Thursday night she spent twenty minutes telling me about Annie’s outfit—apparently Annie wore overalls and a striped shirt and “looked like she could be in a magazine, Daddy.”Wednesday it was about how Annie can do a British accent and they pretended to be fancy ladies having tea with the stuffed animals. Thursday she told me Annie doesn’t like cantaloupe either, which apparently created this deep bond between them that I don’t fully understand but Emma treated like a major revelation.
The apartment’s been different, too. Always tidy when I get home, dishes done and drying in the rack, Emma’s toys put away in their bins, laundry folded neatly and stacked on Emma’s dresser. Which is impressive, and I appreciate it, but it’s also slightly baffling because I distinctly remember Wednesday morning when Annie stared at my gas stove like it was alien technology and couldn’t figure out how to crack an egg without getting the shell everywhere.
It’s a little strange, if I’m being honest. The contrast between someone who doesn’t know how to work a stove and someone who’s running my household with apparent ease. It makes me curious about her background, about where she came from and why she’s here. Most people in their early twenties have at least basic cooking skills, or at the very least have turned on a stove before. Most people know how to crack an egg.
But Annie looked genuinely lost that first morning, and I don’t think she was faking it.
Our interactions this week have been brief.Helloswhen I leave in the morning,goodbyeswhen I get home in the evening. Sometimes she’ll give me a quick rundown of the day—Emma ate all her lunch, Emma loved the park, Emma asked about her mom but seemed okay after we talked about it—but mostly she just waves and leaves, like she’s trying to stay out of my way.
Maria called me yesterday and asked how the new nanny was working out. When I said she was doing great, Maria asked what if I learned anything new about her, and I realized the answerwas not really, that I didn’t really know anything beyond her name and the fact that she needs this job.
“You should get to know her,” Maria said. “It’s weird not to. She’s not a cleaning service you hired once a month. She’s in your home. With your child.”
Which is true, but there’s also the question of appropriateness. She’s my employee. I’m her employer. The relationship has defined parameters, professional boundaries that exist for good reasons. Asking personal questions could be misinterpreted as intrusive. Or worse, as interest I have no business expressing.
Although itdoesseem strange not to know anything about the person who’s going to be spending forty-plus hours a week with my daughter.
I’m still turning this over in my head when the elevator dings and the doors open on my floor.
When I walk into the apartment, I find Annie and Emma at the kitchen table with photographs scattered everywhere—covering the entire surface, some overlapping, creating this mosaic of their week that I wasn’t part of. Emma’s standing on a chair to better survey the spread, her small fingers hovering over the images like she’s curating an exhibition. Annie’s beside her, one hand steadying the chair, her face tilted up toward Emma’s animated monologue.
“…and this one is my favorite because look at the pigeon, he’s so fat! Why is he so fat? Do you think he eats hot dogs every day? Because we saw him eating the hot dog, remember? That man dropped the whole hot dog and the pigeon just ate it right there and everyone was so mad—”
She’s radiant. Not just happy—radiant. Her voice is bright, her laughter frequent and genuine, not the polite acknowledgment adults usually offer children. She’s actuallylaughing, the kind that catches in her throat and escapes in surprised bursts.
I hang my coat on the hook by the door and Annie’s head turns at the sound of my footsteps. Emma’s does too, and then she’s running at me full speed, arms outstretched, crashing into my legs with enough force that I have to take a step back to keep my balance.
“Daddy!” She wraps her arms around my leg and squeezes. “You’re home!”
I lean down and kiss the top of her head, her blonde curls soft and smelling like the strawberry shampoo we use. “I am. Did you have a good day?”
“The best!” She’s already pulling on my hand, dragging me toward the kitchen table. “Annie got the pictures developed! The ones we took for our list! Come see, come see!”
“Ah.” I let her pull me along. “The list.”
I know the list. It’s been hanging in the middle of the fridge all week—bright, colorful, covered in Emma’s drawings and crayon scribbles. She talks about it constantly. What they found today, what they’re looking for tomorrow, how many things are left. I have to admit, it’s a pretty clever idea. The sort of thing that turns mundane errands into adventures, which seems to be Annie’s specialty, according to Emma.
“See?” Emma’s pointing at the photos spread across the table, bouncing on her toes. “We found almost everything! Look, that’s the yellow taxi, and that’s the pigeon—he was eating a hot dog, Daddy, a whole hot dog!—and that’s the fire hydrant on our street, and that’s the big tree in the park…”
I lean over the table, scanning the photos. There’s one of Emma holding an ice cream cone, her face covered in chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles, grinning at the camera with pure joy.
“I added ice cream cone to the list,” Emma says proudly.
“That wasn’t on theoriginallist,” Annie says, and there’s amusement in her voice.
Emma giggles. “It was really good ice cream.”
I pick up another photo—this one clearly taken by Emma based on the angle, pointing upward, slightly blurry. It’s Annie making this ridiculous cross-eyed face with her tongue sticking out, and despite myself, I smile.
“That’s one of my favorites,” Emma announces, leaning against the table to see which one I’m looking at.
“Maybe I should keep that one,” Annie says. “As evidence of my excellent facial expressions.”
“No way!” Emma’s laughing now. “That’s going on the fridgerator!”
“Refrigerator,” I correct automatically.
“That’s what I said. Fridgerator.”
