The nanny Diaries

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Nan, you can't say we didn't try," Josh says, passing me a cigarette as we sit by the recycling bins in the back stairwell.

"She was probably bluffing, hoping you'd tell Mrs. X so she can start redecorating."

Sarah lights another cigarette. "Besides, whoever finds them in this apartment deserves to find them ---- they're so well hidden. Are you sure this woman works with Mr. X and not the CIA?" She passes me back the lighter.

Josh is still holding the porcelain Pekingese dog he picked up on his search. "Tell me again."

"I don't know, two, maybe three thousand dollars," Sarah says.

"Unbelievable! Why? Why? What am I missing?" He looks down at the dog in complete disbelief. "Wait, I'm gonna go get something else."

"You better put that back exactly where you found it," I say, too tired to chase after him to be sure he does.

"I'm sorry I made you waste your night looking for panties," I say, stubbing out the cigarette on the mental railing.

"Hey," she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. "You'll be fine. The Xes have jewelry that has jewelry ---- they'll be fine."

"What about Grayer's?"

"Well, he has you. And you've got H. H."

"Okay, I don't got nuthin' . I have an answering-machine tape in my jewelry box and a plastic spoon I carry around in my purse as a souvenir and that might be as far as it goes."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Can I mention the plastic spoon at the wedding?"

"Honey, if we make it that far you can carry the plastic spoon at the wedding. Come on, let's get Josh and wipe out fingerprints on the way out of here."

When I got home the answering machine is blinking.

"Hi, Nanny, it's Mrs. X. I don't know if you've left Paris yet. I couldn't reach you on your cell phone again. We may have to get you a new one with a better coverage. I'm calling because Mr. X gave me a week at the Golden Door for Christmas. Isn't that wonderful? Lyford Cay is so awful and I still haven't recovered from the holidays ---- I'm just exhausted, so I've decided to go next week. Mr. X will be around, but I was wondering if you'll be back, just so I can tell him you'll be available if he needs you. Just so we know it's covered. I'll be in my room this evening. Call me."

My first instinct is to call her and tell her never to leave her house again.

"Mrs. X? Hi, it's Nanny."

"Yes?"

I take a deep breath.

"So, will that work?" She asks.

"Of course," I say, relieved that she isn't asking about my house call.

"Great. So, I'll see you on Monday morning ---- a week from tomorrow. My flight's at nine, so if you could arrive by seven that would be great. Actually, we better say six forty-five, just to be on the safe side.

°°°°

I roll over for the eighth time in the last fifteen minutes. I'm so tired that body feels weighted, but every time I'm about to drift off,  Grayer's hacking cough echoes through the apartment. I reach over to pull the clock back toward me and the red numbers read 2:36 A.M. Jesus.

I hit the mattress with my hand and roll onto my back. Staring up at the Xes' guest room ceiling, I try to add up the few hours of sleep I've managed to get the past three nights and total makes me even heavier.

I'm bone tired from spending twenty-four/seven keeping Grayer entertained as his mood has blackened and fever risen.

When I arrived she greeted me at the elevator with the list in her hand, her bags already waiting in the limo downstairs. She just wanted to "mention" that Grayer had a "tiny bit of an earache" and that his medicine was by the sink, along with his pediatrician's number --- "just in case."

And the kicker: "We really prefer that Grayer not sit in front of the television. You two have fun!"

I knew "fun" was hardly going to be the word for it as soon as I found him lying on the floor next to his train set, listlessly rolling a caboose on his arm.

"Any idea when Mr. X will be home tonight?" I had asked Connie, dusting nearby.

"Hope you brought your pajamas," she replied, wagging her head in disgust. I've come to look forward to Connie's arrival over the past few days; it's a relief to have another person in the apartment, even if she is only a whir of dusting and vacuuming.

As the temperature has held steady degrees Fahrenheit, we've been under house arrest since my arrival.

This would have been bearable, ideal even, if H. H. hadn't had to go right back up to school for reading period.

He said I could take Grayer upstairs to pet Max, but I don't think either one of them is up to it. Grayer's "tiny" earache may have improved, but his cough has only worsened.

And, needles to say, his father has been completely MIA --- he simply failed to return home my first night. Numerous phone calls to Justine have unearthed only the voice mail of a suite at the Four Seasons in Chicago.

Meanwhile the reception desk at the spa is screening Mrs. X's calls as if she was Sharon Stone. I took Grayer back to the doctor this afternoon, but his only advice was for Grayer to finish the pink amoxicillin and wait it out.

Another round of raspy coughs --- he's even more congested now than he sounded at dinnertime. It's so dark and so late and this place is just so big that I'm starting to feel as if no one will ever come back to get us.

I get up, draping the cashmere throw around my shoulder like a cape, and shuffle over to the window. Pulling the heavy chintz drapes to the side, I let the streetlight from the Park Avenue spill into the room and rest my forehead against the cold windowpane.

A cab pulls up to the building across the street and a boy and girl stumble out. She's in tall boots and a skimpy jacket, leaning against him as they swerve past the doorman and into the building.

She must be freezing. My forehead chills quickly from the glass and I pull back, touching it with my hand. The curtains falls closed, taking the light with it.

"Naaanny?" Grayer's small, scratchy voice calls out.

"Yes, Grover, I'm coming." My voice echoes in the big room. I shuffle through the darkness of the apartment, lit up in the weird shadows from passing cars outside.

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