I stifle a gasp. I had been hoping when those other women at the school were hinting that Nina was crazy, she was just suburban crazy. Like that she saw a therapist and popped a few sedatives every now and then. But it sounds like Nina is a level above that. If these gossipy shrews are to be believed, she’s been in a psychiatric institution. She has a serious illness.
I feel a jab of guilt for getting so frustrated with her when she tells me the wrong information or her mood changes on a dime. It isn’t her fault. Nina has serious issues going on. Everything makes a little more sense now.
“I’ll tell you one thing.” Patrice drops her voice several notches. She’s doing it so I can’t hear, which means she has no idea how loud she is. “If I were Nina, the last thing I would do would be to hire a pretty, young maid to live in my house. She must be out of her mind with jealousy.”
I look away, trying not to let on that I can hear every word she says. I have done everything I can to keep Nina from feeling jealous. I don’t want her to get even the slightest idea that I am interested in her husband. I don’t want her to know that I think he’s attractive or for her to think that there’s any chance something could happen between the two of us.
I mean, yes, if Andrew were single, I’d be interested. But he’s not. I’m staying far away from that man. Nina has nothing to worry about.
SEVENTEEN
Today Andrew and Nina have an appointment with that fertility specialist.
They’ve both been nervous and excited about the appointment all week. I heard snatches of their conversation during dinner. Apparently, Nina got a bunch of fertility tests and they’re going to be discussing the results today. Nina thinks they’re going to be doing IVF, which is expensive, but they’ve got money to burn.
As much as Nina gets on my nerves sometimes, it’s sweet how the two of them are planning for the new baby. Yesterday, they were talking about how they were going to turn the guestroom into a nursery. I’m not sure who is more excited—Nina or Andrew. For their sakes, I hope they get pregnant soon.
While they’re at the appointment, I’m supposed to be watching Cecelia. Watching a nine-year-old girl shouldn’t be difficult. But Cecelia seems determined to make it so. After a friend’s mother dropped her off after God knows what lesson she had today （karate, ballet, piano, soccer, gymnastics—I’ve completely lost track）， she kicks one of her shoes off in one direction, the second in another, and then throws her backpack in yet a third direction. Luckily, it’s too warm for a coat, or else she would have to find a fourth place to abandon her coat.
“Cecelia,” I say patiently. “Can you please put your shoes in the shoe rack?”
“Later,” she says absently, as she plops down on the sofa, smoothing out the fabric of her pale yellow dress. She grabs the remote and flicks on the television to an obnoxiously loud cartoon. An orange and a pear appear to be arguing on the screen. “I’m hungry.”
I take a deep, calming breath. “What would you like to eat?”
I assume she’s going to come up with something ridiculous that I need to make her, just to get me to sweat. So I’m surprised when she says, “How about a bologna sandwich?”
I’m so relieved by the fact that we have all the makings of a bologna sandwich in the house that I don’t even insist that she say please. If Nina wants her daughter to be a brat, that’s her prerogative. It’s not my job to discipline her.
I head to the kitchen and grab some bread and a pack of beef bologna from the overflowing fridge. I don’t know whether Cecelia likes mayonnaise on her sandwich, and furthermore, I’m sure I’ll put too much or too little on it. So I decide to just give her the bottle of mayonnaise and she can portion it out herself to the exact perfect amount. Ha, I’ve outsmarted you, Cecelia!
I return to the living room and place the sandwich and mayonnaise on the coffee table for Cecelia. She looks down at the sandwich, crinkling her brow. She picks it up tentatively and then her face fills with disgust.
“Ew!” she cries. “I don’t want that.”
I swear to God, I’m going to strangle this girl with my bare hands. “You said you wanted a bologna sandwich. I made you a bologna sandwich.”
“I didn’t say I wanted a bologna sandwich,” she whines. “I said I wanted an abalone sandwich!”
I stare at her, open-mouthed. “An abalone sandwich? What is that?”
Cecelia grunts in frustration and throws the sandwich on the ground. The bread and meat separate, landing in three separate piles on the carpet. The only positive is that I didn’t use any mayonnaise, so at least I don’t have to clean up mayonnaise.