Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

"Darling,"I hearhersayquietly.Thedoorslidesclosed.

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"Daddy,you're here!" Grayerjumps upinfrontofSesameStreetwhen Mr. X entersthelivingroomlate

thenextmorning.

"Hi,"I say, startled. "I thoughtyouwere?

"Hey,sport."Hecomes over tositonthecouch.

"Where's Mommy?" Grayer asks.

"Mommy's intheshower."His fathergrins. "Haveyouhadbreakfast?"

"I wantcereal,"hesays, skippingincircles aroundthecouch.

"Well, let's rustle you up some food. I could go for eggs and sausage."It isThursday, right? It's not still

Wednesday? Because I already scratched Wednesdayoff on the little calendar I've carved into the wall

bymybed.

Mrs. X saunters in wearing a bikini top, sarong, and miles of exposed gooseflesh. She's flushed and has

theauraofvictory abouther.

"Morning, Grayer. Morning, you." She languorously comes up behind Mr. X, putting her hands on his shoulders and giving him a little massage. "Darling, would you mind going to pick up the paper?" He rollshis headbacktolookupather andshegrins, leaningdowntogive him a kiss.

"Sure." He comes around the couch, brushing his lips over her shoulder as he passes. Well, I've

officiallyfoundtheonlyscenariomore uncomfortablethanbeingaroundwhentheyfight. "Wouldyoumind if I wentwith Mr. X to thestore to get someAfter Bite?" I ask, trying tocapitalize on herpostcoital glow.

"No. I'd rather you stayed here to watch Grayer while I get ready." Mr. X grabs the keys from the table by the door and heads out. As we hear the car start she asks, "Grayer, how'd you like a baby brother or sister?"

"I want a baby brother! I want a baby brother!" He runs over to her, but she spatulas him and rebounds

himbacktome,like a fieldhockeyball.

The phone begins to ring as Mr. X pulls out of the driveway. Mrs. X takes his sweatshirt from the back

ofthecouchandpulls it

on over her head before picking up the heavy olive-green receiver. "Hello?" she stands, listening

expectantly. "Hello?" Sheadjustsher sarong. "Hello?" Shehangsup.

Sheeyes meacross theroom. "I hopeyouhaven't beengiving this phonenumber out."

"No,onlytomyparentsincaseof anemergency,"I say.

She's halfwayup thestairswhenthephoneringsagain,bringingher backdownintothelivingroom.

"Hello?" she asks a fourth time, sounding annoyed. "Oh, hi..." Her voice is strained. "No, he's not in ...

No,he decidednot toleavetoday,but I'll havehimcall youwhen hegets back ... Chenowith,right?I've

got it.AreyouinChicagoor NewYork?...Okay,bye."

NoTeuschertrufflesforyou,Ms. Chicago.

When Mr. X gets back I go into the kitchen to help him unload and pull out the usual assortment of

carcinogenicsugar-freeyogurts,tofudogs,andSnackWell's.

"Did anyone call?" he asks, pulling a single cheese pastry out of a small wax-paper bag for himself as

Mrs. X comes intothekitchen.

"Nope,"shesays. "Why,wereyouexpectingsomeone?"

"Nope."

Well, then,that's settled.

Ring.Ring.Ring.

The next afternoon as a plane flies low over the backyard, I wake to the shrill sound of the phone from inside the house. Again. Slapping at the mosquitoes feasting on my bare legs, I unpeel my flesh from the rubber slats of the dilapidated lawn chair and stand up to answer the ringing. But it abruptly stops. Again.

Earlier thismorningI stoodwarilystaringat atruckinour drive--

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wayas an old man unloadedthree large rental bikes, wondering with a heavy heart if this implied thatI was to ride with Grayer up on my shoulders.At this point, I doubt I'd so much as bat an eyelash if they suggestedthatI loadhimintomywombtomakemore roomintheLandRover.

Grayer had to explain to his father that he could only ride the red ten-speed propped up in the driveway if it had training wheels. I still can't tell if the man is totally clueless or just insanely optimistic about Grayer's capabilities.At any rate, one adult bike was exchanged for a smaller one and, to my.surprise, I was permitted to bow out of their excursion. They rode off toward town, leaving me with grand plans for a long jog, a leisurely bath, and a nap, but I seem only to have made it as far as sitting down on this deckchair inmyrunningshortsandsportsbratoputonmysneakers.Well, oneoutofthreeain't sobad.

I grope under the chair for my watch, grimacing as a sliver of wood slides under my fingernail. I pull thewatchoutandsuckgentlyontheafflictedfinger.They've beengoneforover anhour.

I head back inside, turn on the hot water in the kitchen sink and thrust my hand under it. I finally get a freemoment tomyself forthefirst time in a weekandI havetospenditcoaxingthis damn houseout of myveryskin!

Ring.Ring.Ring.

I don't even bothertomove fromwhere I'm leaningagainstthecounter. Shegives upafter thefifth ring. Sheseemstobelosinghersubtleedge.

The hot water proves to be unsuccessful, forcing me to gather a makeshift emergency kit, consisting of a corn holder, matches, and a neglected bottle of Ketel One from the freezer. As I set up shop at the kitchentableI staredownatthecrackedgreenlinoleum. I wish I couldcallup andorder a fill-in friend, like a guy orders a stripper. Some fabulous young woman would show up with Cool Ranch Dori-tos, margaritas,and a copyof Heathers. OratleastsomeoldJane

magazines. If I have to flip through Good Housekeeping from July of '88 one more time I'm going to bakemyself intoanapplepie.

I reach for the vodka, freezing when I think I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway signaling their return. I untwist the top, pour a shot into a juice glass, and feel it roll onto my tongue. I pound the glass backonthetable,turningitover like a cowboy.

I lookover attheold, decrepitAMradioonthesideboard,andturnonthepower.

Ring.Ring.Ring.

"He's nothere!" I shoutover myshoulder.

I start rolling the knob, dropping my head on my arm as I spin past dribbles of news and oldie stations blurring through the ancient speakers in tiny bursts of static. I move the knob slowly, an astronaut listening for signs of life, trying to make out a Billy Joel* song amid the fuzz. My head lifts. It's not Billy ... it's Madonna!

I rolltheknob amillimeter, standingwith excitement atthefamiliar soundof "Holiday."I grabthecorn holder and shove it inby theknob to holdit in place, crank the volume up as high as it will go, and sing along with the next best thing to a fill-in friend. There is life beyond this place, myglitter-eyed, badass, blondfriend remindsme,lifewithoutthem!

" 'If we took a holiday, oohya? " I shimmy my Lycra-clad self around the kitchen, tossing the vodka back in the freezer to chill, forgetting completely about my finger, mosquito bites, and severe sleep deprivation. Within moments I am right there with her as she insists that I take some time to celebrate, (oohya), and kick, eighties style, into the living room, grabbing Grayer's monster truck for a microphoneandbeltingit outfor all I'm worth.

I am just slidingoffthebackof thecouch,when Mr. Xthrows openthescreendoorinhis DonnaKaran runningpants. I freezein a squat,truckin hand,but he barely notices me ashe hurls his cell phoneonto thericketywingchair andstridestothestairs. I joltuptolookout

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the front door, where the silhouette of Mrs. X moves closer from a heap of Grayer in the middle of the driveway. I leap over Graver's toys, run into the kitchen, dislodge the corn holder, kill the power, and runbackintothelivingroomjust asthefrontdoorswingsclosed.

She eyes mymidriff. "Get him readyfor his playdate, Nanny. He claims he scrapedhis knee, but I can't see anything. Just quiet him down. y husband has a headache." She breezes past me to the stairs, rubbingherowntemples. "Oh andsomething's wrong withhis cell. Checkit,will you?"

Mr. X screamsfromupstairs, "Where's mysuitcase?Whathaveyoudonewith mysuitcase!"