Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
POLLY
It wasn’t a monster come to eat me. It was this monster. Who’s come to eat me out.
Ruby Dixon , Ice Planet Barbarians
I t was Monday, and I had just swallowed my last bite of donut before leaving my office for the day, when Vicki—the administrative assistant to the VP of Mercy Health—appeared at my door. I’d met with the VP last week to propose a change to my contract: drop my overnight call requirement but still retain my health insurance. I’d been awaiting their answer.
Since Mrs. Simon left, I’d had horrible luck finding nannies that were willing to do overnights. Clarice, our first trial nanny, started today and she seemed adequate at best. It felt wrong leaving my kids with someone who was merely adequate. My mom guilt pulled hard this morning as I drove to work, leaving both kids in Clarice’s care—it took every ounce of resolve not to turn around and go back to them. But I was exhausted. I needed help before I lost what was left of my patience. Every minute I wasn’t at work, I was busy doing three things at once. Scheduling interviews for babysitters I barely knew from childcare websites, coordinating counseling appointments, buying new clothes for the upcoming school year, getting our bikes out of our storage container, grocery shopping and food prep, laundry . . . and my actual Pediatrician job.
“Polly, I’m glad I caught you,” Vicki said walking into my office.
“Vicki, how nice to see you again. Did you want a donut?” I gestured to the Daisy’s bag on my desk. I’d gone to get a salad for lunch only to come back with six donuts, as I strongly felt that I needed a donut, or six , to make myself feel better about life.
So far, I was two donuts in with no relief in sight.
Vicki glanced at the bag, then gave me a closed-lip smile. “No, thank you. They reviewed your proposal, and they’re willing to drop your call requirement in September if you’re willing to take over the Green Valley School District Medical Directorship.”
Yikes. Try saying that three times fast.
“The current medical director, Dr. Dixon, is retiring next week so the school district asked us to nominate someone to replace him as he is on our staff,” Vicki continued. “We thought you’d be a good fit. You’ll need school board approval, because it’s a joint contract between us and the school district, but that’s just a formality. The stipend is nine thousand dollars every six months. I can set up a meeting with Dr. Dixon if you’d like.”
“Oh, well. I’d need to learn about the position before officially accepting the position. I don’t know very much about what a medical director for a school district does. Do you happen to know how much time per week it would require?”
Vicki’s visibly bristled. In an overly patronizing tone, she said, “It would only be four hours per week. And I’m sure with your part time workload, that time requirement shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
I stiffened, biting back my retort. I was used to this kind of judgment from men. But from a woman it immediately felt personal. Weren’t we all supposed to have each other’s backs? Giving her placating smile, I plucked a napkin from the Daisy’s bag and wiped my hands, giving me a moment to think. Dropping my call requirement this fall was a win, but taking on a medical directorship of a school district? I had no idea what kind of commitment that really took. But, I needed health insurance. Eighteen thousand dollars a year would put a large dent in Max’s therapy bills. I didn’t have the luxury of turning down any extra income.
Hiding any discomfort, I stood and extended my hand to Vicki.
“Please send me the contract and put any meetings on my schedule. I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
I was about a mile from the country house, when I saw something up ahead.
Someone was walking on the road. A narrow, Tennessee county road, with twists and turns and densely lined trees. Meaning, this was not a road that lent itself to walking.
I turned down my audiobook and made out a small figure—or maybe, was it a kid? Who’d let their kid walk on a road like this? I got closer, squinting . . .
Panic flooded me as recognition hit.
Because the young kid who was walking determinedly toward me, little hands fisted on her backpack straps, blonde hair high up in a ponytail, wearing the same sequined rainbow shirt I’d set out for her this morning, was my kid.
Sucking in a breath, I pulled over and hopped out of the car, sprinting toward her. “Ryla!” I shouted coming to a stop in front of my almost six-year-old. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Running AWAY!” she yelled, continuing to walk at her steady pace, little face furious.
I grabbed my phone with a sweat-soaked palm. No missed calls. Did Clarice, our nanny of one day, even know Ryla was gone? We were a good three-quarters of a mile from the house. Granted, Ryla appeared significantly more prepared than her last runaway attempt in February, where she’d left the house in the middle of winter dressed in a t-shirt, leggings, and Crocs with her favorite stuffed animal goat under her arm. This time, she was significantly better prepared, wearing socks and tennis shoes as well as a backpack complete with her flamingo thermos tucked in the side pocket. If I hadn’t been so blinded by rage, I might’ve actually been proud.
Because how far would Ryla have gotten if I hadn’t found her? I mean, these were the rural woods of Tennessee. Mountain territory. She could have been hit by a car, eaten by a bear, or have gotten fucking kidnapped.
“Ryla.” My tone was firm, but I dug deep to remain calm. Ryla wasn’t one to be wrangled easily. Even though I wanted to simultaneously hug her tight and scream at her for putting herself in such danger, I had to get her off the road without her bolting.
“Ryla, please stop.” I crouched down to her level before she passed me. Surprisingly, I was able to stop her easily; she came to a halt as soon as my hand came in contact with her arm. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna go live with Giselle!” she cried, eyes welling with tears. And like every other time she’s said this during the last seven months, telling me flat-out that she’d rather be with our former au pair than with me, my heart broke a tiny bit more.
“I promise we can talk about that. Right now, we’re on the side of a road. It’s not safe.”
I waited fifteen seconds. Ryla didn’t fold, not giving an inch.
“Does Clarice know you left?” That only earned me a scowl.
After another long moment of silence, I’d had enough. Angry, tired, and hot, I resorted to a low-down parenting trick. A lazy one, but incredibly effective.
“I have Daisy’s donuts in the car. If you come with me right now, I’ll let you have the chocolate one with sprinkles.”
Like everyone else with a soul, Ryla was a sucker for chocolate. As a rule, I didn’t trust anyone who didn’t like chocolate. It seemed unnatural.
“Fi-nah,” Ryla whined, overly enunciating the word fine and stomping to the car. As I began to help her up into her booster seat, she whipped her head to me, eyes flashing with impressive vitriol. I held my hands up, letting her do it by herself.
Biting my tongue, I closed her door and got into the driver’s seat; the relief that she was safely in the car warred with the intense anger that she’d been on the road in the first place.
She was sullen in her booster seat on the short trip to the house, arms crossed, stonily looking out the window. I had to give her time. She had big emotions. After a blowup, she would eventually apologize, usually with a dramatic flair. I knew that my daughter seemed, to most everyone else, like a spoiled brat. I’d already heard this enough from my ex-husband and even my father, on the few occasions he’d spent any time with her. Never mind that in between blowups, she was a smart, funny, and charismatic delight. Never mind that she was still five for another week and it was my job to help her process her big emotions rather than belittle and yell at her for having them.
Just over a minute later, I parked in the three-car garage, anxious to find Clarice and figure out what the hell was going on. I knew my mother’s intuition was tingling this morning for a reason.
“Hello? Clarice? Max?” I shouted as Ryla and I walked through the garage entrance, which was situated in the west wing of the house. I didn’t realize that other families didn’t have things like “wings” in their homes until eight-year-old Leah discovered our house had a west wing and a library and literally spent the entire day searching our home for a talking candlestick, mantel clock, and teapot.
I walked down the hallway, past the small laundry room and library, to the middle of the house, which opened into a large kitchen overlooking the backyard.
“Max?” I called out, dropping my purse on the island countertop, then past the kitchen table and looked through the sliding glass patio doors, seeing the stone patio and pool beyond.
Empty.
Now, yes, this house was big. About two times bigger than the house we had in Chicago. But not so big that Max wouldn’t be able to hear me yelling for him. Or Clarice, for that matter.
Fear made my heart race as I dropped the bag of donuts on the table, told Ryla to help herself, then moved through the kitchen’s arched open door to the living room. The living room was beautiful, which had a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window showcasing the mountains in the distance, but it was also, infuriatingly, empty.
“Max!” I yelled again, turning away from the windows. There was a large open staircase on my left, leading upstairs to our bedrooms. To my right, a darkened hallway led to the east wing. I didn’t go down that way often, as it led to my parents’ old bedroom, and I doubted Max would go down there either. If I went straight back from the living room, I’d find a small study, a formal dining area, and foyer.
I flew up the stairs, the most likely place to find Max was his room.
I burst through my son’s bedroom door, exhaling in relief as I saw my ten-year-old lying on his bed, living his best life—still in his pajamas at five thirty in the afternoon. Headphones on, snack wrappers strewn around him, he looked like he’d been in here all day. While this is what I would expect a college freshman to look like in their first year of freedom; it was absolutely not something I allowed for my son. Frank, his therapist, emphasized the importance of limiting screen time and varying his activities, which I explicitly discussed with Clarice yesterday and reviewed this morning.
Max didn’t appear concerned by me finding him out. Cheeks upturning, happy to see me, he took off his headphones. “Hi, Mom! Want to watch this video with me?”
My brewing panic and anger at the situation bypassed all reason, completely blinding me to his little bid for my attention. I put my hands on my hips. “I’ve been calling your name! I can’t find Clarice anywhere. Do you know where I just found Ryla?”
Max started to shrink back on his bed.
“She was walking down the side of the road. Clarice is nowhere to be found, and you look like you haven’t left your room all day.”
Max’s eyes started to water and whispered, “Is Ryla ok?”
Instant remorse filled me at the sight of his tears. This wasn’t his fault, and he certainly didn’t deserve how I’d taken my anger out on him. Inhaling, I aimed for something more controlled. “I’m sorry. Ryla’s fine. She’s eating a donut downstairs, but I can’t find Clarice. Do you know where she is?”
“I-I heard yelling. Clarice gave Ryla a time-out, I think.” Shame continued to fill me as I heard the smallness of his voice. “And then I think she might have gone outside.”
I went to him, giving him a hug and kiss on the head. “Thank you, Max. But maybe, pick up the garbage and get dressed in regular clothes? I’ll find Clarice and take care of it. Your sister is at the table with a large bag of donuts if you want to keep her company.”
As I walked back into the kitchen, I glanced into the backyard and did a double take. Whisps of smoke were curling into the air, like someone was on fire. Rushing to the patio doors, I did spot something on fire. Because laying down on one of the lounge chairs by the pool was our new nanny . . . smoking what looked to be a joint.
Sweet baby Jesus smoking the wacky tobacky. Was this really happening? I blinked thrice, but the image in front of me remained.
“Ryla?” I asked. She was currently sitting at the table, legs swinging, happily munching on her donut. “Whatever you do just . . . stay inside. Ok, sweetie?”
“Ok, Mommy.”
I rolled my shoulders back and opened the patio door to walk outside, making sure to close it tight behind me.
The distinctive smell of pot lingered in the air as I approached Clarice. She was laying on a chaise, eyes closed—not moving as I walked toward her. Perhaps she was too stoned to hear my footsteps on the stone pavers. Or too stupid.
“What in the hell are you doing?” I thundered down at her.
“Ms. Alberton! I was taking a little break!” Jolting upright, she dropped the joint on the front of her shirt. Letting out a muffled curse, she picked it up hastily and brushed the ash from her shirt.
My voice became deadly calm. “Is that your explanation for why you’re smoking weed on my back patio when you’re supposed to be watching my children?”
“I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like!”
Clarice stuck two fingers in her mouth, pinched off the lit end of her joint, lifted the collar of her shirt, and stuffed it inside, what I presumed to be, her bra.
Classy.
I snorted. “Oh really? Because it looks like the nanny I hired to start today is smoking a J as my five-year-old ran away from home. You remember Ryla, right? I just found her more than half a mile down the road with her backpack strapped to her back. You’re lucky she didn’t get lost or picked up by some stranger or . . .” I paused, emotion clogging my throat. I pinched my nose to stop any tears, finally looking back to Clarice when I felt them pass.
“It was for stress!” Clarice implored. “I’ve never been treated that way by any kid in all my years of working as a nanny. Your daughter—” Clarice had the nerve to start, but I cut her off by holding up my hand, eyes burning with rage. Yes, I knew Ryla was difficult. Yes, I was primed and defensive when it came to her, but Clarice couldn’t seriously be trying to blame her behavior on my daughter.
“Allow me to ease your stress level. You will no longer be needed here. Please leave. Now.” I pointed to the side of the house. I didn’t want her to step one more toe inside my home.
“But, my bag!” Clarice sputtered.
“I will meet you at your car with your things.”
Scoffing and grumbling nasty things under her breath, she started around the side of the house. I hurried back inside, fisting my shaking hands after shutting and locking the patio door.
I glanced at Ryla. “Everything ok?”
Chocolate smeared across her face, Ryla nodded silently, her eyes watching me warily. I smiled brightly at her in what I hoped to be taken as reassurance, causing her to resume eating her last few bites of a donut. I had never been more grateful that she ate at sloth speed. I found what looked to be Clarice’s purse and went outside. Neither of us spoke as I held out her bag to her. But Clarice did give me one last grumbled salutation before leaving: “Good luck, frosty bitch.”
I stood outside long after her car drove down the driveway, past the gates and out of sight, feeling pressure behind my eyes for the second time today. But I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to cry.
My kids were inside the house, hurting, and looking to me to fix it. I had to pull myself together to have a chance at keeping everyone and everything together.
Even if I was more broken than they’d ever be.
* * *
“Mom?” Max was drawing with his favorite colored pencils at the island as I made dinner.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Does this mean we have to keep going to summer school?”
Leah had indeed worked her magic, and Ryla and Max were able to attend the Green Valley summer school day camps a few days per week since Mrs. Simon left. Leah’s plan to have Max stick close to her all day to help him with his anxiety was working well, all things considered.
This February, Max developed panic attacks anytime he, Ryla, or I left our apartment. It became so severe I ultimately pursued a pediatric intensive outpatient behavioral program for him. He’d made significant progress, but he still had trouble with leaving the house and finding the words to express himself. If I was being honest, I suspected there was something else underlying the anxiety, like an autism spectrum disorder. But at the time of his testing, anxiety was his main problem, so it was hard to determine anything else that may be contributing to his symptoms.
“I know I said you wouldn’t have to start school until this fall. But I’m so proud of you and how brave you are being every day,” I told Max.
Never one to take compliments, he continued looking down at his picture as his cheeks warmed. I put the meal in the oven to cook, then stood up and glanced around. Max was still coloring intently but Ryla, who was at the table last I checked, was missing. Max shook his head when I asked if he’d seen where his sister went. I still needed to talk to Ryla about what happened with Clarice today. I glanced at my watch. Dinner took forty minutes to cook. Then after dinner I had another hour of charting to finish on my computer, which consisted of finishing any medical notes, answering messages, reviewing results, and answering any staff messages that had come in. Once I finished that, I had my own personal emails to check, a few bills to pay, and a new weighted blanket to order for Max; his current one was too warm, so he’d begun kicking it off at night and wasn’t sleeping as well.
“Mom? Is it ok if I watch my tablet?” Max asked. Being on their tablets had become an unfortunate habit for both kids when I needed time at night to collect my sanity and get things done.
“Sure, just for a little while. I’m going to go talk to Ryla.”
I finally found the absconder in the basement theater room, which she had transformed into a couch cushion fort.
“Ryla?” She popped up from a hole in the middle of the cushions. “We need to talk about this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“I appreciate that, but we still need to talk about why it happened.”
Ryla threw her head back dramatically then disappeared like a gopher into her hidey-hole.
“It’s dangerous to leave the house without telling someone,” I yelled out. “You could get hurt or lost.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Her little voice came out muffled. “She was always looking at her phone and didn’t play and yelled at me and let Max be in his room all day!”
“What happened that made Clarice yell?”
Silence.
I paused. “Did she do something you didn’t like?”
More silence. Or maybe it was muttering.
“What was that?”
Ryla’s head suddenly appeared. “I SAID , she called me A STUPID brAT!”
“She what?!” I shouted, my fury at Clarice brimming over any control I had in that moment. My hands went to my chest absently due to how tight it’d suddenly become.
“Uh-huh. She found her phone under the couch and then her watch in the oven and then she yelled.”
Wait. What?
“Ryla, how did her watch end up in the oven?”
My daughter merely crossed her arms. “I put it there.”
Aaaand, now things made a little more sense. Still, a child hiding your watch and phone was not a reason to call any kid a stupid brat nor smoke marijuana in their home.
“And while it wasn’t right for Clarice to call you that, you also can’t hide someone else’s property. If you do that again, you will lose any tablet-time privileges for a week.”
Ryla’s face went molten. “I’m going to take your tablet time away for a week!” Her little face started to crumple, pain slicing through me at her next words, “I want Giselle!”
The tears I’d been trying to hold back all day blurred my vision as Ryla scampered away and ran up the stairs. After a minute, I heard the sound of footsteps running through the house followed by a very faint door slamming—likely her bedroom door, a sound I’d been hearing a lot since we moved here.
Bone weary and drained, I put away the cushions, then went upstairs to check on dinner. As I shut the oven door and stood up straight, my muscles screamed against the pull, the tension in my body refusing to melt away, not allowing me to take in a full, deep breath. Sighing, I walked to the island and pulled up the tablet I used to track everything from the daily menu, our to-do list, and the kids’ schedule and goals for the day. The box beside Max’s reading and journal time was unmarked.
“Max!” I called out, walking into the living room to find him on the couch with his tablet. “Did you read any of your book today? Or do your journal entry? Remember Frank wants you to write in it every day.”
Max opened and closed his mouth silently, answering without speaking.
I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. “Tablet time is over. Go upstairs and start reading. Now.”
Eyes wide and sorrowful, Max tentatively walked past me on his way to the stairs. I wanted to reach for him and hug him, not liking the chasm between us that I couldn’t cross. Once he was out of sight, I turned to stare out the windows, seeing the mountains that stood deep purple in the distance beyond. They looked cold. Distant. Unapproachable.
Like me.
I dropped my head into my hands, heart aching. How the hell did I get here? My daughter hated me so much, she wanted to run away. I was snapping at my anxiety-ridden son. And somehow, despite moving away twenty years ago, I’ve ended up back in a home I never wanted to live in again, finding that I’d turned into the person whose mask I wore: perfect Polly Alberton, the Stepford daughter who turned Stepford wife who was now a Stepford mother.
The problem was, I had no idea how to unmake her.