The Ruining (4 page)

“Are you okay?” His voice was loud this time—loud enough to wake the house.
“Shhh!” I jogged over to the gate and opened it a crack. “I’m fine! Stop yelling. It’s barely six o’clock!”
“Sorry,” he said in a loud whisper. “I just . . . I was getting up to jog, and I swear I thought I saw you fall. But now I suspect otherwise.” His eyes were wide and sincere, but I detected a tiny smile worming its way onto the corners of his mouth. Despite myself, I thought he was cute. He was so athletic and rugged. Not at all my type. He didn’t look like he knew what a wallet chain even was. Like he’d never been near ill-fitting pants. Yet there was something about him that I found unmistakably appealing. I, on the other hand, probably reeked of booze and sweat and other unappealing odors. And if he couldn’t smell me, at the minimum he could see the damage the night had done to my face. It was not my loveliest moment. I wiped the underside of my eyelids in a futile attempt at removing mascara smudges. Realizing I was fighting a losing battle, I squared my shoulders and pretended to be confident.
“Of course I was,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “I mean, I did. Why else would I have been sitting down? I don’t, like, hang out by the pool in the wee hours of the morning. I slid on some water,” I continued, failing at my resolve to play it cool. “But I’m fine. I swear.” I watched his eyes slide over toward the dry wooden surface lining the terrace, then back to my face.
“Yeah,” he said, like he didn’t believe me. “Okay.”
“Thanks for checking on me, though.”
“It’s my neighborly duty,” he told me. “Much like a friendly watchdog, I prowl the neighborhood seeking to help the less nimble-footed among us.”
“Well,” I said lamely. “Here I am! Safe and sound. So you can go lurk around someone else’s backyard now.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Ciao. Maybe I’ll see you around . . . if you don’t see me first.” Then he grinned wickedly and walked back to his house, hands shoved casually in the cargo shorts he must have pulled on just before dashing to my rescue. When he had almost reached his front door, he turned back.
“Hey,” he shouted across our yards. I looked at him from where I stood by the glass sliding doors that led to the Cohens’ living room. I could just make out his frame beyond the iron fence that surrounded the pool. I used one hand to shield my eyes against the tortuous sun, which seemed designed to make my head explode.
“I’m Owen,” he yelled.
“Okay,” I said more to myself than to him. He stood there, waiting expectantly. I waved to let him know I’d heard him, but he didn’t turn to leave.
“What about you?” he shouted.
“What?” I walked closer to the fence in hopes that my voice would carry away from the Cohens’ house.
“What about you?” he yelled again. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Annie,” I said loudly.
“What?”
Oh my god. He was relentless.
“Annie!” I yelled. “It’s Annie, okay?” Only then did he turn, laughing, and disappear through his front door. With all the remaining dignity I possessed, I crossed the deck and opened the sliding glass door that led to the living room. Then I padded softly up to my bedroom, where I promptly fell asleep.

THE REsT OF THE dAy passed me by in the sort of fog only a sleepless night of drinking can bring. For a few hours after my brief nap, I felt extra-alert, sharp, and incredibly exuberant, as if the alcohol hadn’t fully left my system. I was a whirlwind: straightening up the kitchen, organizing Zoe’s closet, playing finger paints and making a bird house with Zoe for the backyard. Then later, I fell into an awful slump that couldn’t be

cured even by splitting a box of macaroni and cheese with my little charge, who ate about half a serving to my three and a half. All I wanted was to go back to sleep. I’d never been so tired in my life, and Zoe could wear anyone out on the best of days. I hadn’t thought about how to balance a normal college social life plus homework and babysitting. It quite honestly hadn’t occurred to me that I might have one, since I’d spent most of my high school career working and taking care of my mom after school. I’d thought my job here would be a breeze after my life in Detroit.

Suddenly I felt ripe for new opportunities . . . exhilarating opportunities. One in particular came in the form of the guy next door. I’d never known an Owen. What kind of a name was Owen, anyway? It didn’t sound quite as pretentious as Libby and Walker, and it didn’t speak to old money like something along the lines of Alistair or Blake. These were the thoughts that went through my head that afternoon, as Libby tucked herself away in her curtained office and Zoe and I entertained ourselves around the house. I had a desperate urge to go outside, to see if I could sneak another peek of Rescue Owen, or Watchdog Owen, as I’d been calling him in my head all day. But I put a lid on it. I didn’t want to seem overeager. And besides, I had all year to get to know him.

And then I had a stroke of brilliance. I had the perfect excuse to talk to him. It was so obvious—I had to thank him for checking on me. I mean, I couldn’t just not thank him, because that would be rude. Or so I told myself. While Zoe was affixing hair extensions to her Miss Kimmi doll later that afternoon, I thought about what I would say. (I also thought about why someone had created a doll to encourage such vapid behavior in children.) While I fixed her afternoon snack (sliced bananas, no peanut butter because of her peanut allergy), I thought about what I’d wear. This was a totally foreign concern, but it was funny how having more clothing had done that to me. But worse, my mind was elsewhere when I should have been paying attention to Zoe.

And then she said it.
Zoe mostly babbled in that transitional way kids do when they’re no longer babies but only just barely. Her manners of the first day had dissolved into the kind of speech I imagined she felt more comfortable with. She said things like “hold you” when she wanted to be held—probably a result of hearing “Want me to hold you?” from her parents—and “I’m hungwy.” She was adorable, but she wasn’t the most stimulating conversationalist. But then, just as I was putting her down for her nap, she wrinkled her whole forehead together into one worry line and began vigorously sucking her thumb.
“What?” I asked, looking down at her; but she only tucked her dark head into her chest and shook it back and forth, pursing her lips into a scowl.
“What, Monkey? What’s the matter?”
“You’we in twouble,” she informed me.
“What do you mean, Zo? Why am I in trouble?”
“You woke up Mommy, and now she’s mad at you.” A glimmer of panic pierced my chest.
“How do you know?” I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral. Zoe pulled her thumb back out of her mouth in order to speak. It made a loud popping sound as it slid out of her mouth.
“She mad,” she said. Then she shoved her thumb back in.
“I know, sweetie,” I said carefully, trying not to get annoyed. “But what did she tell you?” Instead of answering, Zoe just turned over on her side and grabbed Falafel. “Zoes?” I asked one more time. But she shook her head vehemently, as if she was just as mad at me as her mother was. I felt myself getting frustrated, but she was only a toddler. It made sense that she wouldn’t understand.
So instead of trying again, I tucked the striped cashmere throw that usually decorated the foot of her bed around her shoulders, which were clenched up tightly next to her neck. She seemed like such a tense little girl. Like she lacked all of the carefree innocence other kids enjoyed. So unusual for a child of three. Usually it terrified kids to see a grownup upset, but apparently this wasn’t the case with Zoe. In order to get the scoop, I’d have to go to the source.
All of a sudden, it made a lot of sense why Libby had been avoiding me all day.
Taking the back stairs two at a time (the house had three separate staircases connecting its two main floors, a fact that never stopped seeming incredible), I made my way down to Libby’s office. It was a sunny little room with roughhewn floors they’d apparently had shipped in from Walker’s grandfather’s old ranch house. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the back portion and looked out over the San Francisco Bay, and French doors separated it from the myriad of rooms that made up the rest of the ground floor. A sky-blue, patterned area rug covered the bulk of the floor, and the windows displayed white curtains with delicate lace embroidery. A large mahogany desk sat in the center of room. At its surface was an ornate coffee mug decorated with the letter L, several stacks of paper, and a laptop. The effect was professional but serene.
Libby sat cross-legged at the opposite end of the room, rifling through a book of fabric samples and tacking some onto the bulletin board behind her every so often. The baby was in his vibrating chair beside her, sound asleep. For the first time, it struck me that Jackson hadn’t been mentioned at all when Libby had debriefed me on my responsibilities when I first arrived. It seemed like I’d rarely be looking after him—only if Libby and Walker went out. Zoe, on the other hand, had been with me all day—Libby hadn’t checked in on her once. Nor had I ever seen Libby tuck her in or serve her a meal. But, I reasoned, she probably kept the baby close because of feedings and stuff.
Libby’s hair was swept up in a messy ponytail, and she wore jeans and a simple white button-down. On her, it looked totally chic. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a deep purple. I stood there, admiring everything for several minutes, before I caught myself. Was it creepy to stare like that? Maybe. But Libby was everything I wanted to be; I couldn’t help admiring her. It made me all the more nervous that she was angry with me for getting in so late, for making so much noise in the yard with Owen.
I was going to have to get over being starstruck, though, if I ever wanted to earn her respect. Being timid and wide-eyed wouldn’t exactly bolster my credibility. And she was taking a huge chance on me, that much was clear. I’d have to figure out how to hold on to her respect. I took a deep breath and knocked twice before poking my head in. Libby smiled by way of a greeting.
“Hey,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that Zoe’s down for her nap. And I also wanted to apologize.” I clasped my hands in front of me and took a breath; I suddenly felt unsteady.
“Apologize?” Libby said with what sounded like genuine confusion. “Whatever for?”
“For coming in so late,” I said. “And for talking so loudly with Owen. I guess I woke you up? Zoe mentioned that you were unhappy.” Libby chuckled then, continuing to flip through her book of samples.
“I don’t have a lot of time right now, Annie,” she said. “But you shouldn’t take Zoe so seriously. We heard you, and then we fell right back to sleep. And quite honestly it’s not up to me to keep an eye on you. If you’re going to go out late, I’ll just expect you won’t let it interfere with your job.”
“Okay,” I said. “I understand. I’m really sorry for waking you, though; it won’t happen again.”
Finally Libby looked up and sighed. She gave me a tired smile. “I remember what it was like to be in college,” she told me. “I’m not exactly naive. But I do want you to remember that you have a job to manage. I can’t have you being tired, or smelling like booze, or flirting with the kid next door when you’re on the job.”
“Oh, I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t flirting? I’ve seen Owen, Annie. If I weren’t way too old for him and married already, I’d have a serious crush. Attractive and a do-gooder. He’s an EMT, you know. Just as a volunteer gig. Walker told me. Look, he seems like a nice kid. Just keep it to a minimum, okay? I don’t want to have to worry about you getting into some sort of messy romance with our neighbor’s son. Though I must say I’m relieved you’re interested in boys your own age.” I turned cold. It was such a weird thing to say, and it wasn’t without venom.
“What do you mean?”
“I see the way you look up to Walker,” Libby said matterof-factly. “I’m not angry. But I don’t want to see you developing some sort of puppy crush on my husband and winding up with a broken heart.” My cheeks were flaming; I could feel it. Even my ears were throbbing. It had occurred to me that Walker was cute, but this felt like it was coming out of nowhere.
“I don’t have a crush on Mr. Cohen,” I said carefully, hoping my voice sounded firm and not shaky.
“Honey, I’d be offended if you didn’t. It’s totally normal. He’s a handsome man. Besides, I know that you know better than to act on it. I’m not worried; I’m just glad to see that you’re noticing the neighbor.” Since it seemed like defending myself would be futile and I was too flustered to do it in a way that would sound remotely convincing, I redirected the conversation.
“Mind if I drop by the neighbors’ house really quick? I kind of do want to thank Owen.” Libby raised one eyebrow, and my face began its predictable heating routine in response. “I fell,” I explained. “And he came to check on me. That’s how we met.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“He’s pretty cute, Owen,” she commented again, making a note on her computer.
“Um, I guess so,” I said, confused. Why did she keep pressing it?
“Don’t be absurd, Nanny, just say it. He’s cute. You’d have to be blind not to notice.” Her voice was oddly flat, almost as if I’d done something to make her angry. And had she called me “Nanny”? Or had I misheard that?
“He is pretty cute,” I agreed. She didn’t look up, but her face softened a notch.
“I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. You can’t leave the house while you’re on the job.”
“Oh,” I stammered, taken aback. “I guess I thought since you were here . . .” I trailed off as she whipped her head up and trained her eyes on mine.
“Yes?” she said coldly. “What is it you thought? I thought I made myself clear when I said your hours today would be ten to seven. Let me clarify. Ten to seven means you’re here with Zoe at all times during that period. You don’t leave her side. And you don’t leave this house. Unless of course I ask you to. But you will never leave this house without my permission when you’re on the job. Is that easier to understand?”
“Yes,” I forced out. She seemed really angry; I wondered if she actually thought I had a crush on her husband. Maybe this imagined scenario was affecting her more than she’d let on. There was no other explanation for her sudden brusqueness.
“I’m sure Owen can wait. Though your eagerness is sweet.”
“Okay.” I was blushing intensely by then. It was all I could do not to run from the room. Instead, I made myself square my shoulders and take measured steps out of the room.
“Oh, and Nanny,” she called after me, just as I’d reached the hall and begun to shut the door behind me, “I noticed that the hinge on your door was broken, so I had the whole thing removed while you were playing with Zoe upstairs. So don’t be shocked when you see that it’s missing. We’ll fix it as soon as possible, but it could be a while. The wood’s very old and we’ll have to custom-make a new hinge. I hope that doesn’t bother you. You still have your bathroom for privacy, of course, and that end of the hall is basically empty anyway.”
“It’s not a problem,” I assured her quickly. “I don’t mind at all.”
But I did mind. I minded a lot. Being able to close a door behind me at night meant more to me than Libby could realize. It was something I’d been looking forward to, something that had allowed me to sleep better the past couple of weeks than I ever had before. And there it was again, that title, Nanny, rather than the use of my name. But “and Annie” could have just blended together, or something, to sound like “Nanny.” I’m being paranoid, I told myself over and over. It was the lack of sleep combined with the scare that was making me take a pessimistic view of everything.
I took the long way back up to Zoe’s room, and as I passed my own room I couldn’t help noticing how large the gap left by the missing door was. It seemed to swallow up the space, as if my life were some sort of museum exhibit, Life of the Typical Teenage Nanny. You could see the whole room easily from the hallway now, and I couldn’t escape the feeling of dread and revulsion this sudden lack of privacy triggered within me. Some people are more private than others. For some, privacy is everything. It is dignity. It is contentedness. It is the only way to stay sane.