By dawn, Cass has sketched a vague outline of a person, composed of facts she has gleaned, learned, and dismissed in the last eight hours. She still believes that this woman is, in fact, afflicted with leukemia. This seems to be one of the only true things she has told her. The details have the ring of truth, more consistency than the others. But her name, last known address, date of birth, names of parents, relatives and friends, even the references she provided on the sitter application—all of these things are false. And so by seven o’clock, Cass feels afflicted, not only with the mania of sleep loss but with the growing sense that she is closer to and further from the facts than when she first started.
She entertains two possibilities now, both equally compelling: one, this woman is an abject liar with the most insidious of intentions; two, she is a typical twentysomething, testing boundaries, acting out, and otherwise behaving within the realm of acceptable social convention. Cass thinks back now to their first meeting in the coffee shop. She remembers saying to Ryan that night, “She’s either a real-life Mary Poppins or a professional con.”
“You and your theories,” he’d said. “Time to call the doctor.” Followed by: “Promise me you’ll hire her.”
The memory is quickly shunted by a pressing obligation: the patter of padded feet on the stairs—these sounds are morning vespers. Time, she begins to understand, heals all wounds, not only on its own merit or with its glacial accrual—with its derivative proof that all things do eventually pass, that birds sing, suns set, and moons rise every night just as people heal from heartbreak and grief and losses. Climbing to the top of the stairs, she greets Pete and Alice.
“How’d you sleep?” she asks them.
Wordless grunts convey indecision.
“Ginger was up all night,” says Alice. “She misses Sam also.”
“He’ll be back today,” says Cass.
Alice and Pete smile. And that is all Cass wanted.
She embraces them as though it has been weeks, not hours, since she last saw them. Satisfied that all is intact, she heads downstairs to assemble breakfast. They need to eat their scrambled eggs, ask for more OJ, pull on socks and shoes and jackets. She must guide them through their morning needs, watch them walk through the school door, and then, once she sees the school door close, she must reclaim her youngest.
And so she attempts a performance as she sits at the table with Pete and Alice. She performs peace of mind when she feels none, calmness when she feels only terror. She stills her trembling hands as they sit at the breakfast table, the kids eating eggs while she drinks her tea, no milk, no sugar. She runs through Pete’s new vocab list. She helps Alice gather her books for her backpack. She tries to shore up the foundation of their shattering world with the simple act of being together.
“Loquacious?”
“Wait, I know this one.”
“Endeavor.”
“Try hard.”
“Copse.”
“Dead body?”
“No! A group of trees.”
“Gosh, Mom. Why so jumpy?”
She forces a smile, moves on quickly.
Cass is waiting for Marley’s text, consumed with worry. The plan was for Marley to go to her “doctor’s appointment” and then pick up the baby at Ryan’s office, to text Cass the moment she meets Ryan and has the baby back in her possession. It is ten past ten when the text arrives and with it, the awful buzz of reinforcement.
“We have him,” Marley writes.
Cass stares at her phone. She focuses on the pronoun.
“Who is we?” Cass writes.
A minute passes before the next one. “I meant I just got him from Ryan’s office. Where would you like me to bring him?”
“Bring him home right now.” This does not satisfy Cass’s concern—it only raises questions. Pronouns do not lie. They are the brain’s first and most accurate mode of self-presentation.
An awful moment passes during which Cass imagines her husband fucking this young girl, sitting underneath her, tongue in her lips as she stands above him; this young girl sitting in their car, in the seat that is usually hers, silver bay on her side, enjoying the gaze of her two-year-old, playing the role of Cass in the life she has stolen.
By the time Marley and Sam arrive, Cass is consumed with panic. She takes the baby into her arms as though she is rescuing him from a fire.
Sam clings to his mother, legs sprawled around her hip, one arm laced around her neck. The strength of his grasp is forceful.
“How was your doctor’s appointment?” Cass asks. She is not asking in earnest. She is collecting information—lies, gestures, reactions.
“It was good. Thanks for letting me go. I was waiting for him when he got there.”
“That was smart,” Cass says.
Marley smiles and busies herself, prepping for a day of child care. She sits down on the rug where Sam plays, dumps a basket of blocks, and begins to lay the foundation for a new tower.
“Everything all right?” Cass asks. For a moment, she feels something like concern, and then she remembers the doctor is likely a fiction.
“Yup. Basically a routine visit.”
“You said you might need to change your prescription.”
“Oh yeah,” Marley says. “He just decided to double my dosage.”
Sam, tempted by the sight of his blocks, motions to be put down now. Cass does so reluctantly. He walks to the rug and places a block on Marley’s structure.
Another minute passes before Cass begins her interrogation. “I called two of your references,” she says, “from your application. None of the names or addresses you gave seem to be valid.”
“That’s strange,” says Marley, without looking up. “Did you call the Blakes or the Barbers? They’re probably just really busy. I’m sure they’ll get back to you later.” She remains sitting on the floor, focused on the tower. Cass stands above her.
“Probably,” says Cass. “In the meantime, would you mind providing some basic information? A home address? A recent phone number? Your mother’s name? Your father’s? You said you had a brother.”
“Sure,” she says. “Don’t you trust me?” She rises slowly from the floor and meets Cass’s gaze with a mixture of apology and anger. “My mother’s name is Mary Lyons.”
Cass walks to her laptop, places it on the kitchen counter, and logs in to her standard directory, types the name Marley has supplied. The baby sits on the rug, trying to build a bridge on his tower. “There’s a Mary Lyons in San Diego, California. I thought you said she lived in West Virginia.”
“You must have the wrong one,” says Marley. “It’s a pretty common name.”
Cass looks at Marley now with rising aggression. Marley meets her gaze and stares back. Her gaze is not as strong as Cass’s, but hers is reinforced by apparent indignation. And then, a masterful performance. With tears welling up, she stares back and says, “I lost my mother six months ago. This is really offensive.”
“Want juice,” says Sam. He topples the tower and cries when it tumbles. Cass, on high alert, walks to the rug, picks up her child, and walks back to the counter.
“I’m sorry that you’re offended,” says Cass. “I can see why you would be if you have been honest. But I hired you to take care of my kids, and therefore I have the right to demand basic verification. If you’ve lied, what you’ve done is not a minor offense. Fraud is a misdemeanor. Breaking and entering is a felony. God knows what other crimes you’ve committed. Hopefully, we can clear this up and everything you’ve told me can be easily corroborated.”
Marley looks back without flinching. It is a contest between two forces, two alpha females, one younger and one older, one aided by the power of intuition, a career spent honing the art of questions, the subtleties of information and its misrepresentation; the other bolstered by youth, the arrogance that comes with it, the indignation of the falsely accused, or the strident sneer of a sociopath with no morals and a good motive.
“Perhaps you can
find someone to call and verify the facts you’ve presented. You mentioned a brother, a friend in Portland. You can call one of them and put them on the phone. Or you could just give me an ID. You must have something in your bag with your name on it.”
Marley shakes her head as though renewed in her disdain for human nature. She fishes theatrically through her bag in search of the proof Cass has requested. “Looks like I forgot to bring one today.”
“You don’t have any ID? A bank card? Driver’s license?”
“I left the house in a hurry.”
“Then you need to call a friend or family member. I need some proof of who you are. Nothing you’re saying is checking out. It’s very concerning.”
Marley looks at Cass now with utter revulsion, as though Cass, not she, has paid an unforgivable insult. “Everyone I know is at work.”
“That’s fine,” says Cass. “But I’m going to have to call the police if you don’t clear this up. It’s fraud to fake your identity. It is a felony to fake a medical license. Neither of these things is acceptable for someone working with children.”
Marley shifts gears suddenly from her previous tactic. She abandons the act of fishing through her bag, looking for ID, and begins theatrically scrolling through her phone. “I’m trying to find someone who can get my ID from my apartment.” She dispenses with an injured look, designed to convey the greatest injustice. Sniffling, she crosses the room. “Excuse me. I need to go to the bathroom.”
Cass moves quickly now, fueled by adrenaline and outrage. Still holding Sam, she walks to the front door, locates Marley’s jacket on the coat hook, and removes a stash of crumpled papers from her coat pocket. She rifles through the papers, searching for relevant information—a receipt, a bank card, so many cards for Starbucks, a receipt from the morning’s doctor’s visit, replete with a different name from the one she has given. Mary-Lynn Logan. This appears to be the real name of this young woman, different from the one she used on Facebook. Now Cass has a new last name, theoretically a correct one, to check against the false one.
She leaves the jacket on the coat hook and palms the phone in her pocket. She walks back into the kitchen now. The first call she makes is to her lawyer. However young and inexperienced he may be, he is the only one who can help her at this moment.
“There’s something wrong with the nanny,” she says. “She’s a fraud. Completely bogus.”
“Head downtown right now,” he says. “Meet me at the District Court. The family division.”
“Why family court?” says Cass.
“I want to get you an order of protection. Short of an arrest, it’s the fastest way to move this forward.”
“I’ll have to bring the baby.”
“No,” he says. “You can’t do that. Can you ask a friend to watch him?”
“I’ll try,” she says and hangs up the phone.
She stands for a moment, baby on hip, waiting for Marley to emerge from the bathroom. But before a plan forms in her mind, the rush of winter air enters the house, and the sound of the front door closing.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Cass pulls into Nora’s driveway and hurries to her doorstep. She stands outside with a bundled Sam, her face twisted in desperation.
“Nora,” she says, “I’m sorry to ask. Can you watch Sam for a few hours? I have to go to the courthouse. Something was wrong with the nanny.”
The request is met with silence. Cass cringes, fearing that Nora is nearing her limit. But without a word, her friend takes the child in her arms. “Hi, cutie! Who wants to watch a movie with Aunt Nora?”
* * *
Cass drives at top speed from Cumberland to downtown Portland, propelled by a new determination. Fear and vindication numb her to the nausea that has become a constant companion. Downtown Portland has an odd quality at this hour. It is a city in the midst of a transformation. It has the vestigial remnants of an old port town—the narrow streets, the crumbling brick, and wet cobblestones—and the shiny taller structures of a city that has sprouted up in the last decade.
The court buildings sit at the top of a hill on Newbury Street, surrounded by a few grand old hotels and an assortment of places to buy bail bonds and wire money, dirty magazine stores, and unsavory storefronts. At the highest point in the city, the Superior Court boasts a view of Casco Bay and the surrounding lakes and forests, juxtaposing the courts of law with these massive growths of nature. Every other building has signage written in an Asian language, usually paired with misspelled English words. Passport Picks, Soovenirs, Cendy.
Cass finds a parking spot in front of a building that can only be a brothel or a crack house and makes her way up a very steep hill until she is standing on the wide white steps of the courthouse. The rolling topography of downtown, always an adventure in incline, particularly after rainfall, is even more challenging today as Cass struggles to take in the necessary oxygen. Her chest feels tight and her breathing is labored. She is out of breath by the time she reaches the top and stands, facing the court in all its marble and bronze glory.
Matthew is sitting on the steps when she reaches the building. His brow is furrowed into a zigzag. His knees are bobbing up and down the same way Ryan’s would do when he was up late, working on a deadline.
“Thank you for rushing here,” she says.
“This is important,” Matthew says, standing.
“I couldn’t do this alone,” she says.
“No. Not at the rate things are going.”
She smiles, grateful for the levity.
“We need to get the food tested. Any food or drink he gave you. Find the source. Establish a link. Proof of purchase.”
“I agree,” says Cass.
“Where is the food you told me about?” he asks.
“I put it in the freezer.”
“Make sure no one touches it.”
“Obviously.”
“I mean for purposes of chain of custody. For the integrity of the evidence. Was there any other item,” he says, “that you think he may have contaminated?”
Cass considers. “He made me coffee the other day. Was acting very suspicious. A couple of drinks at the party. God knows where else. From what I’ve read, some of these toxins can also be transmitted through dermal absorption.”
“What does that mean?”
“Through the skin. In bedding, clothing, and fabric.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“Ever heard of Agatha Christie?”
He shudders. “You need to find any item that may have come into contact with the toxin. Cups, plates, silverware, water. Clothes. Bedding. We need to get it tested by a reputable lab. With witnesses present to testify to the integrity of the evidence. Either way, they’ll try to destroy it.”
“What about me?” Cass says.
“What about you?”
“The evidence in my body.”
“You should get tested again,” he says. He pauses. “But there’s a problem with that evidence. It’s not like a bullet or bruise. That evidence has no fingerprints. There’s no way to prove who put it there. They’ll say it could be anyone. They could even say it was you.”
Cass shakes her head. “He looked me in the eyes and told me what he was going to do.”
“That’s testimony, not proof.”
Cass takes a sharp breath.
“We’re going to try to get you protection now. He’ll be out of your life soon.”
* * *
Together they walk up the steps of the courthouse. It is impossible not to feel self-conscious in such a formal setting. The grand monolithic pediment, supported by Doric columns, causes her to feel they have walked onto the set of an epic political drama. She has fashioned a makeshift suit out of a blazer she often wears to class—and the jeans she has been wearing since Monday. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, a proxy for composure. It is a noble if not entirely successful effort. She focuses on the simple need to put one foot in front of the other. She
follows Matthew into the lobby, through a security system, emptying bags and electronics, then into an elevator, crowded with anxious people. Even after emptying her pockets, removing her rings and jewelry, Cass sets off the metal detector. This happens several times before she is patted down with the wand, before the guard finally lets her pass, assuming it is the machine’s malfunction.
“You have fillings?” the guard asks.
“What?” she says.
“Dental fillings,” he says. “Metal.”
“Not that I know of,” she says.
“Lots of people have them and don’t even know it.”
Cass nods and considers as the detector buzzes. Something in her body has set off a metal detector? She runs her tongue over her teeth. She has no cavities and one root canal, but it was done recently enough to assume they must have used a more sensible substance than iron, lead, or some other heavy metal—plaster, silicone? But new demands promptly usurp the scientific method. Meanwhile, the alarm continues to sound. The metal detector at the court seems to know better.
Cass and Matthew emerge on a floor that looks like any other municipal waiting area—a passport office or the DMV, filled with women of all ages, a handful of restless children. These women mill about or wait in chairs affixed to the ground while others approach a glass window when their name is called. An hour later, Cass and Matthew are called to this window. An hour after that, they sit in a small windowless courtroom, facing a prim female judge with coiffed brown hair and pearls, a whispering lawyer, and a clump of uniformed court officers.
“Stay calm,” says Matthew. “Tell the truth. And speak slowly.”
This is the only thing he says before the court is called to order. Cass is instructed to swear in to the courtroom. The judge asks Cass to state her goal and the reason for her appearance. It is hard not to be humbled by the judge’s robes and the formality conferred by the setting. She takes a deep breath.
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