She put away the leftover food from dinner, leaving a plate wrapped in the fridge for Selena, even though she’d probably already eaten.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she closed the refrigerator door. She was sorry. She liked Selena, respected her. She would never have chosen to hurt and betray her in this way. In the worst way one woman could betray another.
She was used to it. That hot feeling of shame. Its familiarity was almost a comfort. The heat started in her center, then radiated up to her face in a rush. Finally, there was a bottoming out that left her with a gaping hollow in her center.
Why? Why would she do this? Again and again. She didn’t want to.
There was only one reason. And this was the very last time. She’d been putting money away. There was almost enough now to break free.
She sat at the table and wrote a list for Selena.
“Oliver needs a new uniform shirt, order from the school office; Stephen’s teacher—” who seemed like a bit of a tight-ass to Geneva “—said at pickup that he was a chatterbox lately, distracting his friends, and not paying attention.”
In fact, Stephen was a chatterbox—but he was lovely and creative and sweet. Anyway, Selena would know what to say to Stephen, and to his teacher. Luckily, Geneva’s job was only to report the problem; she didn’t have to handle it. That was the joy of being a nanny and not a mommy. You got to go home.
The pen felt heavy in her hand.
She could still taste Graham on her lips.
When she met him, during her interview with Selena and the boys, she thought he was the handyman, someone Selena had hired to do the jobs her high-powered husband didn’t have the time to do himself. He’d been struggling with stones in the low wall that surrounded their expansive backyard.
During the all-important recon, she’d seen him in pictures on social media. Once, she’d seen him on the train from the city as he commuted home from work. At that time, he’d been dressed in a well-made suit, good shoes. He’d been clean-shaven, put together. When she saw him at the house, she didn’t recognize him at first.
“Oh, there’s Graham,” said Selena, who’d just shown Geneva around the gargantuan kitchen. “He’ll be around some. But mainly he’ll be out interviewing, I’d think.”
Selena misread the confused look on Geneva’s face.
“My husband,” she clarified.
“Oh, right,” said Geneva. “Of course.”
Geneva had watched him a minute as he lifted the rocks, stacking them. There was something virile about him, even though—or maybe because—he was sweating from physical labor. Jeans, T-shirt, work boots. He’d gained weight since she’d last seen him, but his arms were muscular, shoulders broad. There was an appealing strength to his physicality. The stubble on his jaw was not unattractive.
Still. When Geneva looked at Selena—slim, dark, with fine, proud features and unblemished skin. She must know, right, that her husband was not her equal in any way? Why did so many women do that? Not just a stunner, Selena was also smart, personable, a good mom. One of those Wonder Woman types this culture was so good at producing.
And Graham, well, anyone could see—or maybe it was just her because she was good at reading people. Like, psychic good. He was a man baby. The world handed to him like a rattle he smashed on the floor when he didn’t get what he wanted. Geneva had known so many men like him in her line of work. Too many.
It was definitely time to consider a career change. She wasn’t cut out for this game, its consequences. The kids were okay; that part she enjoyed. It was the adults that were the problem. The men especially.
Geneva finished her note to Selena. The banging upstairs had ceased. She could hear Stephen and Oliver talking, laughing, the rumble of Graham’s voice. Maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t come back tomorrow. She gave the counter one last wipe down, moving aside the big toy robot, with all its funny gears and big red eyes. Danger! Danger! it said, among other things. It was one of those annoying, frenetic toys that kids loved and parents hated. She’d confiscated it from the boys when they were fighting over it. She thought about running it up to the playroom, but she didn’t want to go back there. The scene of the crime. She left it by the stove.
Geneva packed up her bag, the portion of the dinner she’d made for herself stored in the Pyrex container she’d brought from home—meals were part of the arrangement. She let herself out quietly, locked the door behind her.
It was only a couple of days after she started working for the Murphy family before Graham started hovering while the boys were at school—Stephen still just a half day at kindergarten and lunch bunch, Oliver in first grade until 2:30. She ran Selena’s errands, did the chores, and whatever Selena needed before Stephen’s pickup at 12:30.
Graham would be there suddenly in the laundry room, talking about this or that—how he’d played football in college, might have gone pro if not for a knee injury. Sure. How he’d had a job offer but he’d turned it down because it “just didn’t feel right.” He had that faux-pompous aura that certain types of men had, putting it on to cover a deep feeling of inadequacy. She tried to communicate that she wasn’t interested. No eye contact. Polite, one-word responses. A quick: Oh, I gotta run and do an errand before I get the boys. Your boys, she didn’t say. While your wife works to support you all. And you’re doing what exactly?
She almost quit before it was too late. Sometimes, you know, these things just don’t go down the way you expect them to and you have to pull the plug.
But Selena was so grateful, so complimentary. The boys—well-attended to, loved—were so sweet, such nice kids. The house was beautiful, calming. Geneva enjoyed her time there, pretending when she was alone that it was her beautiful house. She’d go through Selena’s drawers sometimes—look at her makeup, her perfume, her pretty underwear. She never took anything. She looked.
It happened in the laundry room the first time, knocking up against the dryer.
It happened just like it was always going to happen. What was it?
She knew that she was just slightly better than average-looking. Maybe it was the caregiving thing. She really had a knack for that, for taking care of other people. She wanted to do it, to give in that way that comforted others. Children. The elderly. Animals. She just wanted to be kind to others, and to help them. Maybe that was why she could never say no—even when she wanted to.
The light was still on in the boys’ room as she crossed the street in the cool night, and climbed into her Toyota. Graham wasn’t the worst father she’d ever met, not even the worst husband. That particular award might go to her own father, a total stranger who she wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup.
Shivering in the transition from the warmth of the house to the chill of outside, she pressed the start button on her new car, a consolation prize from her last disaster. The engine hummed to life, the dashboard glowing. It was a good thing people didn’t talk anymore. In this Instagram world, everyone wanted to broadcast filtered versions of their best moments, and bury everything else. All the dull, shameful things, all the flawed, failed ventures and endeavors, hidden. Where did people put those things?