Confessions on the 7:45(11)
And Graham, well, anyone could see—or maybe it was just her because she was good at reading people. Like, psychic good. He was a man baby. The world handed to him like a rattle he smashed on the floor when he didn’t get what he wanted. Geneva had known so many men like him in her line of work. Too many.
It was definitely time to consider a career change. She wasn’t cut out for this game, its consequences. The kids were okay; that part she enjoyed. It was the adults that were the problem. The men especially.
Geneva finished her note to Selena. The banging upstairs had ceased. She could hear Stephen and Oliver talking, laughing, the rumble of Graham’s voice. Maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t come back tomorrow. She gave the counter one last wipe down, moving aside the big toy robot, with all its funny gears and big red eyes. Danger! Danger! it said, among other things. It was one of those annoying, frenetic toys that kids loved and parents hated. She’d confiscated it from the boys when they were fighting over it. She thought about running it up to the playroom, but she didn’t want to go back there. The scene of the crime. She left it by the stove.
Geneva packed up her bag, the portion of the dinner she’d made for herself stored in the Pyrex container she’d brought from home—meals were part of the arrangement. She let herself out quietly, locked the door behind her.
It was only a couple of days after she started working for the Murphy family before Graham started hovering while the boys were at school—Stephen still just a half day at kindergarten and lunch bunch, Oliver in first grade until 2:30. She ran Selena’s errands, did the chores, and whatever Selena needed before Stephen’s pickup at 12:30.
Graham would be there suddenly in the laundry room, talking about this or that—how he’d played football in college, might have gone pro if not for a knee injury. Sure. How he’d had a job offer but he’d turned it down because it “just didn’t feel right.” He had that faux-pompous aura that certain types of men had, putting it on to cover a deep feeling of inadequacy. She tried to communicate that she wasn’t interested. No eye contact. Polite, one-word responses. A quick: Oh, I gotta run and do an errand before I get the boys. Your boys, she didn’t say. While your wife works to support you all. And you’re doing what exactly?
She almost quit before it was too late. Sometimes, you know, these things just don’t go down the way you expect them to and you have to pull the plug.
But Selena was so grateful, so complimentary. The boys—well-attended to, loved—were so sweet, such nice kids. The house was beautiful, calming. Geneva enjoyed her time there, pretending when she was alone that it was her beautiful house. She’d go through Selena’s drawers sometimes—look at her makeup, her perfume, her pretty underwear. She never took anything. She looked.
It happened in the laundry room the first time, knocking up against the dryer.
It happened just like it was always going to happen. What was it?
She knew that she was just slightly better than average-looking. Maybe it was the caregiving thing. She really had a knack for that, for taking care of other people. She wanted to do it, to give in that way that comforted others. Children. The elderly. Animals. She just wanted to be kind to others, and to help them. Maybe that was why she could never say no—even when she wanted to.
The light was still on in the boys’ room as she crossed the street in the cool night, and climbed into her Toyota. Graham wasn’t the worst father she’d ever met, not even the worst husband. That particular award might go to her own father, a total stranger who she wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup.
Shivering in the transition from the warmth of the house to the chill of outside, she pressed the start button on her new car, a consolation prize from her last disaster. The engine hummed to life, the dashboard glowing. It was a good thing people didn’t talk anymore. In this Instagram world, everyone wanted to broadcast filtered versions of their best moments, and bury everything else. All the dull, shameful things, all the flawed, failed ventures and endeavors, hidden. Where did people put those things?
She drove, the air slowly warming, her body relaxing. No music, her smartphone stowed. Her place wasn’t far, just over the railroad tracks—away from the big houses and manicured parks, past the supermarket and the cemetery. Her building was a low, neat structure facing a manmade lake with a fountain in its center. There were trees and benches, a playground, a family of ducks that returned year after year. Not fancy, but not run down and sad like other places she’d lived.
She parked her car in the spot reserved for her unit, climbed the outside stairs to the second floor, and walked down the exposed landing. As she went, she shed layers of herself—the smiling nanny, the accommodating millennial, the laundry room lay—all things that were her and weren’t really.
Her place wasn’t much, a small one-bedroom with a nice-sized kitchen and dining area, a sitting room she’d made cozy. It was fine. It was hers. And when she closed the door, she was alone, could breathe a sigh of relief. She would never live with the family in her care like an au pair. She always needed her own space.
Her phone chimed and it filled her with dread. Surely, not another text.
Please. I’m desperate. I can’t stop thinking about you.
She didn’t answer, had turned off her read receipt, so he wouldn’t know if she’d gotten it or not. She should block him, that would be the smart thing to do.