit halves before her with a spoon and sprinkle of sugar.
Every day, repeating itself.
“Please sit,” Collette says to me.
I watch her carefully. If she’s at all upset about how yesterday ended, about much trouble she’d gotten into last night with her husband or if she’s still dopey from whatever medication they gave to sedate her, she doesn’t show it. She’s all smiles. She’s hit the reset button.
And she’s dressed in a gray cardigan and slacks. No formal getup like what she wore yesterday. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail as well, with minimal makeup; she’s forgone her usual ornate jewelry and perfume. We look like two friends sitting together for breakfast.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, but then lowers her voice. “I got scolded for being out.”
Pauline shoots me a warning look before stepping out of the room.
“We shouldn’t do that again,” I tell Collette.
She drops her chin and whispers, “They can’t tell me what to do. I am so sick of being in this apartment all the time. Plus, it’s not good for Patty either. She can’t stay indoors all
the time.”
“But, Collette—”
“Don’t worry. It’s not like I plan on going out today. No,” she says, scooping a section of grapefruit and putting it in her mouth. “We’ll hunker down since I’m sure”—and she cuts her eyes left and right—“we’re on lockdown. Stephen was so upset with me. And Alex…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
I watch her pick at the fruit.
“You being here,” Collette says, “with me and Patty is a wonderful way to spend the day.” An eerie, radiant smile returns to her face and she clasps her hands. “It’ll be perfect.” She rises from the table. “Patty’s in her bedroom. Let’s go see her since you haven’t seen the castle bed yet.” Her eyes glitter with excitement as she grabs hold of my arm. “Patty can’t wait to show you.”
We return to the hall with the playroom, and next to that door is another, painted with pink and white flowers and pink trim. Collette places her hand on the doorknob and gives a gentle knock. “Patty?” she calls. “It’s Mommy.” She smiles. “I’ve brought you the new nanny…”
The door swings open—and for a split second my heart freezes with terror, thinking we’ll find a small child standing there, rumpled nightgown hanging past her knees, a sleepy look in her eyes from having just woken up—
Of course, there is no girl. The room is empty.
But if I was impressed with the playroom and its glorious dollhouse, it’s nothing compared to this space. Patty’s bedroom is spectacular.
The walls, just like next door, are painted in her favorite colors, blush and bashful. Pink lace curtains adorn a bay window with a single seat cushion covered in pink stripes. At the center of the room sits the main attraction: an oversize canopy bed designed like a castle. It’s amazing, with its white wooden columns and turrets capped in white. And stairs—actual stairs—leading to the girl’s mattress, which must be at least five feet off the floor. Pink bedsheets and a white comforter. The bed is surrounded by a railing: one part for safety, I’m sure, to keep Patty from falling, and the other part for decoration, similar to a castle’s fortress wall.
Pink fabric matches the curtains and drapes from all four posts of the bed with large sash ribbons tied at each corner. Above the bed, a chandelier—the child went to sleep with her own honest-to-God chandelier sparkling above her. What magical dreams she must have had sleeping beneath her own crystal light piece.
I feel as if I’ve stepped into my own dream, the bedroom from a childhood that, until now, I didn’t know I was missing.
What had Patty’s early childhood been like? Did she know how lucky she was? Did she know that not every child has a room like this? Bedtime must have been a dream—her whole life must have been a dream. While I lay awake trying to remember what my parents looked like or spent years desperately clinging to the sound of my mother’s voice, which faded more with every passing birthday, Patty slept like a princess. But she couldn’t have known—she was too little. It’s not her fault she was privileged and born lucky. She was a Bird.
Collette stands next to the bed, the castle turrets towering above her.
“Patty,” she says, turning to face me. “Meet your new nanny.”
And I squirm. I’m not sure where I should look—down? Next to Collette? In front of Collette? I follow her eyes to where she must think she sees the little girl.
“Hi,” I say faintly.
Collette breaks into a smile. “So many toys,” she says, and picks up a doll propped on a pillow. “Patty, would you like to show Sarah what you have?”
I don’t move from my spot by the door, but I see what she’s holding up. An American Girl doll that I recognize immediately.
As a girl, I had begged Aunt Clara for one, had written a dozen letters to Santa but never received the gift. The doll I coveted, the Samantha Parkington, was an orphan just like me, except raised by her grandmother. I remember asking my aunt how Santa could have messed this up. Why didn’t he bring me a doll like he did the rest of the girls in my class? But Aunt Clara reminded me there were other things to be happy for. I tried so hard to be happy when I opened pajamas instead.
I watch Collette brushing the American Girl doll’s hair with her fingers. She’s whispering something and talking to Patty, asking about the doll. She moves in front of a stack of toys next, a Polly Pocket and a set of My Little Ponies. She opens the door to an Easy-Bake oven, peeks inside.
Besides the castle bed, which would make a child happy no matter which generation she’s part of, the rest of the toys are outdated. This room is a time capsule. Little Mermaid Ariel. Beanie Babies. A Little Tikes vanity table. A set of glitter magic wand pens scattered on the desk. A handful of Troll dolls, their neon-colored hair spiked high above their heads, swinging in a banana hammock. I used to have the same Troll dolls. I used to covet my friends’ Beanie Baby collections too.
All around us are remnants of the time when Patty was growing up. She had her own Furby, a Bop It, and the once-popular Barney doll, everyone’s favorite purple dinosaur. The same stuff I had wanted to play with and couldn’t have, although I do remember Aunt Clara bringing home a couple of Barney books from a consignment store.
Next to the older toys is evidence of Collette’s shopping splurges over the years: the newest American Girl dolls, those Bratz dolls that became so popular, and already assembled Lego sets.
But the vintage toys remain supreme.
Collette motions beside her. “Patty,” she says. “Why don’t you show Sarah your new Game Boy?” She points at the device.
I stop dead in my tracks, unsure what I’m supposed to do. How does this work? The Game Boy isn’t going to magically teleport its way to me, I know that much. Is Collette going to reach for it instead or am I expected to pick it up first?
Collette doesn’t move.
I close the gap between myself and the dresser until I’m lifting the device. Collette smiles.
“She’s always trying to figure that thing out, but it’s too complicated for her, I’m afraid.” She motions at an empty space next to her as if meaning to shush her child. “Now, now, Patty, you’re so young. Not many three-year-olds have videogames, let alone know how to play them.”
Collette spins around. “Do you like it?” she asks, gesturing to the rest of the room, and it takes a second before I realize she’s talking to me and not Patty. I set down the Game Boy as she moves on. “We spend so much time in here, don’t we, Patty? Tell Sarah.”
She caresses the bed comforter, and I have a feeling Collette sleeps in here quite often. An ache in my heart consumes me, imagining her telling everyone Patty wants her to stay, that she wants another bedtime story, and falling asleep next to what she thinks is her daughter, but is only a pillow.
“It took a team of workers to assemble this thing,” she says, admiring the bed. “It’s one of a kind, custom made. Not another one like it in the world. Alex made sure of that.”
“It’s beautiful. She’s so lucky.”
“Yes,” she says, a shine returning to her eyes. “So lucky…”
* * *
—
Collette is asking for hot chocolate. It’s Patty who wants it, she adds with a wink.
“You haven’t had breakfast yet, Patty Cakes, and you already want a treat.”
But what Patty wants, Patty gets, and for the first time, I see Freddie in action.
He’s moving about the kitchen and commencing what appears to be lunch prep, the pork loin I saw him pulling from the freezer now thawing in a pan.
“Patty just showed Sarah her bedroom,” Collette announces to them.
Only Pauline nods her acknowledgment.
Collette continues, “Now she’s asking for a cup of hot chocolate. Oh, Freddie,” she says. “Will you make her some?”
The man doesn’t make eye contact, but says, “Yes, no problem.”
He pulls a small mug from a cabinet, a mug that’s been hand painted with a rainbow, the name “Patty” drawn across the design in puffy letters.
“Patty drinks everything from that mug,” Collette says. “Doesn’t she, Freddie? Juice, milk, water.”
He doesn’t answer, only heats up some milk in a pot. From another cabinet, he pulls a container filled with chocolate shavings.
“Would you like one too?” Collette asks, and I shake my head no.
Within minutes, the hot chocolate is ready, and Freddie is taking great care in carrying the rainbow mug on a glass tray toward the girl’s mother. Two large marshmallows rest on the surface with rich chocolate underneath. I eye the mug anxiously.
What are we supposed to do now? Wait for Patty to drink it? Make pleasant conversation while pretending she’s sitting on the kitchen stool enjoying her hot chocolate?
Collette positions the mug on the counter. She looks to the unoccupied space beside her and says, “Now be sure to blow on it, Patty. It will be too hot.” She lowers her face. “Just like this.” And she’s blowing across the surface, letting out small puffs of air.
I look away.
Collette touches the mug. Is she going to drink it?
But she doesn’t. Freddie turns his back and proceeds to wash the milk pot at the sink.
I wait for any cues, hints as to what I’m supposed to do next. Do I sit or stand? Wait for Collette to say what we’ll do next, or will she carry on a conversation with her daughter? Or will she make conversation with us instead while the mug of hot chocolate remains on the counter?
As the minutes pass, I watch it growing cold.
Collette removes her slippers and drops them to the floor, tucking her bare feet under her on the stool. Finally, she asks, “What do you think of the dress?”
I jump to attention. “I love it. It’s gorgeous.”
I made a place for it in a corner of the apartment as soon as I returned home last night. The dress and its garment bag were heavy as I carted it through the subway station and then along East Ninth Street, but I’d made it. The closet was far too cramped to risk shoving a designer gown among the rest of our clothes, so I’d hung it from a spare hook on the wall. Jonathan had only raised his eyebrows at me when he spotted the Bergdorf Goodman label on the bag.
Nanny Needed Page 13