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 from the tenderloin 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.
“DO YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN THIS?”
Libby was standing over my bed, 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 well-beings 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] if you have any questions. Call our front desk at 415-273-1192 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.
“So?” Libby wanted to know. “What are you going to do? Walker appealed, you know. We got notice first.”
“You got notice? Why?”
“Because we’re writing tuition checks from here,” she snapped. “We registered as your emergency contacts, and this is where the money comes from. Or did you forget that?”
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 thin
g?” 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.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
I HEARD A CLICK after she left the room, but it was ten minutes before I could bring myself to check the door. She’d locked it from the outside, using the “mistake” lock that had accidentally been installed backward. I pounded on the door with my fist. It had to be a mistake. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—keep me locked up here like a prisoner. It wasn’t right. It was evil.
I pounded on the door until my fist ached. When that didn’t work, I shouted her name over and over. I could no longer tell how much time had passed. She never came. Eventually I sank down to the floor with my back resting against the heavy wooden slab. The room was quiet; I could feel its walls closing in on me. I could hear the sound of my own breathing. I could feel a presence there with me, just outside the door.
“Zoe?” I whispered, shifting around to press my ear against the door. “Zoe, sweetie, are you there?” I heard a shuffling sound in response, and heaved a sigh of relief. My little girl had come to save me. “Zoe, honey? Can you open the door?” I waited five beats. Nothing. “Zo?” I tried again. “Sweetheart, don’t be scared.” I heard her moving again. I leaned my forehead against the doorframe and began to cry. “Please, sweetie. Please let Nanny out.” I heard the doorknob turn. Looking up, I saw it trying to move and hitting something solid. “Zoe,” I said. “It’s the lock. Can you reach it? If you can reach it, Nanny will turn the knob.” My question was met with silence again. I felt my blood course harder and my hands grow sweaty. I was beginning to panic. All she had to do was unlatch the lock. It was so simple.
“Zoe, please.”
Then I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor—the confident, quick footsteps of an adult.
“Zoe!” Libby’s voice rang out high and horrified, as though she were appalled by Zoe’s behavior. “What are you doing by Nanny’s door? Get over here.” Zoe’s little footsteps pattered away as Libby hustled her downstairs. Then I heard her voice again.
“Don’t try to get out, Nanny. I won’t allow it. You’ll stay in your room for as long as it takes for you to calm down.”
“I am calm,” I insisted, tears streaming down my face.
“You don’t sound calm,” Libby replied. “You sound rather upset. Almost like you’re crying.”
“I’m calm,” I said again. “Please, Libby. Please let me out of here.”
“Not until I feel you’re no longer a danger to the children.”
I burst into tears. “I would never hurt them,” I insisted through my sobs. “Never.”
“I know you would never hurt them on purpose, Nanny,” Libby said softly. “But I can’t trust you alone with them anymore. And I can’t be everywhere at once. You’ll stay there until we find someone who can help you.”
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said. It was a thought that had been simmering in the back of my mind for a long time, a thought I’d assumed was paranoid. Something I’d never allowed myself to acknowledge. But now I was giving it a voice.
“Keeping my family safe?” she said. “Of course I am.”
“Trying to turn me crazy,” I said. “But why, Libby? Why would you do that? What could you possibly gain?”
“You’re being irrational,” said Libby. “Just lie back down and go to sleep.”
“Why would you paper my walls yellow? Because you saw my book,” I said, answering my own question. “You knew it got into my head. You wanted to drive me insane.”
“I’m not going to indulge this kind of talk,” she said. I heard her footsteps recede down the hallway, and then I lost it.
I screamed, kicking the door with all my strength. I sobbed openly. I screamed harder, hoping it would get her attention. When it didn’t, I pulled my hair so hard that it hurt. I liked the pain, because it was different from my heartbreak pain. I pulled hard and heard a ripping sound from my scalp. I looked down and saw a chunk of hair resting in my palm. I put my hand to my scalp and blood worked its way onto my fingertips, and the skin under my hair burned.
I wanted Owen so badly that I didn’t know what to do. I wanted him back and I refused to believe that there wasn’t a solution. I banged my fists against the door, and then I banged my head. I wanted him. I needed him back. The animal fury I felt made me want to press myself on his body one more time. It filled me with lust and rage and made me feel frenzied.
“Let me out!” I screamed. “Let me out of here!” I kicked and kicked and screamed until my throat was raw. Then I curled up on my bed, drawing my knees to my chest, and sucked on my thumb. The old nervous habit brought me comfort. I felt my eyelids drooping from the exhaustion of my emotional energy. Maybe Libby was right. Maybe I needed to fall asleep.
• • •
A VOICE WOKE ME UP; it was babbling nonsensically. It took me a minute to realize it was mine, and when I did I laughed aloud. The room was encased in yellow. I thought about the woman in my story, the story I had to read for Lit Sem, and I laughed some more. Libby had made me into that woman! She’d imprisoned me in the room of yellow. But in the story, the woman imprisons herself. She locks herself in. Had I actually done this to myself? No. I needed to get out. Libby couldn’t get away with her lock and her yellow wallpaper and her calm voice that may as well have been made of knives, it was so lethal. I picked up my cell phone. I was surprised Libby had left it in here. I racked my brain for people who could help me.
Owen. Morgan. That was it. I had strained relations with both of them, but they were my only options. My cell phone showed no missed calls; Owen still hadn’t called me back. But I didn’t have a choice. I had no one. I was more alone now than I had been in Detroit.
Ring, ring, I thought, dialing his number with my right hand. I traced patterns on the wallpaper with my left. Please ring. Once again I had the eerie feeling that I’d been saying the words aloud without issuing the command to my brain. It was like there were two Nannies. Nanny and Annie? Or Nanny and Nanny? I’d started calling myself Nanny, I realized. How wonderful. Libby would be thrilled that I’d come around. There was no Annie, not really. She’d disappeared the day she agreed to be Nanny. Now Nanny was all she was. All I was. Now I was the Nanny who thought things and the Nanny who said things out loud. The Nanny who did things and the Nanny who forgot all about it the next day. The Nanny Libby loved and the one she loathed and locked up like a pet that had misbehaved.
I looked down at the phone in my hand. I had been listening to it ring for two minutes and fifty-five seconds. How many rings was that? Was it a ring every three seconds? Lots and lots of rings. It made me laugh. Owen wasn’t going to pick up the phone. I tried Morgan. She didn’t pick up either. I pictured Owen and Alexis sitting in his backyard, sipping Coronas by the pool, laughing together at how desperate I seemed. They didn’t know I was locked in a yellow room. They wouldn’t understand even if they knew. Owen was my only hope, and he wasn’t picking up.
I tried Walker. I prayed his phone st
ill worked in Shanghai. It rang once, twice . . .
“Annie?” His voice sounded distant, harried.
“Walker! Walker, thank god.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, rolling into and over themselves. “Walker, you need to come back. You need to help me.”
“Nanny, what is it? What’s happened?” I was comforted by the surge of panic that decorated his otherwise groggy-sounding voice. “Is it the kids? Is someone hurt?”
“No, no!” I laughed. His concern was so comforting. Finally, someone who cared. “You need to come home and let me out of this room, Walk. Libby locked me in and—”
“She what?” His voice had gone flat.
“She locked me in the yellow wallpaper room. She won’t let me out until I calm down. But I am calm. I need to get out! I need to get out of the yellow room right away! Come back, come let me out,” I pleaded, my voice bordering on hysteria.
“The yellow room? Do you mean your bedroom?”
“Yes, she won’t let me out.” Now I was sobbing into the phone.
“But no one’s hurt.”
“No! But she’s trying to make me crazy. Libby, she—”
“Annie,” Walker started, his voice cold, “do you have any idea how much it costs for me to answer a phone call from America in China? Any idea at all?”
“No, I—”
“And do you have a clue how busy I am over here? And how early it is here? It’s four A.M.!”
“I’m sorry, Walk, I was just desperate.”
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself. I heard him take two deep breaths. “Desperate isn’t all you are. And don’t call me ‘Walk.’ You need to start respecting boundaries. God, Annie, why do you think I came out here for so long? I jumped at the chance to get away from the constant drama at home. There’s so much tension between you and Libby. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t want this for myself. I want my family. A normal family.”
The Ruining Page 20