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Winter
SEVEN YEARS OLD
When I was a little girl, I had a million friends. My bedroom floor was an explosion of stuffed plush teddies and pretty dolls with long hair, all jostling to spend time with me. I arranged dinner parties for them and changed their outfits. Sometimes my nannies would make tiny cut-up cucumber sandwiches for a teddy bear’s picnic, and we’d fill the small teacups with apple juice and sip alongside my friends, pinkies in the air. The first nanny I could remember was Tilda. She stayed the longest.
I loved her until the day I hated her.
She was crying while we were playing.
“Tilda, don’t cry in front of Lady Tedderson. She’ll be upset,” I huffed at her, worried and annoyed in the uncompromising way of the young and spoiled.
“Sorry, Miss Winter. It’s just my mom is sick, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”
“Take her to the doctor. He always makes me feel better,” I pointed out.
“I can’t afford to do that, Miss Winter. Not everyone has your daddy’s money.”
It was the very first time I’d realized that fact. It had never even occurred to me before. I considered her words carefully.
“Well, why don’t you just use his money, then? He has more than enough.”
Tilda sighed and wrapped me in a warm hug. It was nice. I liked it. I didn’t get hugged often. My mother was an elusive creature who flitted through the house in a rush of air-kisses and perfume, always on the move, suitcase-laden staff scurrying after her. My father was even harder to pin down, but I happened to know for sure that he was home today. I’d heard him this morning after breakfast, when I’d listened at his office door and heard his deep voice booming around the room.
Point was, neither of my parents were huggers, so I took the chance to soak up a bit of physical affection from Tilda. My parents always acted like hugs cost too much — too much time, too much space, too much sacrifice in some way I didn’t understand — while Tilda gave her hugs out freely.
“Oh, Miss Winter. That’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t possibly ask your father. It’s my family problem…I might just have to go and get a job someplace else.”
No! I didn’t want Tilda to leave like all the others.
“I can ask for you,” I suggested innocently, staring up at her with hopeful eyes. “I’ll tell my daddy it’s for me, and then he’ll give me the money. He gives me everything I want.”
Tilda stared at me, nodding. “He does, doesn’t he…”
The last time I saw Tilda, she was in the kitchen, weeping on the cook’s shoulder and folding up her uniform.
“Oh, Tilda, how could you have the child ask? Of course, Charles DeLaurie isn’t going to like that.”
“Well, he gives that brat everything else she asks for, why not help her nanny’s sick mom? It was worth a shot.”
Tilda’s voice was hard and annoyed. I hid in the dark pantry, eating cereal out of sight of any staff. My mother kept a detailed list of things I wasn’t allowed to eat, and cereal, bread, and donuts were right at the top. All the best things.
I stood frozen to the spot, listening, heart thumping, hand shoved in the cereal box
“Come on, now, don’t talk about Winter like that. She’s just a neglected little girl.”
“She’s delusional! She thinks the toys upstairs are her friends. She isn’t smart enough to realize she doesn’t have any,” Tilda snapped.
The cereal crunched in my fist, the sound of my heart breaking.
“Well, it’s not her fault she’s isolated and surrounded by paid staff. You know her father won’t let her mix with the local kids until she’s older and can be wiser about people.” Cook’s soothing voice stoppered my bleeding heart. “Bless the little thing, thinks the staff and the toys are her friends, rarely sees her parents…You can’t help but feel sorry for her, and she’s so cheerful, too…”
“Yeah, exactly, clueless. One day that girl is going to have a hard shock that the only people she spends time with are paid to be around her, and the only two people who should actually care about her don’t want to see her more than three or four weeks a year. It’s doing her no favors to grow up so spoiled and out of touch, building her castles in the sky.”
Cook sighed. “Well, you’ll not be the one to shatter her illusions. Thanks to you, she went and asked her daddy for money, for you…and now you’re out of here. I’m to take your keys, too. Hand them over.”
“Whatever. Fuck Charles DeLaurie and his bitch daughter. I’ll go strip at the Corkscrew and make ten times what I made to pretend to care about teddy bear picnics. See you,” Tilda called and stormed out.
“Silly girl,” Cook muttered.
