Page 5

Izzy

It’s amazing how two children could turn an hour-long drive from Burlington to Lake Timmeny into an eternity. We’ve arrived at the lake, but I’m not sure if my hearing will ever return to normal. If there’s one thing five-year-old twins are not, it’s quiet.

I couldn’t wait for that car ride to be over.

At first it seemed like a good idea. David had offered to pick me up, and we arranged to meet at a Starbucks near the bus station where my mom dropped me off for my fictitious ride to my internship.

Fiona, his girlfriend, wanted her car, so she was driving separately.

I wasn’t too worried about being alone with a stranger, since his kids would be with us, but for obvious reasons I couldn’t have him come get me at home.

I made my lack of transportation sound like a benefit: “It’ll be a good opportunity to get to know the children,” I explained during our phone call.

I waited for David curbside, coffee in hand.

He was punctual, which made a good first impression.

I liked his smile, too—friendly and relaxed.

He was attractive for an older guy, with his dark complexion and a touch of gray flecking his hair, but he went heavy on the cologne.

His skin had the outdoorsy glow of an active person.

Parenting didn’t seem to fluster him in the least. There wasn’t a strand of his thick dark hair out of place, and I didn’t notice any food stains—the marker of a harried parent—on his blue polo or dark gray shorts.

This was a man in control of his life (and children). Or so I believed.

“Brody, Becca, it’s so nice to meet you both,” I said, shaking their tiny hands before getting settled into my seat. “I’m Izzy, and I’m going to be your nanny during vacation.”

Brody stuck his tongue out at me.

“I don’t want a babysitter,” he declared with a pouty face that matched his voice.

David corrected the behavior gently. “Brody, we don’t speak that way, it’s not polite. Izzy’s here to help you both have fun and we’re going to treat her with kindness.”

I was pleased that David had my back.

“I DON’T WANT A BABYSITTER!” Brody screamed before tossing a plastic container of Goldfish all over the immaculate carpeting of David’s Mercedes.

“THOSE WERE MY GOLDFISH!” yelled Becca, to which Brody declared loudly that he didn’t care and he wasn’t a baby and he didn’t need a nanny. Thick hot tears streaked down his plump, ruddy face.

Oh. My. Good. Lord.

I had no idea that two precious creatures, with angelic faces, soft brown eyes, and matching hair—an adorable ponytail on one, sweet bangs on the other—could be so impossibly loud.

If David’s car came equipped with an eject button, I might have deployed it.

Instead, I plastered on a tense smile and assured my new boss that I had the skill and expertise to win them over.

I almost believed myself.

“This is going to be the worstest vacation ever,” whined Brody.

“Worst vacation,” corrected David tersely. “And it will be if you don’t start behaving.”

In the rearview mirror, I could see Brody attempting to turn me into stone with his stare. A minute later Becca screamed at the top of her lungs: “DADDY, HE STOLE MY STUFFIE!!!”

“Did not,” insisted Brody, who didn’t seem to care that he held the evidence (a fluffy stuffed tiger) in his lap. And this went on until David was forced to pull over, issuing a string of warnings that I could tell had zero chance of being effective.

He used all the threats I remembered from my childhood.

You’re both going to be in big, big trouble.

I’m turning this car around this instant if you don’t start behaving.

And…

When we get to the lake, you’ll go straight to your rooms.

Becca screamed, “ That’s not fair!” Brody chimed in, echoing her protest against this grave injustice.

I was left thinking: What have I gotten myself into? I entered into this arrangement fully aware I didn’t love children, but could it be that I actually loathe them? Either way, I wasn’t going to sit passively, lamenting my plight while my eardrums burst.

Thankfully my survival instincts took over. I recalled a useful tidbit from a blog I had sourced about dealing with recalcitrant children.

“We’re going to play the Quiet Game,” I announced in a clipped, officious tone. “First one to talk will have to forfeit their iPad for the remainder of the drive to the lake. That is non-negotiable. Ready? Quiet Game starting in… one, two, three… now .”

It was as if someone hit the mute button on a TV. The decibel level went from a million to zero in a flash. I sat up straighter in my seat. Admittedly, I felt triumphant. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

David gazed at me, astonished.

“It works because it’s a consequence they can understand, and it’s something that will happen immediately. Add in a little competition, and you have cooperation.”

David’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Lucky for me you’re very resourceful and extremely practical,” he said, which almost made me laugh.

If I’m good at anything, it’s being impractical.

I realize that’s not something I should be proud of. Honestly, it’s caused me all kinds of grief.

I always strive to do the right thing, but occasionally, my impulsivity leads me astray.

Like when I went to a party and used lighter fluid to ignite a bonfire that nobody could get started.

My approach proved so effective that the fire department showed up to extinguish the blaze.

Or when I chopped off all my hair to donate to Locks of Love without telling my mother first. She came into the bathroom and thought I had adopted a Persian cat, until she realized what I had done.

No big shock—she was horrified with the result.

Then there was that time my freshman year in college, when I spent all my summer savings for textbooks on a bus ticket to New York to go to a rave with a hot guy from my journalism class.

My date turned out to be a dud, but the rave was epic.

I don’t do a lot of self-exploration, but I think my impulsivity is rooted in anxiety, which runs in my family.

In my mother’s world, a cold is pneumonia, you can drown in a tablespoon of water, and a stray dog must be rabid.

She’s a wonderful person, and I love her dearly, but with her, the glass is always half-empty and about to topple over.

I’ve read about generational trauma, and I think she’s passed her worries on to me.

But instead of becoming immobilized by fear, I get so flooded with adrenaline that my rational mind shuts off.

Practical or not, it was a relief that the kids took the Quiet Game seriously. Both were silent as church mice while lost in their electronics.

“The drive seems to get harder each year,” David lamented. “I wish we lived closer to the lake, but their mother is still a New Yorker, and I don’t want to be far from them.”

Bonus points for being a caring dad.

“Where in New York do you live?” I asked. I’m thinking Long Island, based on his accent. When you’re a Vermonter you get to know the dialects of your New York neighbors.

“Manhattan, Upper East Side, near my ex,” David said. “Hate the neighborhood. It’s full of obnoxiously rich people.”

Funny, I had assumed David was one of them. He owned a fancy new car, and when we spoke by phone, he went on and on about his massive lake house renovation. Which made me realize I had no idea what he did for a living.

“I’m a talent scout for the entertainment industry,” he said in answer to my question.

“Oh, you don’t need to live in LA for that?”

He brushed my assumption aside with a wave of his hand.

“Nah, New York is a gold mine. TV, movies, advertising, modeling, you name it, we scout it.” He looked me over in an assessing fashion.

“There’s actually a screen-like quality about you,” he said.

“If you get headshots done, you know where to send them.”

Yeah, I think. One Creepy Lane, P.O. Box Ina-pro-pro.

Maybe it was a harmless comment, a genuine compliment, but it was a good reminder to keep my wits about me.

“But you better hurry if you’re going to take me up on my offer,” he added. “I might not be in the business much longer.”

He smiled cryptically. I could tell he wanted me to ask the logical follow-up question, so I obliged.

“Why is that?”

“A friend of mine started a company that imports electronic components—the stuff big tech companies like Oracle and Amazon use to make hardware. He knew a semiconductor shortage was coming and had first dibs on a huge supply of these high-demand parts. He was looking for an investor to help purchase them, and I jumped at the opportunity. Let’s just say, my bet paid off…

and then some. Now I make a cut of the company profits, which is how I paid for the lake house remodel in cash.

At this rate, I may be able to retire by fifty! ”

And this is where David came into sharper focus.

At first I put him in the Silicon Valley tech mogul category, but he’s more boastful than savvy.

I sense he’s got street smarts, like a hustler who finally struck gold.

That’s not a bad thing; he’s certainly a lot more down-to-earth and relatable than a Wall Street financier worth untold millions.

But he seems to be something of a contradiction.

He’s rich, but unrefined; well-dressed, and yet somehow rough around the edges.

He’s definitely charming, I’ll give him that.

But at the same time, I get the feeling he might also play dirty.

The rest of the car ride wasn’t too bad. The kids behaved for the remainder of the trip, even after Brody lost the Quiet Game twenty minutes before we reached our destination.