A Riffed Teacher's Renaissance

The Whole Love

2012-01-02T09:41:00.000-08:00

Jeff Tweedy and the boys at The Metro

Adam and I went to see our favorite band Wilco a couple of weeks ago. The name of their new album is The Whole Love, a phrase that resonates with the vulnerable part of my soul, the part that risks pain for the promise of love.

What an idea, huh? A "whole love"...what does that even mean? I'd like to think it means that we can forgive and be forgiven for our deepest flaws, that we can be loved despite our demons.

I guess that's something to aspire to.

The End of Something

2011-08-26T12:50:00.000-07:00

Until now, I’d never really felt heartbreak.

And I mean real heartbreak. The soul-crushing, gut-wrenching kind that makes you cry so much you literally can’t see what’s right in front of you because your eyes are swollen shut. But you don't want to see it, anyway.

That's because it is a beast. Its skin is inky black with open, festering sores. Its eyes are opaque white but still manage a smirking stare that mocks you for feeling something, anything, because it knows that love is absurd and deems you a fool for having been duped.

I came face to face with the beast last week. I’ve resisted the temptation to write about it because writing about something always makes it real, and I wasn’t ready--and still am not ready--to admit that it’s real.

While I understand that love is complicated, I simply don’t understand how love can end. I’ve never had to end a relationship with someone I loved--someone I believed to be “the one.” And maybe it’s not really over, but somehow I think it is because I don’t know how we can ever find our way back to how things were--to the crazy, silly moments that erupt spontaneously from the mere fact that we know each other so well.

In the Hemingway story “The End of Something,” a couple sits in a boat, trolling past an old mill that has been left to rot. The girl speaks first: “‘There's our old ruin, Nick,’" she says. That’s how I feel right now, as though I’m staring at the ruin of a relationship that once thrived like a living, breathing thing.

I don’t know what this is, but I do know it’s the end of something.

"April is the cruelest month." -T.S. Eliot

2011-04-10T07:41:00.000-07:00

Adam and I awoke to a foreign feeling...a feeling so strange that we couldn’t quite place its origin.

Had we felt it before? Yes, but where? Certainly not in the cheerless gloom that shrouds our beautiful city this time of year.

And then it came to us: Spring!

Right now it is 75 degrees and sunny--a marvel if one considers that until today, it seemed that spring was a thing of the past. A memory caught in a crumpled photograph of my siblings and me in our Easter attire--holding baskets as big as our bodies, smiling grandly at the prospect of chocolate bunny ears after the obligation of church. My sisters and I are in little spring dresses and shiny patent leather sandals. In the background, daffodils trumpet their yellowy cheer while tulips lean lazily in their beds.

Ah, spring...

Like beauty, like love, it will wane.

“O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away!”

-William Shakespeare,

The Two Gentleman of Verona

From Abstract to Concrete

2011-02-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

I called my mother at around 9:30 last night.

“Mom,” I said. “I’d like to write about Daddy.”

We talked for a half hour or so; I mostly listened.

“Do you know what your father said to me on our first date?” she snickers.

“Didn’t he say...”

“He said, ‘What does the mass mean to you?’”

Not knowing my father, you might think he was some sort of Jesus freak or something, but really, my father was a devout Catholic, a late-in-the-game convert who had a genuine faith in God that I still can’t fathom.

To put it in context, my father grew up poor in an old Chicago neighborhood with his mother, brother, and older sister. For some reason, he was the only one of his siblings not to be baptized. Somehow, though, in the service he befriended a fellow draftee who would introduce him to the faith and become his godfather.

“Gosh, I can’t for the life of me remember his name,” my mother says a half hour into our chat. “He was such a good friend of Daddy’s.”

Though baptized in the service, my dad did not become a practicing catholic until he met a priest at St. Rose of Lima Church where he'd had a job designing bulletin covers that went out to several other Chicago parishes. It was in the kitchen of that church’s rectory that my father would meet Mary Lou Davis, his future wife, who just happened to be both the organist and music teacher at St. Rose.

“It was because of your father that I became who I was,” my mother says. “His faith kept me involved in the church.”

A few minutes after I hang up the phone, my sister calls me to give me the name my mother couldn’t recall.

“We knew it started with a G and had a ‘ski’ at the end,” she says all aquiver. “Mom thought you’d want to know.”

I did want to know the name, but here’s what I really want to know: I want to know how people back in the day had a faith like my father’s. I want to understand the kind of faith, or, in the very least, the connection to a church that drove my father’s sister and her husband to go to St. Rose’s when it was being demolished and to take home the concrete slab that bore the name of their church. My mother told me that Aunt Betty still has that concrete slab, and I don’t know why but I was surprised by it--the way a person can be so moved by the demolition of a church as to seek a remembrance of it.

My father designed the stained glass windows of St. Richard’s Catholic Church, windows that some parishioners disdained for their abstract representations, the windows my evil first-grade teacher disliked so much they made her "look the other way.”

Hmmm. Where’s a concrete slab when you need one?

Photos: Ralph V. Smith stained glass windows at St. Richard's Church, Chicago, Il.

Growing Up Smith

2010-12-10T07:37:00.000-08:00

Imagine a childhood so rich it makes your memory feel full. A childhood so full of music, laughter, and art that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to replicate it with your own children some day.

That was my childhood. And it’s because I was raised by Ralph and Mary Lou.

My father was an artist. I say “was” because he’s no longer able to create. But when he was still healthy he’d create elaborate signs for every birthday, baptism, and communion party, not just for his seven children but for all of our family and friends, as well.

Our Christmas cards were Broadway productions. Ralph and Mary Lou would build a set and we kids would be dressed up as sugarplum fairies or, in my case, Rudolph.

Yeah, we had fun.

My dad was a genius. He designed the stained glass windows for our church. His faith combined with his genius equalled art like few people in our parish had ever seen.

That was my dad.

My mom is a pianist and used to sing in the opera. But she loved show tunes and Frank Sinatra, too. So every Saturday as kids, my siblings and I would find ourselves dusting window ledges or wiping the bathroom toilet while humming Puccini or perhaps something from Camelot.

It was a great way to grow up. The Smith way.

That’s why it's a strain on my heart to see my father the way he is now: thinner, hunched over, his blue eyes not nearly as bright. The one thing that gave him his genius has been erased like a wrong answer.

Alzheimer’s can do that to a person. It’s been eight years now since my father was diagnosed. He still knows my name but always states it as a question, searching my eyes and the contours of my face to make sure he’s got it right:

“Are you...Christina?”

“Yep.”

“And your last name is Smith.”

That last line he speaks declaratively, like it's something he knows for sure.

“Yep. My last name is Smith.”

“Your name is Christina Smith,” he repeats.

We say the next part together, every time.

“Christina Smith. That’s it. Fort Pitt!”

And then we laugh hysterically, my Dad’s old laugh, the real one. I have no idea what “Fort Pitt” is, but I don’t care. The rhyming sounds help him remember me.

Thank God he still remembers me.

Happy Days Part II: A Very Merry Chris Smith!

2010-12-08T11:07:00.000-08:00

Adam and I are hosting his family’s Christmas gathering for the first time. The last time most of them were at our apartment we had no furniture and served cheeseburgers and hot dogs on the grill.

This time it’ll be crown roast, my famous mashed potatoes and my grandmother’s totally-made-from-scratch-stuffing (if I can get it right!).

When I told my family about our hosting gig, they did what they normally do whenever I say “Adam’s family.”

They started singing, “The Addams Family. Buh-da-da-dum. Snap-snap...” Nothing derogatory, of course. That's just how maniacally silly we are.

But I digress...

Truth be told, I’m sort of a Christmas crazy person, so I really can’t wait. We'll have a fire, maybe sing Christmas carols while Adam and I play guitar. Yeah, the stockings with our initials are beyond cheesy but I still love them more than you’ll ever know.

“Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” -George Bernard Shaw

2010-11-15T07:24:00.000-08:00

Today is a happy day.

Adam just found out he's been accepted to Northwestern University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program. He'll be studying under Stuart Dybek, a Chicago writer, a short story genius.

That means he'll be writing again, his own stuff, instead of just helping me with mine.

My heart is overflowing with joy for this man who has so much talent but is uncomfortable with compliments.

He'll be writing again, creating.

What else is there?

To Chuck or Not to Chuck?: That is the question

2010-10-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve stopped writing.

Not because I want to but because I’m tapped out, plain and simple. After sharing the latest draft of my novel with two people I trust, I’ve realized that it needs a lot of work. Or, maybe, that I should simply chuck it.

This photo is a metaphor for my novel. When Adam and I first moved in here after I finished grad school, our giant living room was a blank canvas; with only a couple of chairs, a rug and some plants to fill it, we looked forward to making it come to life. So, too, with my story. Now that the walls have been painted, the color just doesn't feel right. And it's back-breaking work to have to do it all over again.

Aarrghh!

Adam is an editor of the highest order, to the point that it makes me jealous. Yes, he actually studied creative writing (and I didn’t), but still. With all of the books I’ve read, you’d think I'd have a grasp of what goes into good fiction.

Did John Grisham take a creative writing class? Okay, okay, he writes beach books. Still, my point is that with all of the writing I’ve done in college and grad school, I felt sure enough of my talent, or at least of my smarts, to give it a try.

So, now that I have given it a try, I’m less than encouraged. What to do? Re-write the whole thing? One of the people who read this latest draft said, “I’m not an expert or anything, but there are a couple of chapters where it seems like there’s no action. Just a lot of dialogue.”

I wasn’t upset or hurt, probably because I knew she was right. Part of being a writer is having to deal with criticism. In graduate school I endured thesis peer review sessions that were so intense I thought my mind would melt from the pressure.

So it’s not the criticism so much as the lack of inspiration at this point. When I first embarked on this writing jaunt, I was so excited. Now, I sort of can’t stand my female protagonist! Isn’t that just sad? Or do all writers hit a wall so to speak?

Whatever the case, I’m going to try posting regularly again just to get the juices flowing. Plus, I really just miss my lovely blogger friends.

Beauty Is In the Eye of the Beholder, And More Rather Obvious Realizations

2010-07-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

This is the trendy new restaurant that opened up in my neighborhood not too long ago. Adam and I dined there for his birthday this year. We were surrounded by the beautiful people. Adam had roast duck for the first time.

It was fatty.

When we needed to get out of the house the other night, instead of heading to the overpriced trendy spot we mosied on over to a different joint one block down.

To the naked eye, it’s a dive. A corner bar I wouldn’t dare be seen in (which actually wouldn't be possible because there aren't any windows).

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

On the inside it’s one of those dark, old-school bars with round, high-backed booths that make me feel like Sinatra and Deano might saunter in. The air always looks smokey to me, even though there is no smoke.

The clientele are a motley crew: boys with ponytails and long beards; girls with thick black eyeglasses and bright orange hair; a sprinkling of high-powered business men.

Depending on the day, there’s either Johnny Cash or Coltrane on the jukebox. Add to that the fact that they serve the best bar food in the entire world (including homemade tater tots and the freshest salads), and it’s no wonder this dark little cave has become our favorite haunt.

The ambience provides little moments. While I enjoy a cosmo (or two), Adam leans over and touches my arm.

“You have the softest elbows,” he informs me. “You really do.”

On the way home, Adam spots one of those mini murals of our delightful former governor that have been popping up all over the city. He gets such a kick out of it he simply must snap a picture.

So I ham it up like I usually do. He shows me the picture on the walk home and all I can think as I look at my ridiculous self is that in less than a month I will be given the title of “Professor.”

Adam is holding my hand as we pass by the trendy place--where the giant windows allow its trendy patrons to be seen in all their trendiness. We keep walking and laughing and being our silly selves and I say to myself, “Yep."

Eye of the beholder.

Au Pair (Of Old Shoes) Part 10: Call me baby

2010-06-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

“I need to get out,” I said.

“Where are you going?”
"Nowhere."

Calixthe plopped Stuart’s freshly soiled underclothes into a bucket that sat inside the laundry room washtub.

“I wish I could come with you.”

“So why don’t you?”

Calixthe shook her head.

“Too much work to do.”

“Then let me help you.”

“Netta would kill me.”

I didn’t know how much longer I could stand the smell in the laundry room. It seemed like every room in the Silverman home was stained with stink. I glanced around as though someone might be listening.

"Netta wouldn't even know."

“Oh, yes she would.”

“Just let me help you.”

More shaking of the head.

“You don’t understand, Chrissy. I have to be here to watch da baby, anyway.”

“Why can’t Netta watch the baby? It’s her baby. ”

“I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask.”

There was only one window in the laundry room, and it was locked. As Calixthe headed upstairs, I walked over to open it, struggling to loosen the rusty hinges. When Calixthe came back a few minutes later, she went straight for the bucket.

“I can’t stand the way they treat you, Calixthe,” I said, finally pushing the window out from the bottom. “It’s almost like you’re their...”

“Their what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

“Nothing.”

“Their slave?”

“I didn’t mean that, Calixthe.”

A welcome breeze blew in from outside. It felt like the first fresh air I’d ever breathed.

“You really should be careful, Chrissy,” Calixthe said, her eyes intent on the bucket, her hands looking rough and red.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, dey are still my family, you know.”

More air rushing in, but this time, stirring up the stink.

“I am not a slave.”

“Calixthe...”
“No, please. Listen to me. Netta is my father’s sister. My auntie. She and James took me in when I needed a place to go...when I needed to get away from home. They are trying to give me a better life here. You have no idea what it is like to live in my country.”

Silence for a moment.

“It is hard to explain.”

Calixthe dropped the scrub brush into the bucket. The murky water splashed her face. “Netta is demanding. And I hate dat I have to clean up after da children. Like I told you...it makes me sick. But still...”

Calixthe looked back down at the bucket of murky water and finally wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“To be honest, I don’t know what else to do. Maybe they really do tink of me as their...”

“No, Calixthe. I never meant..”

“But it’s true. I have no freedom here. Dey keep me locked up in dis house. Sometimes I tink about leaving, you know? But where would I go? I have no money, no place to live.”

“That could change.”

“I really want to go to school, get a job and then...get my own place, you know?”

“We’ll make it happen.”

“I’m registering for classes tomorrow,” she said.

I didn’t blame Calixthe for her loyalty to Netta, after everything Calixthe said she had done for her. But I couldn’t help thinking about Netta’s earlier assessment of Calixthe’s language skills, how she had dismissed her abilities so flippantly, the condescending tone that was almost cruel.

“I’m suffocating in here.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You want some help?”

“No. Just go.”

Calixthe took her hands out of the bucket, dumped out the water, then emptied the soggy clothing into the washing machine.

“Don’t worry about me, Chrissy.”

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I said don’t worry about me.”

“I hate this.”

“Go.”

“Won’t be the same without you.”

Calixthe threw up her hands.

“How man go do?”

I left Calixthe there, her hands scrubbing out excrement of ungrateful children, trying to clean up a mess in order to maintain a family’s image, desperate to demonstrate to Netta her deep, unwavering loyalty. I left her there, alone, with that stench while I went off to get drunk.

I tiptoed up the basement stairs. Netta knew. She read my thoughts. She was waiting for me.

“Stepping out, Christina?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Where to?”

“Maybe for a walk. Not sure.”

“Please do make sure to pick up the children on time.”

“I’m aware of my duties, Netta.”

“Before you leave, I wanted to discuss one more thing with you.”

Netta sat down at the kitchen table and handed me a small black box.

“James and I decided to buy a cell phone for you to use while you’re with us. You’ll have to buy the minutes, yourself, of course, but otherwise it’s yours to use for the duration of your stay.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s the number. You can use it to call internationally, so you’ll be able to reach your family whenever you need to. You can purchase the phone cards at any café or brasserie. Enjoy your walk, Christina.”

Netta waited for me to leave. The second I closed the door behind me, I heard her click the lock. I headed toward the gate and found myself skipping like a school girl. I knew that I had only a couple of hours, so I would have to make them count. I held the phone in my hand, slid it around, pressed all the buttons. I would be able to call Adam whenever I wanted. Freedom.

Free at last...

I wandered down side streets. Flowers, everywhere. Wrought iron railings, white-shuttered windows, blood red geraniums spilling out of every window box.

A fairytale.

I wound up on the Rue de Pologne. Sidewalk cafés, shops, and the clink of wine glasses like bells that cut through clouds of cigarette smoke. Men and women wrapped in elegant scarves, even though it was nearly eighty degrees.

A fairytale, indeed. This lifestyle of leisure, food, love-the good stuff. The people of Saint-Lucie did it well. Saint-Lucie, birthplace of kings, playground for the wealthy. Saint-Lucie, where people lived in chateaux, where people were too busy to parent their own children. That’s a job for les étrangères, like me, to step in to raise their children for them. The wealthy wanted au pairs, so au pairs came here to work for the wealthy.

I sat down at a café. The Au Reveil Matin. I ordered a cold duck salad and a glass of Bordeaux. The post office clock, just meters away, read 1:35. Time was running out.

I sipped my wine, listening, learning. The waiter brought my salad. A young man was sitting at a corner table, alone. He raised his glass to me and smiled. I knew I would need another glass of wine.

“And this is is for you...from the gentleman.”

The waiter handed me a paper napkin with a note on it. The young man a few tables away had indeed been watching me:

What is your name? Are you American? You are very beautiful. If you’d like, meet me under the clock in twenty minutes. My name is Islem. Here is my phone number. 01.32.21.07.44

Call me baby.

“Apparently you have made a friend.”

“Excuse me?”

A distinguished older gentleman sitting at the table next to mine turned toward me.

“I’m sorry, madame,” he continued.“It’s just that you seem to have caused a bit of a stir at our little café, today.”

The distinguished gentleman laughed heartily. He had salt and pepper hair and wore a turtleneck and wool cap. I was beginning to believe that French people were impervious to heat, or maybe so fancy that they didn’t even sweat.

“We don’t see very many Americans in our little town.”

“Really? I thought that was a favorite French pastime: making fun of Americans who invade their beloved country.”

More hearty laughter.

“It would behoove the French to remember an invasion of another sort...which was impossible without the Americans.”

He continued through sips of wine.

“It’s mostly, how you would say...locals.”

“I work for an American, actually.”

“Ah, then you are jeune fille au pair?”

“Yes, how’d you know?.”

“One can just tell.”

The young man at the other table was still watching me. I looked over at him for a second. His eyes immediately caught mine as he dipped his finger in his glass of wine, swirled it around, then slowly slid his finger into his mouth. He slid his finger out then puckered his lips, all the while, watching.

I waved down the waiter as I searched my purse for money. The bold young man lit a cigarette.

“This has been lovely, but I really have to be going,” I said.

“Off to meet your new friend?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Madame.”

“Same here.”

“My name is Guillaume,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I’m Chrissy.”

“Au revoir, Chrissy. And good luck!”

I stood to leave, and as I did, the bold young man walked toward me. He approached me, leaning forward as he moved, swinging his arms with an awkward, lurching gait. Though I had turned away, he followed me onto the cobblestone street where I had already begun to cross.

“Exusez-moi, Mademoiselle.”

I turned around to look at him. He had ice-blue eyes and messy black hair. His nose was long and hooked. At first glance, I thought he looked classically French, but the longer he stared at me, the more I noticed that his eyes said something different, the way they at once seemed to bulge out and recede--almost melt--far back into their deep, wide sockets.

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know you. Why would I tell you my name?”

“My name is Islem.”

“I really have to be going,” I said, peering past his alien eyes to see the time on the post office clock.

He grinned.

“At least tell me your name.”

I waved goodbye to the bold young man as I turned away and headed toward the International School of Saint-Lucie. It was time to pick up my little spawn of Satan.

* * *

3:26. Students swarmed the sidewalk outside the school. I scoured the crowds for any of my little spawn, and, within a minute or so I spotted Soryah. Stuart was standing behind her.

“Hey guys, how was the first day?”

“Fine.”

“Where’s Lia?”

Stuart and Lia looked at one another and shrugged.

“She knew that I was coming to pick you up.”

More shrugging.

“I reminded her three times this morning. Where else would she be, Stuart? ”

“She might have already left.”

Instant images of arriving back at the house, minus one of my little spawn.

Soryah stomped her foot.

“Can’t we just go? She knows the way home.”

“Hey. That’s enough. We’re not leaving without Lia.”

Racing around the grounds, I ran up hills, leaped over bushes, peeked into classrooms, and still, no Lia. I was slowly coming to realize that little Lia might be more of a handful than I had first thought.

When I finally headed back toward the main gate, I was relieved to spot a giggling Lia standing beside Stuart and Soryah. She was talking with a very tall boy who leaned toward her when he spoke.

“Nice of you to join us.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, barely acknowledging me. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is Remi.”

“You can roll your eyes all you want, Missy,” I calmly explained. “You’re the one who’s late.”

Lia was silent the whole walk home. If only I could have said the same for the other two. We were blocks from the house when suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up a phone card. Without one, I wouldn’t be able to call Adam.

“I have to make a little stop, if that’s okay.”

“What for?” inquired Stuart, whose index finger was currently lodged up his nose.

“It’ll just take a second.”

There was a cafe just a block away, so I ran in, bought my phone card, and held it tight.

“Mom’s gonna be mad that we’re late, ya know,” Soryah informed me.

“I guess we’ll just have to explain why, then, now won’t we?”

Lia shot me a look.

“Does she know that you had to make an extra stop?” Lia asked.

“As a matter of fact she does.”

It was just before five o’clock when we approached the side door. Stuart and Soryah had their backpacks looped around their ankles like leg-irons.

“Pick those up,” I said.

Soryah and Stuart started giggling.

“Those are brand new bags,” I said. “Please carry them properly.”

Stuart and Soryah were doubled over with laughter. When they stood up, I noticed their pants.

“Oh, shit,” I said. “What did you guys do?”

“You cursed, you cursed.”

They were chanting, pointing their fingers at me.

“We’re telling mom, we’re telling mom.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had to go?”

“This has happened before,” Lia said.

“What is your mother going to say?”

Stuart and Soryah entered the house giggling, still dragging their backpacks. Netta was in the kitchen, waiting.

“Why are you so late?” Netta asked, her face as fierce as I’d seen it. “I’ve been trying to call your phone, Christina, but it just kept ringing.”

The children--who had been clambering to get to the refrigerator--all turned around to look at me.

“I’m sorry about that Netta. I wasn’t able to pick up the phone card until just now.”

“But why are you so late?”

“To be honest...”

Lia didn’t even bother looking my way.

“Some of us got our signals crossed. Lia was waiting for us at a different spot. We didn’t find one another till after four o’clock.”

Netta put her hand to her forehead.

“Christina, this is only the first day of school and already we’re having problems doing something as simple as picking up the children?”

Stuart and Soryah were strutting past their mother, still dragging their backpacks.

“Like I said, it was just a case of miscommunication...I’m sure it won’t...”

Netta put her hand to her nose.

“What in the world is that smell?”

Stuart and Soryah started hopping in place, their legs crossed one over the other.

“Come over here, Stuart,” Netta said. “Soryah, you too.”

“Netta..”

“Christina, what happened here?” she asked, looking Stuart and Soryah up and down, examining the urine stain down the front of their pants.

“They didn’t tell me they had to go,” I said. “I just noticed it before we came in."

“You just noticed it?”

“Yes.”

“So how was your walk, Christina?”

“Lovely.”

“Stuart, Soryah, march upstairs right now and take off those wet clothes. And then take a long, hot shower. Both of you.”

Lia led the little spawn up to their rooms.

“I should go help them,” I said.

“It’s a little late for that,” Netta said.

“Is there something you’d like to discuss, Netta?”

The veins in Netta’s neck were fully constricted. She started to pace, then stopped.

“I’m very relieved to hear that you had a ‘lovely’ afternoon, Christina. Your happiness is my first priority, after all.”

“What does my lovely afternoon have to do with anything?”

Netta wasn’t listening to me. Still, I stood there, daydreaming about my lovely afternoon.

“I understand your wanting to have some free time. I do. But if it interferes with your responsibilities here, then I’m afraid you’ll have to alter your...activities, somewhat.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It’s time for dinner,” Netta said, waving me away. “Please make sure the children have washed up.”

From where I was standing in the kitchen, I could see the framed print I’d given the Silverman family the day I arrived. My eyes were drawn to it because of what it represented to me. It was my sister’s painting--two open hands, offering to the world whatever love and truth and compassion they were capable of giving. And in that moment, as Netta dismissed me, I felt sick at the thought that I had given her something so meaningful, so much so that in my imagination I pictured myself stealing it back from her, wondering if anyone would care, or even notice, that it was gone.

I walked upstairs, not really caring if the children ate dinner with dirty hands or not. I didn’t really care if Stuart and Soryah soaked themselves silly, day in and day out. For all I cared, they could wallow in bathtubs full of their own filth.

“Dinner time. Wash your hands,” I called out tepidly.

Lia was in her room. I stopped in to steal the laptop.

“Do you mind if I use this for a minute?”

“Take it.”

“You owe me one, you know.”

“I know.”

I was hoping to check my e-mail before dinner, to see if Adam had written me back. It had been three days since I’d written to him. But still, nothing.

When dinner was over and the kids were put to bed, I rushed upstairs to my room to check my e-mail. A newsletter from Martha Stewart Living. A much-needed message from my sister. But nothing from Adam. Nothing.

I picked up my purse and pulled out the cell phone. The crinkled napkin from the bold young man came tumbling out. I studied it, remembering his alien eyes. I thought about Adam, about how much I missed him and desperately needed to hear how much he missed me.

In the darkness of my dingy room, lying beneath the stained blanket of the fungus bed, I listened to late summer crickets, their mating calls lulling me to sleep. Tears welled up in my eyes, always the tears. They kept coming, wouldn’t stop. I needed to talk to Adam, to hear his voice, but wondered if he needed me. I looked again at the crinkled napkin, then threw it on the floor.

With everything to lose, I picked up the cell phone and dialed.

Perfect Running Weather: Why we’re always “up at the lake”

2010-06-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

They say that running away from your problems never works. They say that whatever you’re running from will still be there when you’ve returned from wherever you’ve blissfully absconded, so it’s better--healthier, more mature--to face your problems head on.

I disagree.

For the past three weekends, Adam and I have stolen away to his family’s summer cottage in Wisconsin, feeling nary an ounce of guilt over who or what we were leaving behind.

“Goodbye, everyone,” we say. “We’ll be up at the lake.”

We wake up in the morning to charmingly quirky bird calls that Adam mimics until I’m doubled over with laughter. We sip our coffee quietly, pens in hand, as we eye one another across the table during one of our highly contested crossword puzzle competitions.

(Are we nerds? Absolutely. Are we fun nerds? But, of course.)

After coffee, while Adam mows the lawn or starts the much-too-expensive-preservative-free bacon a-sizzling, I don my running gear and start to run.

First, down the curving path that leads to the noisy highway, then across that highway--behind it--toward the little country road where the sound of rumbling semis is silenced behind a wall of trees and meandering corn fields.

I run down the little country road, inhaling the scent of lilac and freshly cut grass because it feeds me, pulls me forward like an invisible rope that’s been tossed out to save me from myself. I run because I have to--because if I don’t I’ll sit in a state of imminent stagnation.

If I don’t run, I’ll rot.

I run past patches of wildflowers (or are they just weeds?). I approach the mysterious path that winds its way up till it disappears into the trees. I wonder where the path leads. Probably to a grand old house, I imagine. In my mind the house is white; its paint is chipped, the windows unwiped. A yellow sign points away from the path, telling me to follow the road more traveled.

I never venture into that path, not because of the sign but because I prefer the path of my imagination. I don’t want to know where the path leads. I fear disappointment. Always.

So I keep running until the little country road eventually reaches the noisy highway again, which means it’s time to turn around and go back.

By noon Adam and I are on the lake--cruising, gliding--floating like the ducks that seem to follow us everywhere. We sweat in the sun. We drink. We forget. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we disappear.

That’s how it feels for me, at least. When I’m up at the lake, I’m literally up, floating away somewhere, happy to be wherever the wind and water take me.

Happy Birthday to Me!...And Growing Old With A Glass of Malbec

2010-04-21T11:57:00.000-07:00

I pull into a gas station mini-mart.

I run in to buy a newspaper, and while I’m skimming headlines the attractive gentleman behind the counter says, “You looking for a job?”

How the heck did he know?

Dismayed by this man’s extra sensory perception, I reply ever so matter-of-factly.

“Why do you ask?” I say.

“I had to fire one of my girls today,” he explains. “I need someone A.S.A.P.”

Hmmm.

“So you lookin?” he presses, politely.

“Well...”

I would be lying if I said I didn’t look around the joint for a split second, considering the possibility. I looked at shelves of nearly stale Twinkies, smelled the burnt coffee bubbling away on the slopped up burner, thinking, “It wouldn’t be so bad.”

But then I glimpsed the rotating wiener cooker and caught a whiff of that deliciously fragrant aroma of tubular-shaped, ground up animal parts steeped in grease (MMMMmmmm!!), and then I snapped out of it.

“No, I’m not really looking right now,” I say.

“Too bad,” the nice man says. “I really need to find a girl soon. I think you’d be good.”

Once again, hmm.

“Well, if you have any girl friends who are looking, let ‘em know there’s an opening,” he says.

“So it has to be a woman?” I ask.

“Well...”

Can’t wait to hear this one!

“I just think it’s good for business if there’s a cute girl behind the counter,” he explains. “That’s all. And you’re pretty cute.”

Yeah, I still got it!

“So what happened to the other girl?” I inquire.

“Eh,” he says, waving his hand at the thought of the other girl. “She was too young. Too irresponsible.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’m looking to hire someone older,” he says. “You’d be perfect.”

Aha!

“Thanks but no thanks,” I say. And then, just like that, I was gone.

Much like my thirties.

* * *

Okay, so my thirties aren’t entirely over. This Saturday, I will be turning 38, not exactly a life-altering, mile-stone-making number, but a significant one for me, nonetheless.

And why is that, you might ask?

Mostly because there are so many things I’ve yet to accomplish: get married, have babies, publish my book, make a million dollars, pay off my student loans, move to the French Riviera and live in a quaint yet glorious villa on the Mediterranean Sea.

Pretty humble ambitions, I would say.

There’s also the issue of aging. Try as I might to drink as much red wine as possible to soak up all those age defying antioxidants, mysteriously I continue to show my age.

Every time I go to the grocery store, I wait with bated breath to see if the cashier will card me for my bottles of wine. If the cashier is a man, I almost always get carded. But if it’s a middle-aged woman, she takes one look at my crows feet and waves me through.

And they keep getting deeper, those crows feet. And isn’t that a horrible name? Personally, I would prefer to call them something with a slightly more positive connotation, like “wings of wisdom” or perhaps something more euphonious, such as “wave-like wisps of time.”

Doesn’t that just sound better?

All in all, I’m not lamenting my age. In fact, I have a few concrete things to feel good about from my 38 years on this earth: friends who put up with me, a boyfriend who loves, loves, LOVES me! A mother who prays for me, and an imagination that allows me to dream.

So this Saturday, I’ll raise a glass (or three) of Malbec, and I’ll let my wings of wisdom carry my thoughts to that villa on the French Riviera, where I’ll float like an ageless swan on those wave-like wisps of time.

Cheers!

Control: How one tries to "let go" instead of "losing it"

2010-04-13T14:39:00.000-07:00

So now that I’ve gotten all of that political stuff off my chest...

Let's chat, shall we?

Just recently I watched a movie called Control. It's about Ian Curtis, the lead singer of the brilliant band "Joy Division," and it got me thinking about the idea of control:

What we do or do not have control over in our lives. Whether or not we feel we’re being controlled by someone else. Our wacky friends or family members whom we describe as being “out of control” (come on...you know exactly the type of person of whom I speak!).

Or, worst of all, the feeling of losing control--over everything--like in that dream when we’re being chased by a bad guy, and, as hard as we try to move our legs to run, we stand still as though pressed against an invisible wall.

It’s a horribly fatalist viewpoint to say that we have no control over our own lives. But sometimes, that’s how it feels.

Clearly, I had zero control over the fact that my lousy school district riffed me despite my having helped raise my students’ ISAT scores by nearly fourteen percent--in one year. I had no control over the fact that twenty four more teachers from that same district--some of whom are my dear friends--also got riffed this year. I also had no control over the fact that the grossly inept superintendent of that lousy school district received a $41,000 salary increase this year, an amount of money, which, incidentally, is more than a first-year teacher in that district earns in an entire year.

But I digress.

While I’ve been on this “sabbatical” from teaching (gotta love euphemisms, huh!), I’ve tried on a daily basis to be proactive in fighting off those fatalist beliefs, doing whatever I can to take back control of my life.

So what have I done with myself all these months--aside from applying for every job in the state of Illinois?

I started a blog, mostly to vent about the teaching profession (not that I’m bitter, or anything).

With that blog, I was lucky enough to gain a very small, but very loyal, following--even people I had never met in person (official praise for Suz and Jenny!).

As the blog progressed, it somehow morphed into the makings of a book about the crazy family I worked for as an au pair in France some years ago. And it’s that book that has been the antidote to my fatalist fears.

But right now I’m in the process of revising that “book,” and I can’t tell you how mind numbingly painful it is to re-read one’s own writing when the writing is god-awful poor. Honestly, I haven't felt this insecure since grad school.

Am I fishing for compliments, as Adam might teasingly suggest? Absolutely not. When I’ve written something decent, I can feel it, taste it. Heck, I can smell it in the air.

Rather, what I’m dealing with now is simple stagnation--the lack of progress that comes with dreading the revision of that next deplorable chapter.

So on the days when I simply can’t stand to edit even one more “He said,” or “She glanced with narrowed eyes,” I go for a run and contemplate the positives of my life, insisting that I at least try to see the benefits of not being in the classroom this year.

This is what I came up with:

1). I’m able to spend more time planning healthy, delicious meals for Adam and me. The other night, Adam grilled turkey burgers. We added some roasted red peppers and...the rest is history. This is a photo of my “perfect bun-less burger”--ten points to the first person who can actually spot the burger!

2). I get to hang out with friends like Val and Nicole, who call me and get me out of the house because for some reason, they still think I’m fun to hang with.

3). I have more time to exercise. Pathetic as it sounds, I actually bought a machine called the “Leg Magic” from an infomercial that played on television every day when I was in graduate school. (Yes, I watched television even though I should have been working on my thesis!) Only recently did I start to use it seriously and I’ve already lost an inch around my waste...yay!

4). Best of all, being away from the classroom has allowed me to remember the good things about teaching. I remember a student from last year; I’ll call him “Isaiah.” We were beginning a poetry portfolio project toward the end of the year, and Isaiah--a student who was beyond the bane of my existence all year--told me, “I can’t write no poems, Ms. Smith. Especially no sonnets.” By the end of the year, Isaiah had written the most beautiful English sonnet, and, to me, it was a small miracle.

I realize I have no control over whether or not I get called for interviews. If I revise my résumé one more time, I’ll be able to publish the myriad versions of it as a book in itself.

But it’s nice to be able to miss things about something you’d come to resent. It’s nice to miss the good things about teaching.

The little miracles.

Au Pair (of Shoes) Part 9: War and Peace

2010-01-05T10:48:00.000-08:00

It came to me again that night, one of two recurring nightmares that have plagued my subconscious since I was old enough to remember my dreams.

I’m running because I am late. Feverish and afraid. Desperate to make it there on time because if I don’t I will be deemed unfit, less than, inadequate. And what could be worse than that? What could be worse than being late for school, all those faces turning to look as you open the heavy wooden door with the window too high for you to peek through before entering, unable to see ahead of time if Ashley McReads-a-lot is smirking as she finishes early the test you’ve yet to begin? What could be worse than being a straight-A English student arriving late to English class?

The only thing I can think of is being an English teacher arriving late to English class.

Sometimes, in the same dream, I would be both, two different halves trying to complete the same whole, so as to please everyone who needed to be pleased. Student becoming teacher. Teacher never really leaving the state of student-hood.

There is a test that day, and I haven’t studied. I don’t even know what the test is about. I sweat. I start to cry. And then the feeling begins: a dull, silent throbbing in my belly and then the pulling. A visceral, vaudeville yank that thrusts me off stage into the cool, derisive darkness. I wake to uneven breath, and Adam knows why. “Freud would have a field day,” he jokes, as he nuzzles in closer to hold me.

This time, I was alone--no one to make light of my lunatic dreams, my fear of inadequacy. Today was the first day of school, and even though I was neither student nor teacher, I was some foreign manifestation of the two, and therefore compelled to make those two halves complete. Yes, I would start fresh with a new school year, as I always did before. And I would definitely not be late.

* * *

06:00. My alarm was spewing bad French pop, and I accidentally hit the “off” button instead of the snooze. I fell back to sleep instantly, that dream running rampant through my mind.

07:00. I woke up suddenly with barely enough time to run down the Cinderella stairs and then up the double helix to wake the children on time.

“Lia,” I said, gently nudging her. “Time to get up.”

She ignored me until I made threats.

“Maybe you don’t really need to borrow my...”

“All right, all right,” she groused. “I’m up!”

I didn’t believe her, at all, so I waited until I saw her walk down the hall to the bathroom.

And she was the easy one!

“Stuart,” I said, knocking on his door. I walked in and immediately put my hand to my nose.

“Time to wake up, sweetie.” I poked him gently until he finally stirred. I turned on the lamp on the night stand, which cast just enough light on his bedding to reveal a grayish ring of wet around him.

“Come on, Stuart,” I said again. “You don’t want to be late on the first day, do you?”

“I’m coming.”

“Lia’s in the shower right now, but you’re next, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

I sat down beside him for a moment, wishing there were something I could do to make him feel safe.

“You up, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m up.”

Calixthe was down the hall with Minnie. I waved her toward me with a look on my face that she recognized. I put my hand to my nose and pointed to Stuart’s door as a warning, knowing the laundering would be left to her.

She waved her hand and rolled her eyes. “Dat’s a piece of cake compared to da other stuff.”

Greeted by the same stench in Soryah’s room, I tried my best not to let on that I knew.

“First day of school, Soryah!” I said with a gentle nudge. “Are you excited?”

“Yeah. Well, no not really,” she said, and then we laughed.

She rolled out of bed, suddenly aware of being wet. Her face fell, and she averted her eyes as she darted out of the room.

“Lia, hurry up!” shouted Stuart. “You’re not the only person who lives here, ya know.”

“Yeah, Lia!” Soryah chimed in. “Hurry up, stupid!”

“Lia?” I said, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Yeeessss?” she answered.

“Spit-spot!” I sang, à la Mary Poppins. “Time’s a wastin’!”

“I’ll be right out!”

When it was Soryah’s turn to shower, I reminded her about using soap.

“I know! I know!” she insisted.

“Don’t forget,” I added, intent on proving to Netta that I did, in fact, advocate children’s use of soap.

By the time Soryah and Stuart were slurping milk from the bottom of their cereal bowls, I had knocked on Lia’s bedroom door a total of nine times, after each of which she had replied, “Be right there!”

When she finally decided to grace us with her presence, it was already time to leave, and she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen with her face buried in a book.

“Lia,” I said, “what took you so long up there?”

“I was reading.”

“What? You were reading? What were you reading?”

She turned the book around to show me a title that read, “The Life of King Henry V.”

“Wow,” I said, “impressive. But now there’s no time for breakfast, and your mom insisted that all of you eat...”

“But I’m not even hungry.”

“Lia, you’re not making this easy on me.”

“Don’t worry. Mom’s not gonna care. She won’t even know.”

“Lia, if your mother asks if all you guys ate breakfast, I’m not to going to lie to her.”

Well, maybe just this once!

James came galloping in with a clap of his hands.

“Who’s ready for the first day of school?”

Instant cheers and laughter as three children climbed all over their father.

“Good morning, Christina.”

“Good morning, James.”

“I trust you slept well.”

Not really!

“I slept fine. Thanks.”

“Well, off we go,” he said. “Are you ready, Christina.”

“Yes,” I said, looking a hot mess from lack of sleep, no shower, and chasing his evil spawn all over his over-sized house. “I’m ready.”

Lia’s nose was back in her book as she navigated her way out the side door and into the car.

“I get shotgun!” shouted Stuart.

“No, me!” countered Soryah.

“Guys,” James injected. “Chrissy will sit in front, okay?”

Thoughts of the night before flashed through my mind as I climbed into the front seat of the shiny Mercedes SUV. Fires, scarves, fear, hatred, love. As I turned to my left to buckle my belt, James’s eyes briefly met mine. I adjusted the belt, trying to loosen it, and then looked out the window in a daze.

“The children attend the International School, which is only blocks from here,” James said as he pulled out of the driveway. “It’s one of the best in the world. That’s why we chose to live here.”

“I remember your telling me,” I replied, eyes still out the window. “How wonderful for the kids to have that opportunity. As a teacher, I can relate to...”

“Oh, the teachers are some of the best. And the students--they’re from every country you can think of.”

“Sort of a mini United Nations, huh?”

James replied with a half-smile--I, once again, having failed to impress him with my dazzling wit.

As we pulled up to the school, I was stunned by its size. To me, it looked more like a college campus than a K-12 school. Rolling hills and tree-lined paths lead the way to ivy-covered buildings with tall, gothic-style windows. I immediately thought back to my own days in elementary school, how different this environment was from my small, catholic school experience. I thought how ideal to have children learning firsthand--at a very early age--about the need for diversity, about embracing what is different in order to find out that it is the same. How beautiful to see children from places like India, Sweden, and Iraq chasing one another around a schoolyard kicking soccer balls and playing hopscotch. How simple they made it all look.

“Let’s go, little Silverados!” James said, as he herded the children toward the main entrance. It was a beautiful, late-summer morning. Sunlight glinting off the green leaves, the scent of lilac wafting from the trees, and the soft sounds of swiftly spoken French fluttering through the air like butterflies.

I stood there for quite some time, watching James greet the parents of his children’s friends, pleasantly chatting it up without once stopping to introduce me to anyone. It was at least thirty minutes later that a very nice woman went out of her way to bring me into the conversation, having noticed me standing meekly behind James. By that point, though, my panties were so in a bunch that I could barely see straight and simply wanted to get away from him, from that place.

So much for my fresh start.

“James,” I eventually said, “should I walk the children to their classrooms so that I can meet their teachers? I know that Netta wanted me to...”

“That’s all right. We’ll do it some other time. I have a plane to catch, and I’m already running late.”

One final farewell to the children and off we went.

“Have you decided what you’ll do to fill the time during the day--now that the children are in school?” James asked as we drove back to the house.

“No, not really,” I said. “I haven’t had much time to think about it. I’d like to take a class of some sort.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something to keep you busy,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

I reached down to rub my foot, as I had suddenly gotten a cramp. When I straightened up, I felt his eyes upon me.

“Here we are,” James said, pulling up to the driveway. Calixthe ran out to open the gate, and suddenly I felt sick.

“I could have gotten out to get the gate, James...”

He ignored me, and instead sat back and watched Calixthe as she struggled to open the heavy iron gate.

Sick, I tell you! Sick!

“Well, have a good trip,” I said, practically leaping out of the car. Graceful swan that I am, I tripped and fell, scraping my ankle as I did so.

“Goodness,” shrieked James. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, rushing to get up before he tried to help me.

“Let me help you up.”

“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Calixthe was half laughing at my gracefulness when she saw what had happened.

“Just couldn’t wait to get back home, eh?”

“Of course!” I said.

“Well wait till you see what Netta has in store for you today!”

“Oh, I’m all atingle! What about you? What are your duties this morning?”

“What do you tink?”

Together we whispered, “Laundry!”

Laughing our way back to the house, Calixthe and I stopped short of entering when we caught Netta and James in a loving embrace.

“Call when you arrive, all right?” Netta asked, just before noticing us.

“I will,” said James.

James grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. A company car had just arrived to take him to the airport.

“Goodbye, Christina.” He was standing in the doorway, smiling.

“So long.”

Farewell! Auf wiedersehen! Good night! See ya!

And with that he was off to Africa.

True to form, Netta wasted no time in reminding me why I disliked her.

“Christina,” she said, not even looking my way when she re-entered the kitchen. “I’d like to see you in the den. There’s a few things I’d like to discuss.”

“All right.”

I followed her down the hall toward the front door that was used only for “special occasions.” The den was just to the right of it.

“Here is a revised version of the children’s emploi du temps,” Netta explained, gesturing for me to sit down in the chair beside her desk.

As I made my way to the chair, I took a moment to survey my surroundings. Book shelves towered from floor to ceiling like skyscrapers. Behind the desk hung James’s MBA diploma from Harvard. Beside it was Netta’s PhD. Tucked away in a corner was a tiny television set so old it had knobs. There was no cozy couch to lounge around on, no Lazy-Boy chair in which to be lazy. Later, when I asked Calixthe what they sat on to watch TV, she said, “The floor.”

“I’ve made some changes in their hourly schedule,” Netta began. “I feel they need more time devoted to their studies and less time playing with friends.”

“All right.”

Netta looked up from the paper and stared at me.

“Is that all you have to say, Christina?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. You have no reactions? No questions as to why I made these changes?”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand what you’re asking me, Netta. You explained what you wanted, and I agreed. What was I supposed to say?”

Netta took off her glasses, exhaling a laundry load of frustration.

Laundry!

“What I mean, Christina, is that I don’t understand your lack of interest in the children’s well being.”

“I beg to differ, Netta. I accompanied them to school this morning, eager to meet their friends, their teachers, and, to be quite frank, when I tried to do just that, James said there wasn’t enough time. So, really, I am interested in their ‘well-being’ as you put it.”

Netta was flustered.

“I’m sure that James had a good reason for not making sure that you met their teachers.”

I’m sure he did!

“Will that be all, Netta?” I asked, moving toward the edge of the chair.

“Actually, there is one more thing. I’m rather upset that you were late in waking Lia this morning. It is imperative that the children eat a solid breakfast every morning--we’ve discussed that--and yet you sent Lia off to school with not so much as a glass of milk.”

Lia, Lia, Lia!

“I knocked on her door several times, Netta, but she was...”

“She was what?”

“She was reading...all morning...which isn’t a bad thing, at all, but short of breaking the door down, I’m not sure what you expected me to do.”

Netta began shaking her head and then stopped to look at me with her fierce, mountain lion eyes.

“Maybe we made a mistake,” she said with a flick of her hair.

“I’m sorry?”

“James and I. I think...we may have made a mistake agreeing to give you another chance.”

“Oh.”

“We discussed it last night...and reached the conclusion that it would be too traumatizing to the children to let you go so quickly.”

“And why is that?”

Because they love, love, LOVE me?

“Because they seem fond of you for the most part,” Netta said.

Aha!

“That’s nice to hear, Netta. Thank you. That means a lot.”

Another exhaled breath.

“Do you want to stay here, Christina?”

“I think so. I mean, I don’t want to leave.”

“All right, then. We’ll give it one more try and see if we can’t make this work...for the children’s sake.”

“That sounds fair.”

“If you noticed on the schedule, you have quite a bit of free time during the day while the children are at school. Have you thought about how you plan to spend that time?”

“Actually, James and I discussed that earlier. I think I’d like to take a class at the school where Calixthe is enrolled. It’s within walking distance, correct?”

Another smile from Netta. This time, though, it was genuine.

“That’s a marvelous idea, Christina. Good for you.”

“Maybe I’ll even have a class with Calixthe.”

The guffaw that Netta let out was otherworldly.

“I don’t think so, Christina,” she eventually said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Calixthe’s French is, how shall I say, abominable! She can barely handle the beginner’s class.”

“Really? I think she just needs more practice, is all. I think she has a knack for it.”

“That is extremely kind of you, but I disagree. Her French is...well I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Well, is that all, then?” I asked, edging ever closer to falling off my chair.

“Yes. You are dismissed.”

“Netta?”

“Yes?”

“I did have one little question about...my...curfew?”

“What about it?”

“I just wanted to know if there were any way that, at least on weekends, it could be extended past nine o’clock. That seems rather early to me. I am an adult, after all.”

At that moment, my nightmare flashed through my mind and once again I felt the struggle between student and teacher, child and adult.

“We’ve discussed that before...” 

“I know, but we never really resolved it...”

“We can’t just give you a key, Christina. And I retire early, so I simply can’t have the doors unlocked till all hours. Especially when James is away. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said, and then turned to leave.

“Oh, and don’t forget your copy of the emploi du temps.”

“How could I forget it?”

I walked into the kitchen where Calixthe was feeding the baby, whose face was smeared purple with puréed plums.

“The food goes inside the baby’s mouth, Calixthe. Not around it.”

She flicked a spoonful of purple at me, and before I could turn away, it was all over my face. If I hadn’t heard Netta’s footsteps, I would have sought my revenge.

“Quick!” Calixthe said, tossing me a towel.

“I’m going to pick up the children,” Netta said. “They’re coming home for lunch.”

When Netta returned, the children came scrambling in behind her.

“Go wash your hands, everyone.”

“Okay, mama.”

“I have to go make a phone call.”

As the children filed into the kitchen and took their places at the table, Calixthe laid out a lovely first-day-of-school lunch: turkey sandwiches on toasted rye bread, fresh fruit salad, cottage cheese, and beets.

“Oh, I love beets!” I said, as laughter erupted. “We used to have those all the time when I was a kid.”

“You like beets?” snickered Stuart.

“Yes, so what?”

More snickering.

“Do you know what “beet” means in French?”

“Oh, no,” I said, instantly annoyed. “Is it something gross?”

Lia--ever poised and far beyond such childishness--explained, “It’s spelled differently, and it’s merely a slang term, but...it means a man’s...private part.”

At that, Stuart and Soryah began their routine of rocking back and forth in their chairs like an overloaded washing machine. They were cackling like demented chickens.

“Stuart! Lia!” Netta exclaimed as she re-entered the kitchen. “Stop that nonsense! Now!”

They didn’t stop.

“Christina.”

Netta walked over to where I was sitting. I was prepared for her to blame me for her children’s insanity.

“These came for you today.” In her hands were two envelopes addressed to me.

Mail? For me? Oh, do I feel loved when I get letters!

I can’t remember if I thanked Netta, or just tore into them right then and there. Stuart and Soryah were oblivious to my joy, but Calixthe was excited as I was.

“Who are they from?”

“My sisters...and their kids.”

Inside were photos of my nieces and nephews blowing me kisses, hand-drawn pictures of me in France, standing beside the Eiffel Tower, and short notes written in marker telling me how much they loved me. And then, I saw the poem.

“Who is that from?” Calixthe asked.

“My niece. She’s only six years old.”

“Dark is dark and light is light.

There is nothing you or I can do to change that.

Love is love and hate is hate.

There is nothing you or I can do to change that.

War is war and peace is peace.

There is nothing you or I can do to change that...”

Netta hung back, so as not to intrude on the moment, and I was grateful for that because if she hadn’t, I would have had to tell her to mind her own damn business and step away. For the contents of those envelopes belonged to me and only to me and she deserved no part of what was mine. My family was in the contents of those envelopes, and they were what kept me alive when in the back of my mind I thought I might die from lack of love right there in that house, amidst all of the external beauty that surrounded me, the beauty of a place, the beauty of a dream that would soon grow dark and bleak and ugly.

I was sobbing uncontrollably as I sat at the kitchen table, smiling inwardly at the depth of a six year-old girl who reminded me so much of me, whose thoughts existed only in extremes, ever struggling to reconcile the two, as though such a thing were even possible.

It was twelve o’clock noon. In my periphery I saw Netta move toward the side door and click the lock closed, while the children cackled wildly over beets.

Au Pair (Of Shoes) Part 8: The snake in the garden

2009-12-10T09:57:00.000-08:00

In the darkness of the dining room, illumined only by flaming crème brûlée, I noticed Netta’s silver tray sloping slightly forward. She was trembling, but it wasn’t until Calixthe came running toward her that I became certain that Netta was losing her grip.

“I don’t need any help, Calixthe,” Netta said, coldly. Calixthe stepped back from her instantly, letting Netta place the tray of flaming cream firmly on the table, her hands suddenly steady.

The children were still singing, of course, but Netta ignored them, focusing solely on her contribution to the evening’s festivities, transfixed on the fire that burned in blue-white heat before her eyes. I, on the other hand, focused on the fire behind them.

“That’s the story of, that’s the glory of love.”

When the children finished singing, they rushed to their father’s side, climbing all over him as though on a jungle-gym. He responded, as did Calixthe and I, with a round of thunderous applause.

“Wow! The Singing Silvermans!” James joked. “Who knew?”

More laughter and loving exchanges between a father and his children.

Oh, the glory of love, love, love!

“Let’s sing Happy Birthday to your father,” insisted Netta, making a vain yet valiant effort to smile through her pain.

We sang, we ate, and we laughed until it came time to clear the dishes. The fire behind Netta’s eyes that had seemingly died down was instantly reignited.

“Lia, what in the world are you wearing around your neck?”

“It’s a scarf, Mama.”

“Whose is it?”

Lia glanced over at me then back at her mother.

“It’s Chrissy’s. She said I could borrow it for the show.”

Netta coughed up a laugh.

“It’s seventy-nine degrees outside. You look silly wearing a scarf.”

“Chrissy said it looked pretty on me.”

“It’s time for bed anyway. Give the scarf back to Christina.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Lia unlooped the pretty blue scarf and handed it to me with her head down.

“You can borrow it any time, sweetie.”

“Thanks.”

“Now let’s all go upstairs and get ready for tomorrow, okay?”

“Awwww!” whined the children in unison.

“I know, I know. Come on, it won’t be so bad.”

The children kissed their parents good night and wished their father one last happy birthday.

“Hey, you guys were great, tonight,” James assured the Singing Silvermans. “Now scoot.”

Netta still wouldn’t look at me. When I offered to help her and Calixthe with the dishes, it was James who acknowledged me.

“I think we have it under control, Christina. Thanks.”

Once upstairs, I set about selecting the children’s first-day-of-school outfits, attempting to capture the “essence” of each individual child. After everyone’s choppers had been brushed, and all were tucked in with a book to read, Soryah asked me to continue our reading of The Secret Garden.

“So you really like this story, huh, Soryah.”

“Yeah. It’s really good.”

“What is it that you like about it so far?” I asked, wondering if Soryah saw the similarities between herself and little Mary Lennox.

“I don’t know. It’s just good.”

Soryah hopped into her bed and I sat on the chair beside it, reading aloud a story about a wealthy, spoiled little girl who was about to realize what it meant to be alone in the world.

“She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother...Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said they were "full of lace." They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face.”

“Who is that boy her mother is talking to?”

“We need to read on to find out.”

As I read, I would watch Soryah’s facial expression, noting how dramatically it shifted at certain times.”

“It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.”

“I don’t know what I would do if that ever happened to me,” Soryah said, looking sad and frightened. "I'd be scared if I was alone in a house with a snake and there was nobody who loved me to protect me."

“Me too. But don’t worry, sweetie,” I assured her. “Your parents aren’t going anywhere.”

On the way back to my room, I thought about what I had just said to Soryah and realized it was something of a lie. James would be leaving for Africa after he took the children to school the next day. And it was rumored that Netta would be leaving for England some time in November.

Walking past the living room, I saw Netta and James sitting by the fire, talking quietly.

But it’s seventy-nine degrees outside!

Calixthe was still in the kitchen finishing the dishes.

“Hey, can I help you with anything?” I asked.

“No tanks,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s pretty much done.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Dat’s cause I am.”

“Did Netta even help you?”

Calixthe shook her head again. “No. But...”

We could barely utter our motto, “How man go do?” without laughing. I was just so grateful for the laughter.

We walked upstairs and as I entered my room, I realized I had left my blue scarf in the living room. I considered leaving it there till morning, but then I felt that Netta might deem it thoughtless or rude to leave my personal belongings strewn about her home.

So I headed back down, and as I approached the living room I saw James still sitting in his chair, staring at the fire, alone, in near darkness. He gave me a quick glance when he heard my footsteps.

“Christina,” he said, looking back at the fire. “Why don’t you come sit down for a minute.”

“I left my scarf down here after dinner...I just came down to get it...”

“That’s all right. Come and sit down.”

The fire flickered and flashed across James’s face, casting an eerie glow in his green, cat-like eyes. He glanced at my freshly painted pink toenails.

“How are things going so far.”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?

“Yes.”

“Come on. You can be honest.”

Silence ensued for at least a minute. What on earth could I have said? I didn’t at all believe that James really cared how I was doing, let alone that he wanted me to be honest. Eventually, I came up with what I thought was a pretty diplomatic response.

“Well, to be fair I think we’re all going through a period of adjustment right now. I think it’s going to take some time for things to run smoothly.”

He puffed on his cigar in an exaggerated way, rounding his lips after sliding the cigar out of his mouth.

“I’m going to be frank, Christina. Netta and I feel that you’re not...living up to the expectations we had of you when we hired you. We feel like you’re not reinforcing the rules that we’ve had in place for our children for years.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, James.”

Another puff of his cigar.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You see...the problem is that Netta feels that you don’t respect her. And...I’m not sure if that’s something she can ever come to terms with.”

“With all due respect, James, I feel the same way. About Netta.”

The fire popped and crackled, sending a lone spark sailing through the grate. It looked like a van Gogh painting, where just about everything appeared to be moving upward in swift, jagged lines, where every part of the painting looked like fire.

James uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I mean, things don’t have to be so unpleasant.”

“I never said they were unpleasant, James.”
“Let’s be honest, Christina. It’s fairly obvious that you’re unhappy, here.”

I didn’t appreciate being psychoanalyzed--again--especially by him.

“I guess that makes all of us, then, James. It’s fairly obvious to me that you and Netta are unhappy. With me.”

James smiled and shook his head. He looked down at his hands and then back at me, again with those eyes.

“It’s getting late, Christina.”

“Good night, James,” I said, rising from the chair.

“Tomorrow is the first day of school,” he said, dabbing out his cigar.

“Yes. Big day.”

“I’ll be taking the children, and we’d like you to come, as well, so that you can see the layout of the school, meet their teachers...stuff like that.”

“Yes, of course. Netta suggested I go along. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good.”

“Well, like you said, it’s late. I should be getting to bed.”

“Me too.”

“Good night, James.”

“Good night, Christina.”

I was almost to the kitchen when James called me back.

“Hey, you forgot your scarf.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Standing in front of the fire, he placed the delicate scarf in my hand.

“That’s a very pretty scarf.”

He stood there, much too long. And then, a voice.

“James.”

Both of us turned around and saw Netta standing in her robe, holding the flap closed with her bejeweled fist. Her face was hidden by the harsh hallway light behind her.

“I was just getting my scarf, Netta. Good night.”

“See you in the morning,” James said.

“Oh, and Happy Birthday!” I called over my shoulder.

I hurried past Netta, through the kitchen and up the Cinderella stairs to my room. I threw into a corner the scarf that I used to love, took off the clothes that were suddenly suffocating me, and stepped into the shower. The water was still ice cold, but I stayed in anyway, letting it fall all over me, numbing me. I grabbed the bottle of body wash that hung from the shower head and laughed until I cried, thinking how proud Netta would be that I had remembered to use soap.

Au Pair (Of Shoes) Part 7: "The eye is on fire"

2009-12-07T11:35:00.000-08:00

As irritated as I was that Soryah might have been the one to replace the clothes I had pulled out for her the night before, I couldn’t really blame her for rebelling. If she had in fact pretended to be asleep, waited for me to leave, and dug through her dresser to find something--anything--else to wear besides what I had selected, deep down I sort of understood her motivation.

Despite their mother’s strict expectations, these children were very deeply devoted to her. And that’s how it should be. They should want their mother to be the one to read them a story at night, pick out their clothes, reminisce about the “chaotic” day they’d just had, and wind down together as mother and child--as a family.

So that is why, at least at that moment, I could not be upset with Soryah. She was rebelling against a foreign presence in her family, an invader of intimate moments that ought to be initiated by a mother or father instead of an au pair. The more time I spent with the Silverman children, the more I became convinced that each and every one of the tiny rebellions they plotted was nothing more than a cry for help, an appeal for affection from parents who were often absent, even when they were physically present.

But honestly, I didn’t actually believe that Soryah was the magical fashion fairy who had seen my selection and sneered. On the contrary, as preposterous as it seemed to me at the time, I was fairly certain that Netta had been the one to do the deed. She had been the one to sneak into Soryah’s room, decide to question my fashion sense, and select an entirely different outfit for her daughter to wear. Once again, she had found fault with my approach to the most insignificant of tasks, as she apparently deemed dangerous my questionable flair for fashion.

And that’s just how it was going to be between Netta and me, for the next four months: The mountain lion protecting her cubs from the very wolf that she, herself, had welcomed into the pride.

* * *

“Hurry up and get dressed, sweetie,” I said to Soryah who’d been giving me the evil eye. “Time to take a shower.”

“Aawww! Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You still have to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because your mother said so.”

“I’m gonna go ask her.”

Calixthe, who had come upstairs to tend to little two-year old Yasmine--whom they called Minnie-- had overheard Sorya’s protestations and immediately put in her two cents.

“You can’t ask your mother,” Calixthe explained with arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Why not?” screamed Soryah.

“Because she’s not here,”

“Well, where’d she go?”

“She had an early meeting. Now stop your whining and do as Chrissy says, do you hear?”

Soryah had no trouble hearing her; it was the heeding part that came as a challenge.

“I don’t feel like taking a shower!” Soryah screamed again, this time with a full-blown foot stomp, nostrils flaring.

“That’s it,” Calixthe said, grabbing Soryah by the hand.

“Let me go!” shouted Soryah in clipped, blood-curdling screams. “LET-ME-GO!” She repeated this phrase in short, staccato notes until Calixthe grabbed her by the arms and dragged her into the bathroom, turning Soryah’s staccato screams into the long, sustained final chord of a Beethoven sonata.

It seemed wrong of me to find this funny, but I couldn’t help myself. I stepped back as Calixthe shoved Soryah into the running shower, fully dressed, letting the water gently muffle those blood-curdling screams. Calixthe waited until she finally saw Soryah begin to disrobe, taking that as her cue that she’d accomplished her mission.

Calixthe quietly closed the bathroom door, and brushed off her hands comically as a sign that the incident was all in a day’s work.

“I could never have done that, Calixthe,” I said, eyes wide, completely in awe of her masterful handling of the situation. She rolled her eyes and said, “How man go do?”

The laughter that ensued was enough to sustain my spirit for the entire duration of my stay in the Silverman home. The laughter, oh the laughter!

While Calixthe and I were enjoying ourselves, Stuart stomped out of his bedroom and threatened to tell his mother on Calixthe for having made poor little Soryah cry.

“Go ahead and tell your mother,” Calixthe said, still laughing. “I have plenty of tings to tell her about you, too.”

This displeased Stuart in a way that pleased me. Immature? Yes. Forgivable? I should think so.

“You’re next in line to shower, Stuart, okay?” I asked, truly trying to play nice.

“Uh-huh.”

As Stuart stood there pouting, the bathroom door opened and out walked soggy little Soryah. Though Soryah and Stuart didn’t really resemble one another all that much, their pouting faces made them look like twins.

“Did you brush your teeth, Soryah?” I asked, still trying to play nice.

“No.”

“Well, let’s march back in there and brush those choppers.”

“What?” she said, suddenly smiling.

“I said, let’s brush those choppers.”

“Why do you call them choppers?”

“Haven’t you ever seen that old cartoon with the singing tooth? Wait--I guess you’re way too young, or I’m way too old. Anyway, there’s this tooth and he starts singing about the importance of ‘brushing one’s choppers to avoid tooth decay.’”

Children are strange little creatures, that is for sure. But if I had been told that they would have found my “brush your choppers” tale amusing, I never would have believed it.

“So let’s go brush those choppers, brush those choppers, yeah!” For reasons unknown to God and the universe, I have this tendency to compose silly rhythmic chants. If you were one of my students, you would know very well of what I speak.

Before I knew it, Soryah, Stuart and I were clapping, snapping and chanting our little ditty: “Gotta brush those choppers, brush those choppers, yeah, yeah!” We conga-lined into the bathroom where they grabbed their tooth brushes, squeezed out the toothpaste, and without any form of begging, pleading, or dragging, they did what I had asked them to do.

Thank you, sweet Jesus!

Pretty soon, Lia had joined in, and the four of us were chanting and conga-lining down the double helix. To be honest, it was straight out of an episode of The Nanny.

Oh, what a glorious spectacle were we!

By the time we made it to the foot of the stairs, we were all out of breath from laughing, and, for one sweet moment, it felt like home.

“What other fun songs do you know, Chrissy?” Lia asked, grabbing the giant juice-box-like carton of milk from the pantry.

Yes! The French drink warm milk from a giant juice-box! Who knew?

“Umm.” First of all, it was hilarious that Lia had called what we had just done, a “song.” Secondly, to ask me to name “what other fun songs I knew” would be like asking Bette Midler to name all of the fun songs she knew.

“Well, how about this one?” I started to sing a few bars of American songwriter Billy Hill’s “Glory of Love,” and the kids were hooked, all of them.

“You've got to give a little, take a little,

And let your poor heart break a little.

That's the story of, that's the glory of love."

During breakfast that morning, between sloppy chomps of French cereal, I taught the three Silverman children the lyrics and harmony parts of that classic song. We rehearsed, and rehearsed again, for what--I didn’t yet know. But later that morning, when Calixthe had mentioned that James would be returning from Belgium that evening for his birthday dinner, I thought that maybe the children could put on a little show.

“So it’s James’s birthday today?” I asked Calixthe, wondering why the children hadn’t mentioned it.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not until next week, but he’s going to be away. So they’re celebrating tonight.”

It would have been nice if Netta kept me abreast of such things, but I digress.

“Do you think I should have the kids sing for James and Netta?” I asked Calixthe.

“Why not?” she said with a shrug.. “I tink it would be nice.”

And so it was on. The Family von Silverman would be putting on a show!

“Do you think Netta will approve of her children engaging in such questionable activity?” I asked Calixthe.

“I tink she should be glad to see them doing some-ting other than screaming like spoiled brats and driving us nuts,” she replied. “But, what do I know?”

“Lia has a really pretty voice, don’t you think?”

“Yes. She sings all dah time. When she’s not reading, she’s singing.”

“Does Netta know that she likes to sing and that she’s good at it?”

“I tink Netta knows, but doesn’t really care about such tings.”

Calixthe was right, but I still wanted to go through with the performance. After all, it was just one song, right? What could possibly go wrong?

As various doomsday scenarios played out in my head, the gate buzzer sounded through the foyer. With a roll of her eyes, Calixthe ran out the side door and down the driveway to open the gate for Queen Netta.

The second Netta walked through the door, dressed in a sleek suit, carrying a sharp black briefcase, I could tell she was not in a good mood. Her high heels clickety-clacked back and forth across the ceramic-tiled floor, as she began the preparations for what was to be James’s welcome home feast.

I’d just been standing there in the kitchen with Calixthe, both of us stupidly waiting for Netta to acknowledge our presence, when her tepid greeting finally arrived.

“Hello, Christina,” she finally said after an awkward amount of time had passed. “Where are the children?”

I thought about what they were probably doing at that moment upstairs in Lia’s room: singing, dancing, laughing, a.k.a. ruining their chances of ever becoming President. I didn’t want to lie about what they were up to, but I also didn’t want to ruin their surprise.

How’s that for rationalization?

“They’re in their rooms,” I mumbled.

“I didn’t ask where they were, Christina. I asked what it was they were doing.”

“Um, I was just about to sit down with each of them individually so that we could begin to develop the grid you discussed with me.”

“That’s fine. Please make sure to show it to me before you type up the final draft.”

Type the final draft?

“Fine,” I said, completely bewildered by this woman.

“Oh, and so you know, tonight we’re celebrating James’s birthday. He’ll be back from his trip around five o’clock, and the children will want to spend the evening with him, as he will with them. So if you could make sure that all of the children have their clothes laid out and their school supplies in their backpacks before dinner, that will alleviate the stress of their having to worry about it after dinner when they’ll be tired. You did remember that tomorrow is their first day of school?”

“Yes, I did. I’ll help them prepare their things for the morning, but um, I was wondering if you’d rather have Calixthe select their clothes from now on, or maybe you’d like to do it yourself.”

Netta took her head out of the cabinet where it had been during this entire exchange.

“What do you mean, Christina? If I had wanted Calixthe to pick out the children’s clothes, I would have asked her and not you.”

“Well...” I considered whether or not this battle would be worth fighting. I was presumably stuck there for at least four months unless of course they fired me. Upon realizing that the former scenario was more likely than not how things would go, I went for it.

“Well,” I continued, “it’s just that I noticed that someone had laid out different clothes for Soryah. When I went in there this morning, there was an entirely different outfit on her chair. I just assumed you didn’t like what I had chosen.”

Netta was staring at me. Not in an “I’m going to kill you” sort of way, but rather, a “You little witch” sort of way. Calixthe pretended to busy herself with something in the pantry. She knew all too well what Netta’s look meant.

“If you must know, Christina, I thought what you picked out didn’t really go together as an outfit. It didn’t... capture Soryah’s... playful essence, so I simply picked out something that did. Is that a problem?”

I had absolutely no idea what Netta was talking about, so I responded only with a nod and then excused myself. Seriously, Soryah’s essence? Was she kidding me? The only “essence” of Soryah that I could detect thus far was of an extremely spoiled little girl who was in dire need of parental attention. As I walked out of the kitchen, I saw Calixthe laughing behind the giant juice-box of milk she’d just taken out of the pantry.

Once upstairs, I went straight to Lia’s room, where I knew they were all rehearsing for the big show. Having seen Netta’s mood, though, I was beginning to think maybe I should call the whole thing off.

You say potato, and I say po-tah-to...Let’s call the whole thing off! It’s a sickness, I tell you!

When I entered Lia’s room, there they all were--singing in harmony like sweet little angels. I didn’t want it to end.

“Hey, guys, you sound really nice, but it’s time to sit down and prepare this week’s grid.”

“Aawwwww!”

“I know. But it shouldn’t take that long, right?”

Wrong!

Netta’s instructions were for me to determine what I saw as each child’s strengths and weaknesses, and then help them set specific goals based on that assessment.

First I sat with Lia, thinking hers would be the easiest, and it was. We talked for a few minutes, and she was done. Next was Soryah, who I thought might be a bit more of a challenge, and she was. She couldn’t seem to admit any of her own faults, much to the detriment of our progress, as we sat there for forty minutes trying to arrive at at least one area in which she possibly, ever so minimally, might need to improve.

Eventually, it was Stuart’s turn, and boy was I dreading it. For forty-five minutes, I sat in a chair, trying to get him to sit in a chair next to me. For close to an hour, I watched Stuart wriggle and roll over in his desk chair, bouncing from one wall to the next, completely incapable of sitting still for more than a second.

Needless to say, I had no trouble in outlining what I perceived to be Stuart’s areas of weakness, the primary area of concern being his mind numbingly annoying hyperactivity, a concern which I would euphemistically label as an “inability to focus.”

When you’re good, you’re good!

Just as I was finishing up with Stuart, Lia and Soryah went running down the hall, squealing with delight.

Apparently, Daddy was home.

Stuart darted out of the room and down the double helix. I followed the children downstairs, being greeted by the scent of roast duck wafting from the kitchen.

It was such a strange moment for me, watching the children climb all over their father, hugging him, smiling, telling him how much they had missed him. I almost felt like I was part of this family, maybe because I knew how much these children needed their father, and how much they had missed him when he was gone. Witnessing such an intimate family moment made my heart swell with love for those children because it made me feel good to see them happy. They were a complicated family, but a family nonetheless.

“Dinner is served, everyone,” Netta announced. “Go wash up, children.”

The meal that Netta and Calixthe had created was a feast for the eyes and nose as much as for the belly. Roast duck with cranberry-apple jelly, rice with a shitake mushroom sauce, broiled asparagus drizzled with butter, and freshly baked baguette.

We ate, we talked, and we actually laughed as we sat together, as a family, savoring that sumptuous feast. Netta didn’t really look at me much, or maybe it was I who had averted my eyes from her. Either way, for the first time since the day I arrived, I felt welcome.

“I’m going to get dessert,” Netta announced as the meal drew to a close.

“Let me help you, Netta,” I said.

“That’s really not necessary...”
“No, I insist.”

I followed Netta into the kitchen, hoping I had made the right decision. Soryah ran up behind us and grabbed onto her mother’s leg.

“Soryah, what has gotten into you?” Netta asked, attempting to loosen her daughter’s grasp.

“Nothing, Mama!” she answered. “I just love you!”

“Oh, my goodness, Soryah!” Netta exclaimed, wincing as though she’d just smelled bad cheese. “Did you take a shower this morning?”

“Yes, Mama,” is all Soryah had to say on the subject. She looked up at me, daring me to tattle.

“Well, did you wash properly, Soryah? Christina, did you make sure she washed...with soap?”

I thought of all the ways to wash oneself without soap. I was stumped.

“Christina?”

“We were having some...difficulty...getting Soryah showered this morning. But I saw her get in there, and I assumed she washed...with soap...”

“So you didn’t stay with her and make sure she washed properly? She’s just a little girl, Christina. She doesn’t yet know how to maintain proper hygiene.”

Just as the words “I’m sorry” were about to leave my lips, I stopped myself and instead took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t aware that I would need to instruct Soryah on how to wash. But now I know.”

“Soryah, after dessert, you will march right upstairs and meet me in the bathroom, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Now go and take your place at the table.”

It was all my fault, really. Not the fact that little Soryah was running around the house unwashed and smelling like cheese. Rather, I never should have let my guard down as I had done during dinner, allowing myself to believe that maybe, just maybe I might be able to survive this god-awful experience. Once again, I had failed, and thanks to Netta, I was graciously reminded of that fact.

“I think I can handle dessert from here, Christina. Thank you.” And with that, after not having helped her at all, I went back to the dining room where the children were now jumping all over James, who, while puffing on a Cuban cigar, looked uncannily like the Monopoly Man. All he was missing was a top hat and monocle.

“Chrissy, let’s do the song, now, can we?” the children asked when they saw me enter. “Come on, let’s do it now! Can we? Can we?”

James looked surprised, but in a good way. He probably thought the “song” they were referring to was “Happy Birthday.”

“So sing the song, little Silverados,” James said, in between cigar puffs.

“Well, okay, but shouldn’t we wait for your mother?” I asked, suddenly feeling nervous.

Just then, Netta called from the kitchen for Calixthe to dim the dining room lights. The children leaped up and took their places for the performance. What happened next, I never could have imagined.

Calixthe dimmed the lights and the children began to sing.

"You gotta give a little, take a little, and let your poor heart break a little.

That's the story of, that's the glory of love.

You gotta laugh a little, cry a little, until the clouds roll by a little.

That's the story of, that's the glory of love."

Listening to those three children sing in perfect harmony, I started to cry. Instantly, tears welled in my eyes, blurring everything before me, softening the edges of my hostility toward them, toward Netta, toward all mankind. I couldn’t see, but I could hear a faint whisper of hope in my head, a fragile and feathery voice convincing me that I had made a difference in these children’s lives, that I had finally found a way to really reach them, through the magical, mystical language of music.

I looked over at James who was smiling with pride. Then Netta walked in, carrying a silver platter with seven flaming bowls of crème brûlée.

That’s how the French do birthday cake.

The children were singing, I was crying, James was smiling, and Netta--poor Netta--was staring at me through the flames that stood between us like a wall. Still wet and swollen with tears, my eyes couldn’t read with any accuracy the expression on Netta’s face. She stood there, holding that tray, as we both tried to understand what was happening on the other side of the flame, studying one another’s unsteady eyes that flashed blue and white in the fast, flickering light of the dimly lit room.

And then, it all came quietly crashing down.

Au Pair (Of Shoes) Part 6: The girl behind the gate

2009-12-01T07:05:00.000-08:00

Failure is a funny thing: It happens to everyone, but when it does, it generally comes in one big dose, one heaping plateful of fiasco, leaving in its wake a sort of silence that allows us to hear ourselves think, a certain space in which to work through the mess we’ve just made.

I, however, was not privileged with that kind of space, for since I had arrived at my new job, at my new home, living with my new boss, I had managed to fail in one remarkable way after another, building up a brand new, bizarro world résumé, one that highlighted the skills I sorely lacked, the qualifications I clearly did not possess.

That was something I simply was not used to. And I didn’t like it. All my life I had studied and worked and persevered, and was told that I was a good person--that I was talented and qualified to do the jobs that I was hired to do. After a while, I began to believe it.

But in one fell swoop, in a matter of two miserable days, all of that had changed for me. My confidence had been shattered, and I was beginning to feel like a failure because this weird little family had managed to convince me that I was.

As I stood in the kitchen upon returning from the forest, watching Stuart revel in his trickster’s triumph over the new nanny, I realized what this experience was going to be for me. In order for me to survive this family’s dysfunction, I would have to learn how to endure it. And the only way to do that would be for me to reach the children in some way. That might sound obvious, but in all of my years of teaching, I had never met such maladjusted children as these, so in order to reach them, as I knew I must, I would have to summon a new kind of strength, a strength that is rooted in patience, and, more importantly, compassion. I would have to be creative in my attempts to connect with these children, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy, especially with Stuart, who, at the moment, was smirking like the unbiddable little boy from Mary Poppins after having sent their last nanny screaming out the front door.

Calixthe knew the evil that was Stuart Silverman and knew exactly what he had done, but she was in a difficult position, as Stuart was her cousin--Netta’s son--and Calixthe, like me, was basically a guest in Netta’s home. She looked at me, wanting to say something more, but didn’t.

“My mom’s looking for you, Chrissy,” Stuart so kindly explained.

“Well, I look forward to speaking with her, Stuart,” I replied with a smile. “I’ll especially enjoy informing her how you rode off without telling me first, and nearly sent your little sister into convulsions.”

Yeah, take that!

“I tried to find you,” he said, “but I couldn’t. You were gone.”

“That’s pretty much impossible, Stu, as we never veered off the main path.”

Standing there listening to me, Stuart felt no fear. That was fairly obvious. But that really didn’t matter because I was not about to let myself fall victim to this incorrigible imp. I would not be chased off, scared away, or whisked out of sight like the fat, old nannies from Mary Poppins. I would exercise restraint, I would be in control, and I would try to show compassion. If that didn’t work, I’d take a cue from Stuart and move over to the dark side.

“Calixthe,” I said, my eyes still on Stuart. “Where’s Netta?”

“She ran to dah market. She’ll be back any minute.”

Just then a buzzing sound rang through the front foyer, causing Calixthe to drop her spatula and run out the side door.

“Where are you going?” I asked her before she’d closed the door.

“It’s Netta, at dah front gate,” she said. “I have to open dah gate!”

The speed with which Calixthe ran outside was mesmerizing. Had she really dropped what she was doing to open the gate for Netta? I didn’t fully understand the concept, based on the fact that in order to ring the buzzer, you need to get out of the car and walk up to the gate. Did Netta really follow such a ritual? Did she really expect Calixthe to forever stop whatever task she was in the middle of to run outside to open the gate so that Netta wouldn’t have to?

I had to see it for myself.

Running toward the front door, I nearly tripped over Stuart’s foot, which he had deliberately stuck out in an attempt to make me fall. Much to his dismay I leaped right over it.

Standing at the window, I peered through the curtain and saw Netta stepping back into her shiny Mercedes SUV as Calixthe struggled to pull back the heavy, wrought-iron gate in order for Netta to enter the long, brick-paved driveway.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Netta had trained Calixthe in the ways of subjugation, her own niece forced into a life of menial servitude.

At that moment, I didn’t have time to fully digest the magnitude of the cruelty I’d just witnessed, as my primary concern at the moment was the forest fiasco, for which I would surely be reprimanded. Still, in the back of my mind, I was quietly building a case against this family, images of soiled underclothes and Calixthe’s sad eyes beginning to cloud my thoughts.

“Christina, good, you’re back,” Netta said, placing her grocery bags on the kitchen table. “I heard you had a little trouble keeping track of my children this afternoon.”

I sort of had that coming, so I let her have her say. But, I too, would have mine when the time was right.

“Yes, Netta,” I began, “it seems Stuart had a different agenda for the afternoon’s activities. But he’s home now.”

“Christina, I know where my son is. Unfortunately, you--the person to whom I entrusted him--weren’t able to say the same this afternoon.”

“I know that it looks bad, Netta..”

“Looks bad?”

“Yes, it looks like I wasn’t responsible in keeping track of the children, but I assure you, I was. I was talking with Lia. We were getting to know one another, and Sorya was riding just ahead of us.”

“And Stuart?”

“Well, it seems he went a bit off the beaten path and must have left the forest via a different exit. But it’s not because I wasn’t keeping an eye on him. Truly, we were having a very nice time. And...”

“And?”

“Well, he’s home now, and that’s what matters, right?”

“Really? That’s all that matters, Christina?”

Netta had stopped unloading her bags to look at me.

“Now, that just sounds...well, I don’t know what to call that. Ignorant, maybe?”

“Excuse me? What exactly does that mean, Netta?”

Heart, pounding. Vision, blurred. Breath, stopped.

This was going to be it.

“Calixthe, would you please leave Christina and me alone? I need to have a word with her.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

Once again, Calixthe dropped the spatula into the bowl, leaving her chocolate cake only half-frosted.

“Christina,” Netta said, in a tone that tasted like ice cubes between my teeth. “I find it somewhat disconcerting that you are not more upset about the fact that you lost Stuart in the forest. Your job is to watch over them, to guide them, to nurture them, to challenge them, ensure their safety, enrich their lives!”

No, Netta. That’s YOUR job! I’m just the babysitter.

“Actually, I’m very upset, Netta,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “The truth is that Stuart went off and left the group without letting me know, and he did it on purpose.”

“So this is all Stuart’s fault?”

“No, it’s not all his fault, but it is partly his fault, Netta. He’s eleven years old. He knows right from wrong, and he needs to learn how to take responsibility for his own actions.”

“Well, you are right about one thing. Stuart should never have come home without telling you. But why was he able to do that, Christina? Can you explain that? Why was he out of your sight for so long that he had time to make it all the way home?”

I wondered if Netta would have understood what I was about to try to explain: that I had been having a wonderful talk with Lia, that she was opening up to me, and that we were starting to build a friendship. Isn’t that part of what Netta wanted from me? If Stuart hadn’t taken it upon himself to sabotage our little sojourn through the forest, the day might have ended happily ever after.

“Netta, I believe that Stuart did this on purpose to try to get attention...from you,” I stated coolly. “I think all of them are dying for more attention, not from me, but from you and James. It’s a fairly common phenomenon.”

“I don’t think I like where this conversation is headed, Christina.”

“Netta, with all due respect, you were the one who accused me of being an ignoramus. That was completely uncalled for...as are a few other things.”

“What other things, Christina?” Netta asked, eyes ablaze.

“Netta, I know that I am only a guest in your home, so I don’t mean to overstep my bounds here, but I don’t understand why I wasn’t given a key to the house so that I can come and go freely. If you must know, it makes me feel like a...prisoner.”

With those words, I had sealed the deal. From that moment on, Netta would never trust me, like me, or care one iota about me. I had insulted her hospitality, and that was an unpardonable crime. She simply could not fathom anyone seeing her home as a prison, but that is exactly what it was for Calixthe, and that is what it was quickly becoming for me: a place that forbade freedom and kept its inhabitants confined in dark, dingy spaces--locked behind gates.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” she said, her eyes almost tearing up, I thought. “We have invited you into our home, given you a place in our home to sleep and a place at our table to eat, and yet you say you feel like a prisoner? I find that insulting. How dare you?”

“I’m sorry, Netta, but it seems that everything I’ve done since I arrived, two days ago, has not been good enough for you. Granted, I never should have let Stuart out of my sight, but he knew exactly what he was doing. I feel like you’re blaming me for everything, unjustly.”

“Christina, I have said all I have to say, for now. But I think we need to re-examine whether or not this arrangement is going to work.”

“Oh,” is all I said, feeling like everything was falling apart. And it was.

I had come all that way, and now I was getting the boot. My thoughts immediately went to conjuring ways of explaining such a fabulous failure to my family.

“Please find the children and get them ready for dinner,” Netta said as she rose from the table.

“All right.”

“After dinner, I would like you to get them ready for bed and let them read silently in their rooms. They need some quiet time to unwind after this chaotic day.”

When dinner was over, I was relieved to be away from Netta for just a little while. I helped the children get ready for bed, suggesting some books from their shelves as good nighttime reading.

I didn’t spend much time on Stuart, as I was still smarting from the forest fiasco. He grabbed a book and I closed his bedroom door. Lia, a voracious reader, needed no cajoling when it came to reading; practically every time I had seen her in the past two days she had had her nose buried in a book.

My last stop was Sorya, who needed help finding her pajama bottoms. As I dug through her top dresser drawer, I saw Netta walking down the hall toward Sorya’s room. She poked her head in to issue one last order.

“Christina, please choose tomorrow’s outfit for Sorya and lay it out on the chair for her. Something nice, that matches.”

“Of course.”

I looked at the clothes that I was wearing, wondering if Netta had concluded from my own ensemble that I lacked the ability to dress properly.

“Would you read The Secret Garden to me, Chrissy?” Sorya asked as she crawled into bed. “My last au pair said that she would but never did. I really want to read it.”

“Sure, Sorya,” I said, getting excited over the prospect. “This is one of my absolute favorite novels. You’ll love it.”

As Sorya flipped through the pages of the book, I opened up the middle drawer to pick out clothes for the next day. I selected a navy blue shirt with short, ruffled sleeves and a pair of light brown pants. Per Netta’s instructions, I laid them on the chair beside the dresser and proceeded to read The Secret Garden with Sorya.

“When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties...”

Within minutes, Sorya was asleep. On the walk back to my room, I thought how weird it was for these children to have a mother who assigned to someone else such motherly tasks as tucking her own children in at night. And I was pretty sure the weirdness of it was not lost on the children.

Early the next morning, I found myself back in Sorya’s room, nudging her gently to wake her, thinking fondly of the sweet moments we had spent reading together the night before.

I’m making connections, right? Yay!

I turned on the lamp that stood on the dresser, and that’s when I saw something I couldn’t believe: Laid out on the chair was an entirely different outfit from the one I had selected for Sorya the night before. Had Sorya changed it? Or had it been Netta? Either way, my authority was being undermined in very small but very meaningful ways.

Sorya rolled out of bed and noticed that I looked upset. She glanced at the clothes on the chair and then shot me a defiant look that caught me off guard. It seemed to say, “You’re not my real mother.”

I smiled at her and thought to myself, Your “real” mother isn’t either.