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“What are you thinking about, Ned?”
I fumble for words.
“Are you sure you really want to work for us full-time?” Why am I trying to make her doubt herself? Maybe I’m afraid of temptation. The consequences.
“Absolutely. I’m already super-attached to Isa, and it’s in everyone’s best interest.”
Maybe not mine.
As I continue east on Sunset, I make a right onto a street called Micheltorena. “I should remind you…Ava’s mother, Rena, will be coming shortly for a few days. She’s a handful.”
That’s a euphemism. The woman is a thorn in my side. A bloodsucker.
Marley shoots me a wry smile. “Don’t worry, Ned. I’ll handle her.”
“Maybe you can magically make her disappear.”
“Abracadabra.” She snaps her long fingers. “See ya, Rena!”
I laugh at her little, offbeat rhyme. If it were only that easy.
A few minutes later, we reach her house. It’s a single-story Spanish-style bungalow situated on a small piece of property. I’m shocked by how run-down it is. The sickly pea-green exterior paint is peeling and the blotchy front lawn is in need of watering. So are the wilting roses lining the cracked walkway that leads to the front door. At the end of a cul-de-sac, there’s a vacant house for sale next door on the right, and to the left, an empty lot. Not a particularly safe place for an attractive single woman to live. To be honest, it could be the site of a grisly murder. Maybe there’s been one.
“You own this place?” I ask, banishing that chilling thought.
“No, it belongs to a friend. I’m housesitting. I’m planning on moving to a more child-friendly neighborhood soon.”
Grabbing her handbag, she cranks the door handle and hops out of my Lambo. It is one of the few models that doesn’t have those obnoxious scissor doors that fly open like switchblades.
I watch as she jogs up the few steps to her house. I store her address both on my phone and in my head, then roll down my window.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to your mechanic?”
“It’s okay. He’s walking distance and I could use the exercise.” She shoots me a smile. “Thanks again for the lift.”
“No problem.”
“And thank you for trusting me with your baby. You’ll have no regrets.”
My skin prickles. Maybe I’d be better off with a nanny who looks like Mrs. Doubtfire.
THIRTEEN
AVA
I had a terrible night’s sleep. I tossed and turned because I couldn’t stop replaying Ned’s words after I told him I thought Nurse Marley had kidnapped Isa. What was I thinking? Was I out of my mind? Certainly, Ned thought so. I’ve never seen him so angry. I thought his head would rocket off his neck. He avoided me the rest of the day. Didn’t call to check up on me—or the baby—and I think he slept on one of the couches in the living room because he never came to bed.
On top of the restlessness, I had another horrible dream. In this one, I gave birth to my baby while sitting on the toilet. The subterranean bathroom cramped, dark, and damp, the smell horrific. She ripped through me as I squeezed and I squeezed until hot tears scorched my cheeks and I could squeeze no more, while the ghostly figure with the white dressing gown and mask watched and kept saying “push.” Push. I cried so hard, the pain so great, and when finally the baby came out, he cackled and flushed her down the toilet bowl. And drowned her.
What are all these nightmares telling me? There’s only one thing: I’m not meant to be a mother. And I’m a danger to my baby.
Thank God I have Nurse Marley. She showed up early yesterday—mid afternoon—because she was concerned about me. Rightfully so. The godsend she is, she said she wasn’t even going to charge us for the extra hours because she felt partially responsible for the debacle with Ned.
With a groan, I reach for my phone on the night table. I squint at the screen. There’s a reminder on it. An appointment with my baby’s pediatrician at 8:30a.m. Her first wellness checkup. Today she’s one week old. I should celebrate that she’s made it through a week with me. Her incompetent, decrepit mother.
Clutching the phone, I force myself to a sitting position when a sudden wave of nausea surges inside me. Bile rises to my chest as I climb out of bed and race to the bathroom as fast as my unsteady legs can carry me. I make it to the toilet just in time and throw up. This is the first time I’ve vomited since I had morning sickness during my first trimester. I feel flushed and feverish. I think I may have come down with some kind of virus. I glimpse myself in the bathroom mirror as I rinse my mouth and face, and look as sick as I feel. My complexion’s ghoulish, my green eyes glazed, and my blonde hair’s like a rat’s nest. Who is this person? I feel tears verging.
Shrugging on my chenille robe, I step into my fuzzy slippers and stagger out of the bathroom. Maybe some tea will help.
