The Ruining (2 page)

ZOE NEsTLEd dEEpER into the crook of my arm. I was flipping through my course catalog—orientation was in three days and I wanted to be prepared—while distractedly reading aloud from Zoe’s book of Aesop’s fables. She was saying some of the lines along with me, obviously enjoying herself every time she beat me to the end of a sentence.

“Why don’t you tell me the story if you know it so well?” I asked, poking her in the ribs. She giggled and shrieked a little, burrowing under the afghan in the extravagant second-floor “family” room, aka Zoe’s personal sitting room, because no one really used the second floor but her, and now me. My mind began to wander as Zoe’s little voice danced patterns around the room. It had been a whirlwind twenty-four hours, and I felt caught in a haze of something that felt strangely close to happiness. I’d felt this way only once before: when a friend in middle school invited me to spend the Christmas holiday with her family. Everything was so perfect at her house—such a wonderful chaos—that I’d been content to just curl up and watch it all unfold in front of me. The stacks of gifts, the laughter, the shimmering white lights on the windows, the candy ornaments hanging from a real holly tree. It was hard to explain; even though I wasn’t really a part of it, I was happy just to be a spectator, to bathe in the warmth that emanated from it as though its happy energy could make me happy too, if I absorbed it all up inside me. Then, of course, I’d had to go home to Dean and my mother and Lissa, whom I’d felt guilty for leaving in the first place.

But now, Zoe’s voice was swirling around me as I nestled deeper into the green-and-blue pattern of the antique loveseat in her sitting room, and I had something more: the knowledge that this time, I didn’t have to leave. The catalog in my lap was just proof of it—now I was looking forward, watching the minutes spread out in front of me instead of clinging to them desperately as I felt them slip away. It was wonderful to have a future that was wide open. The funny thing was, it was hard to feel comfortable inside this newfound happiness. I sat there with Zoe, with the distinct feeling that I didn’t deserve this— miracles didn’t happen to people like me, especially after what happened with Lissa. I had this weird, disconcerting feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. How could I make it last? How could I make myself believe I deserved my new chance? The only thing to do, I decided, was to work myself to death, being the best nanny I could be. I would make everyone else believe I deserved it, until I believed I deserved it. That was the plan.

The sitting room was perfect. The whole house was; there was more to look at and take in than I possibly could on my first day, and it occurred to me that maybe I’d be discovering things—ivory ashtrays and blown-glass lamps and first-edition Mark Twains—for months before I knew the place in and out. I’d never seen anything like it, except in magazines and movies. It was funny how the discordance of it somehow worked as though it had been meticulously planned, even though Libby told me much of their décor was just odds and ends they’d picked up on their honeymoon and other trips. Only Zoe’s room was strangely minimalist in comparison, with a little twin bed covered in blue pillows, a rocking chair in the corner, a bookcase, and a dresser with a couple of porcelain dolls lined on top. “She’s too little, still,” Libby had told me offhandedly. “God knows I’m worried enough about her breaking the valuables in the rest of this place. Believe me, Annie, I know what I’m doing.” And so my tiny girl had her books and her Falafel, a stuffed pig whose fur was grimy from her fingers and teeth. Zoe had a nervous habit of chewing on Falafel’s fur, it seemed. But what was there to be nervous about on Belvedere Island? If there’d ever been an Eden, it had looked like this.

Architecture. Art History. Beginning Photography. Eastern Religious Theory. I flipped through the book as I felt my eyelids growing heavy. Zoe had already nodded off against my side, her thumb in her mouth and her arm clamped tightly around Falafel. What area of study was perfect for the reinvented me? That was the thing about leaving a family that doesn’t care; you get to start over completely.

“What about interior design?” Libby’s musical voice may as well have been a scythe for how easily it jolted me awake. “Dozing on the job, Annie?” She asked as I started, the rhetorical question dancing through the space between us as lightly as the silk duster she wore over her nightgown. “Not a great start, I’d say.”

“I’m so sorry,” I managed to stammer out, feeling warmth spread across my cheeks toward my ears. I’d always blushed easily, not just when I was embarrassed—when I was anything: worried, anxious, angry, whatever. It took just about nothing for my face to burn and my ears to throb with the heat of my emotions, which were often frighteningly powerful.

“Oh, I’m only kidding,” she said with a laugh. “You’ve had a nutty day. It’s hard getting used to the energy levels of a threeyear-old. Mind if I sit?” I shook my head, and she settled in next to me, propping her moccasin-encased feet on the immaculate, glass-topped coffee table in front of us. Her relaxed manner surprised me; but then, I wasn’t used to relaxing in settings as nice as this one.

“Well, it’s even harder with the baby,” I said carefully. “Why don’t you let me watch him more often? I’m sure you could use a rest.”

“No, no,” she said with a wave of her hand, drawing a long sip from the glass of wine. “He’s easy, really. He sleeps most of the time. Plus, I love having his cute little face nearby. Sometimes I just want to squeeze him, you know?”

“Yeah.” I smiled then, glancing back down at the catalog in an effort to hide my reaction. Libby’s friendliness was filling me with this weird, giddy feeling, and I was a little embarrassed by how she was affecting me. I wanted her to like me; it was how it had been when I was a kid, desperate to make friends at school.

“You have the cutest kids,” I said, casting a glance at Zoe. “She’s such a little sweetheart, all curled up like that.” I laughed. “And I can’t get over Falafel. How did she come up with that name?”

“Oh, that was all her dad,” Libby said, rolling her eyes a little. “He’s just basically a ten-year-old in an adult body. All guys are. Forever. I don’t know, I think he was just goofing around with Zoe, suggesting names like ‘String Bean’ or something, and Falafel stuck.”

“Or ‘Fluffel,’” I said. “I wonder if that’ll change when her lisp goes away.”
“Probably not. And hey, it’s cute, so whatever.”
“I really like how you guys seem so laidback with the kids,” I commented. “It’s just like . . .” I trailed off, searching for the right words.
“What?” she prodded.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “Not to sound sentimental, but it’s exactly how I want to be someday. It’s nice to see that it’s a real thing for some people.”
“So,” Libby started carefully, “I guess that means that’s not how it was for your parents.” I shook my head; I wasn’t about to tell her my sordid family history. As cool as she seemed to be, she wouldn’t think of me the same way if she knew everything.
“I know a little about you,” she mentioned gently. “I know it couldn’t have been easy, growing up in inner-city Detroit, going to that high school. . . .” My head shot up. I hadn’t told her anything about my school. How did she know? But her eyes held mine kindly.
“We had to do a little background check,” she said. “Just the basics. It’s customary, you know. You were going to be living with us, looking after our children . . .”
“So what did you find out?” My heart squeezed tightly, shriveling up into something hard. Libby peered at me strangely.
“Nothing,” she said. “At least, nothing much. Just that your school was kind of rough, but you still managed to pull off a near-perfect academic record. Nothing to be worried about, I’d say.” She smiled a little, tugging at the corner of my sweatshirt. “If anything, I was impressed.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Can I be honest with you?” she asked then.
“Sure.” Zoe cozied herself into me some more, eliminating any inch of space that might have existed between us. Her closeness reminded me of Lissa, whose affection had always been unchecked despite Dean’s bullishness and our mother’s dazed, half-aware ministrations.
“I’m sensing that you’re a little shy about your background, but there’s nothing to worry about. If you think we’re going to judge you because you didn’t come from money, you’re totally wrong. And you might be surprised to know that we’re not so different, you and I.”
“Indeed,” I told her wryly. “I am surprised to hear that.”
“Oh, stop,” she said. “Is it because I’m so ensconced in this life of luxury? Trust me, you’ll get used to it too. It doesn’t take long. When I was growing up, though, I lived in a double-wide. I worked two jobs to put myself through school. That’s why I liked you. I felt right away like we might have a lot in common.” I met her gaze and was surprised to find that her eyes projected total openness and honesty. No one had ever shown an interest in my life or assumed I had any particular worth. I hadn’t even assumed these things. And now here was Libby, telling me that she and I were a lot alike. Which meant that maybe this life of hers wasn’t so far from my grasp.
But there was one way we differed: I’d never feel comfortable with all of this money. I’d never get used to feeling safe, like disaster wasn’t just around the corner, like I was just always barely escaping poverty and sadness. I’d never stop looking over my shoulder. How could I? Lissa had been the only source of unbridled joy in my life, and then she was gone. All because of a stupid aboveground pool that Dean insisted on putting in, and a stupid gate that he’d never bothered to fix. And stupid you, a voice whispered from somewhere deep inside my head. Stupid you, who should have kept a better eye on her. The truth was, I was the world’s least qualified person to watch Libby and Walker’s kids. The last time a child was in my care, she had died. Sure, Mama had been home. But Lissa was always my responsibility first: that was the unspoken rule.
“Hey,” Libby said softly, jolting me away from my ruminating. “Let’s talk about something else. God, the first time we really get a chance to get to know each other, and I’ve already made you cry.” She handed me a tissue from the box on the table. I dabbed at my eyes. I hadn’t even noticed that I’d been crying, but sure enough, the tears were just beginning to spill over.
“I know!” she exclaimed excitedly, leaping up from the sofa. “How about you tuck in Sleeping Beauty, and I’ll grab a fresh glass of wine . . . and one for you. And then we’ll go do a little spring cleaning.” A glass of wine sounded okay, but cleaning wasn’t exactly what I felt like doing just then. My head was foggy, and my body felt like a truck had backed into it.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. If you don’t mind me drinking while I’m on the job. And underage,” I added, because it felt like the responsible thing to do.
“You’re in college,” Libby said. “I think a glass of wine from time to time isn’t going to cause you any permanent damage. I’m not suggesting you get raging drunk,” she said mock-sternly, “but a glass here and there to loosen you up while you’re not on the job is fine. And by the way, you’re not on the job.”
“Okay?”
“What, you actually thought I’d make you clean the house at ten P.M.? Give me a little credit, Annie, I’m not a total witch. I’m talking about cleaning out my closet! It’s been ages since I got rid of stuff. We’re about the same size, right?”
“Um—”
“What are you, a four?”
“Six,” I corrected her.
“Okay, well, maybe some of my stuff will be a little small.” She was careful to mask disapproval. Libby was probably a size two at most. She had an annoyingly petite body to go along with all the other perfect things in her life. “But I have some billowy styles that would look just lovely on you. And don’t take this the wrong way, but your wardrobe could use a makeover. Which is totally understandable,” she clarified, glancing at my old Levis and Detroit Lions hoodie. “I didn’t learn how to dress myself until I was about twenty-two. And anyway, you can’t believe what they say. Looking good does take money. At least a little of it.”
I felt embarrassed for about a second, until I realized that she was right. It wasn’t that big of a deal that I dressed a little slovenly. Most kids my age did. And now she was offering me the chance at her castoffs, which would probably make me the best-dressed girl at SFSU. Castoffs from Libby, moreover, would probably be the nicest clothes I’d ever be able to afford. Despite myself, I found that realization somewhat thrilling. I had never been above taking an interest in fashion; I just could never really indulge it before.
While Libby went down to the wine cooler to refill her glass and pour me one—they had a temperature-controlled cupboard as big as a refrigerator just for storing wine—I threw my course catalog in the Whole Foods tote I’d found bunched up in a ball under the kitchen sink. I hoped she might possibly have some old bags to pawn off on me, too.

AN HOuR LATER, I was officially intoxicated. Not just from the wine—from the whole experience. I sat on the floor of Libby’s “closet,” which was actually an entire unused room devoted to storing her clothing. She’d had custom-made shelves installed, and it struck me as odd that the room was even bigger than Zoe’s nursery. One entire wall was lined with shoe cubbies all the way up to the ceiling, which must have been ten feet high, if not higher. It was dizzying. There were at least a hundred pairs of shoes, some of them by designers I’d heard of but never seen up close—Kate Spade, Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik—and a bunch of the red-soled kind that I knew signified wealth. Then there were some by designers I’d never heard of at all. Those ones had Italian-and Spanish-sounding names and high-number sizes like 39. Also, I was pretty sure Libby wasn’t a member of PETA. Half her shoes and handbags appeared to be snakeskin, and the section of fur coats in the far right corner had to be real. Libby wasn’t the type to wear anything synthetic.

She flung a white silk peasant top my way.
“Not really,” I sighed. “I mean, I’ve always been kind of
interested in art. But I’m pretty bad at it, so I guess that’s just
a fantasy.”
“There are lots of types of art,” Libby remarked offhandedly, her head buried in a long row of color-coordinated sundresses. “I’m assuming you’re talking about fine art—painting and drawing and sculpture and all of that? Did you know there are actually some types of art that generate profit?” She dropped an armful of designer dresses on the floor with the sort of care
one might give to a moldy orange.
“Um . . .” I racked my brain for a tactful thing to say. “No?” “Being young and idealistic is all well and good,” she
remarked, “but you’ll be leagues ahead of everyone else at
school if you operate on the fact—and it is a fact—that you
can’t build a life on dreams. You need money. I realized that
early on, and look where I am now,” she said sagely. “Believe
me, I was just like you at one point.”
“I doubt it,” I mumbled, annoyed despite myself. There was
no way Libby—who looked barely out of college herself—had
ever had it as tough as she’d been claiming. She looked like
she was born in the satin she was wearing. Even if I won the
lottery, I’d never move among luxury with the confidence she
did. I’d always feel just a little like an imposter. Also, it just felt
wrong, this extravagance. I couldn’t help thinking what my
family could have done with the value of two pairs of Libby’s
expensive shoes. Not that I was complaining, now that she’d
decided I could be the recipient of her hand-me-downs. “Listen,” she said in a serious tone. “Don’t doubt anything
I say. I believe in being frank, and I’ll always be frank with
you—if you screw up, if you deserve praise, or if you’ve got a
chip on your shoulder like you do now. Oh yes, I did,” she said
in response to my startled look. “I called you out on it. There’s nothing I’ll tell you that’s false. I promise. And I’m telling you now that I’m not like my daughter.” She rolled her eyes with
what seemed like a hint of bitterness.
“She won’t ever know what it’s like to worry about anything other than her own emotions. All of her basic needs
will always be met. All of her wants will always be met, if she
just extends herself ever so slightly. She’ll never know what
it’s like to truly worry, to wonder whether she’ll make it until
tomorrow or the day after.” Libby placed her wine glass on
one of the shelves and turned to me quickly, the silk sash on
her dressing gown unraveling as she did. She knelt down and
clutched both my hands in hers, and it was so unexpected
that I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t react at all other than
to let myself fall into the intensity of her gaze. “But I have,
Annie. I’ve been there.” She paused, as if deciding whether she
wanted to continue.
“I was adopted,” she said finally, choking out the words
from between twisted lips, like they tasted bad. “I was the
daughter of a drug addict. Apparently it’s a miracle I turned out
normal,” she told me, laughing bitterly. “Do you know what
drugs do to a baby? Anyway, I was adopted into a middle-class
family that later became poor. Hence the trailer. And there you
have it. Suffering all around.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my throat constricting. By now Libby
had settled herself on the plush carpeting beside me. “Honestly,” Libby told me, “I’m not. It may sound corny, but
it made me tougher. It taught me how to fight for the things
I want. And besides, even if we were poor, my parents were loving. But anyway, the point is, you shouldn’t worry about
your past. It’s who you are now that matters.”
But who was I now? I was still the girl who let her little sister
drown. And Libby deserved to know the truth.
“I had way too much wine,” she said, plopping down next
to me. “I’m usually not such a blabbermouth. Here, try these
things on before I pass out altogether.” She gestured toward an
enormous mound of clothing that took up most of the floor. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely! It’ll be good to see these things get some use.
Lord knows I don’t need them. Go ahead, try them.” I stood up,
stumbling awkwardly. I was feeling a little tipsy too—I wasn’t
used to drinking. I hardly ever had. I grabbed as many of the
items as I could hold and stood there awkwardly.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Is there . . . is there a bathroom I could use?”
At this, Libby burst out laughing. “Oh come on,” she said
between fits. “Seriously? We’re both girls. Plus, the bathroom is
in such a state. Molly doesn’t come ’til next week—she’s the
cleaning lady. Just try them on. I promise I won’t try anything.”
She held up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. My
cheeks flamed, and she dissolved in giggles again. There was
something about it, though, that I liked. I hadn’t had many
close girlfriends in high school. I had been part of a group, but
sort of on the fringes. With Dean and my mom, I’d never felt
comfortable enough to invite anyone over.
I pulled off my shirt and slipped the first article of clothing, a breezy blue sundress with a paisley print, over my head. I could feel Libby’s eyes on me, intent. I slipped my jeans off from under my dress. There was a long, full-length mirror on one end of the room. It had a dark wood frame and was propped up by a bronze stand. I stared at my reflection, framed by the polished wood. I looked pretty in the dress. I could tell. It was a wraparound style that clung just right to my chest and cinched my waist with a tie, making it look smaller
than ever.
Libby stood and came up behind me, tugging a little at the
waist. She reached toward my head, and I cringed, but she was
just going for the black elastic that held my hair in a messy bun.
She pulled it out and my hair tumbled down my back in a mess
of unruly waves. “Beautiful,” she said, meeting my eyes in the
mirror. “If it weren’t for our hair, we could be sisters.” I laughed
at that; Libby was far prettier and more glamorous than I was.
I tried to ignore the tingling moving up my spine and over my
shoulders. This is it, I heard the voice inside me say. This must
be how it feels to be close to someone. What had come naturally
to other girls but never to me—at least ever since Lissa died—
was happening now.
“It’s a little tight,” I said, blushing. I was being so awkward;
I was never this awkward. But I was tired, and tipsy. In the mirror, the clock hanging from the opposite wall read midnight. “Baby fat,” Libby said with a smile. “Nothing to worry about.
I can show you how to shed a few pounds quickly.” I smiled
back uncomfortably. I’d never thought of myself as overweight.
Libby yawned, a big sigh that made her look more vulnerable
than I’d ever seen her.