Decaf.
They’redecafpeople.
I try not to take that as another bad sign—but seriously, who can survive a day in the nonstop grind of modern society without caffeine, I ask you!—and fix my attention on Marta as she rattles off the details of all things Gus.
On non-school days, she prefers he eat breakfast no later than seven-thirty, and be directed toward “vigorous exercise” no later than nine. Jogging on the treadmill or rowing on his kid-sized rowing machine are suggested as possible options for this vigorous activity. Before I can ask if playing at the park—you know, like a kid—is an option, she’s moved on to a list of acceptable snacks to pack in my “diaper bag” when we leave the house.
“Diaper bag?” I cut in, confused.
Surely, Gus is potty-trained. He’s almost six years old…
“Yes.” Marta gives a tight-lipped nod. “Gus has a nervous bladder, especially when his routine is disrupted. In a new city, with a new school and new enrichment activities, the chances of an accident are higher than usual. You’ll need to be prepared.I’ll prepack the diaper bag for the first few days, but come next week, you’ll take that on as one of your duties. That’s something you can manage, right?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
And I can, but it would have been nice to know about this sooner. I’m not afraid of a little mess—kids are messy, I know that—but it’s been a while since I changed a diaper. And I’ve never had to do that for an older child. It introduces a level of intimacy I want to be careful about, so that Gus feels safe.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the best way to do that, when Marta adds, “And you’ll need to be at the school by no later than eleven for pick-up. Classes dismiss at noon, but we’ve promised Gus you’ll be at the front of the line. To ensure that, you should arrive an hour early, perhaps more if you notice that other caregivers are lining up before then.”
My brows shoot up. “Lining up more than an hour early? Is that a possibility?”
Marta’s brows mirror mine. “Well, yes. Of course. At our old school in D.C., some of the nannies never left. They’d do drop off, then pull back around to get in line for pick-up. But we don’t expect that to be the case here. The school has assured us that they keep the pick-up line closed until eleven and that a number of the children are picked up on foot. It’s a very walkable neighborhood.”
“Very walkable,” Stanley agrees as he returns with their drinks. “Did you tell her about the rowing machine?”
“I did, yes, of course,” Marta says with an exasperated huff. “We’re already at enrichment activities.” She sips her coffee, pulls a face that makes me think it tastes like garbage, and pushes the mug away. “He has facilitated play twice a week, French class three times a week, and music lessons on Fridays.”
I nod. Finally, something to get excited about. “Great! I’ll see what he’s learning and supplement that at home. I love that he’s so into music, especially drums. Drummers are the best.”
Marta’s mouth tightens. “Yes, well, we’re trying to guide him toward woodwinds. Or the violin. Something more portable. He’ll outgrow his drum kit soon, and it already takes up so much space in the nursery. And it’s so…loud. Even with an electric kit and headphones.”
“Itisloud,” Stanley echoes, because apparently having an original thought is too much for the man. He takes a sip of his coffee, then squints down at it. “Does that taste like almond milk, Marta? I think that’s almond milk.”
“It’s definitely almond milk,” Marta says, pushing her cup farther away. “Definitely.”
“Oh, well, I asked for oat,” Stanley says. “I know I asked for oat. Should I go back? Ask for them to make them again?”
“No, I think we should head home,” Marta says, surprising me. “I’ve just realized that I’ve forgotten the extra keys.”
Stanley’s eyes widen dramatically. “No! We put them in your purse. I’m certain we did.”
“No, I just looked, and they’re not there,” Marta says.
My gut pings again in silent warning. Shedidn’tjust look. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down.
My stomach cramps as she pushes back her chair. “We’ll just have to get them to you in the morning, Clover. Along with the rest of the instructions. Does that sound all right?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I lie.
But it isn’t fine. Something’s not right here, not right at all.
Marta isn’t the kind of person who forgets the keys. Marta’s the kind who triple-checks that the keys, the list, and the organic snacks are packed before she leaves the house. Marta runs a tight ship and prepares for every possible hiccup that might fuck with her schedule.
I’ve done something to upset her. Clearly. But I have no idea what.
After hasty goodbyes and awkward handshakes, I watch them go, the ache in my midsection intensifying.
I try to finish my five-dollar tea on principle, but every sip makes my stomach burn a little more. Finally, I abandon the dregs of my raspberry-honey-mint and head for the bus stop, leaning on my cane more than usual.
