Page 9

Izzy

So this is what a two-week lake getaway looks like.

There’s a roaring blaze in the stone firepit, fresh air bathing my skin, waves gently lapping the shoreline, a happy dog bounding about, the kids running around with sparklers, and the smell of burgers and hot dogs sizzling on the grill.

Kenny Chesney is playing through portable speakers, but not loud enough to drown out the haunting wail of loons calling back and forth, or the pleasing hum of night critters.

I’m accustomed to beautiful star-drenched summer nights, but tonight the sky looks incredibly full, like someone spread a bag of shimmering diamonds across a velvety black cloth.

My mom would disapprove of the DEET I’ve lathered on, but I’m desperate, and she’s not here to protest. As a family, we’ve had some nice vacations together, but we always kept it simple (and cheap).

We’re working-class Vermonters, not the second-home, ski-trip types.

Mom is an elementary school teacher, and my father runs a grocery store.

He started behind the deli counter, worked his way up to manager, and then became a regional manager for a new supermarket chain.

Unfortunately, that meant he had to move to Arizona.

At least we have Face Time, and we visit each other a couple of times each year.

My parents have been doing better since the divorce. Well, my father is, anyway. He’s dating a woman who took his blood. No, she’s not a vampire. She’s a Red Cross volunteer. They hit it off at a local blood drive. He’s got a thing for bad dad jokes, and told me the one that made her laugh.

“A priest, an imam, and a rabbit walk into a blood bank. The rabbit says, ‘I think I might be a type O.’”

I admit that made me chuckle. The phlebotomist accepted his dinner invitation only after Dad had a cookie and some juice to ensure he wasn’t delirious.

The three couples here are enjoying plenty of laughs themselves. Fiona has planted herself on David’s lap in a territorial way. She has coconuts for boobs, too round to be true, contained inside a string bikini top, her bottom half covered in a red satin wrap skirt. She looks hotter than the fire.

Rick operates the grill, while Erika plates the food.

Those two act like a well-oiled team, as do Christian and Julia, who lounge in adjacent Adirondack chairs, chatting pleasantly and sharing intimate smiles from time to time.

But not all are joyful. Taylor and Lucas don’t want to play in the same sandbox.

She’s off by herself on her phone, and he’s doing the same thing on the opposite side of the beach.

And I’m struggling with the twins. My parents’ divorce hasn’t soured me on the idea of marriage, but these kids are a cold-water bath to my future prospects of becoming a mother.

I’m stunned the day isn’t over yet. It feels as though I’ve been on the job for a week.

I can’t count the number of squabbles, outbursts, and breakdowns I’ve already refereed.

Brody dropped his hot dog on the ground, and the way he cried, you’d have thought he broke his arm. Once he understood that we could make another, he settled.

As I was roasting him a second dog, Becca started in on her string of questions.

At first it was cute. Where are you from?

Where do you go to school? Are you married?

Do you have a boyfriend? It kept going from there: How hot is the fire?

What are marshmallows made of? (I didn’t have the heart to tell her about gelatin.) What’s that star? And that one? And that one? And…

This went on until I wanted to rip the hair out of my head one follicle at a time. And talk about fussiness. Becca turned her nose up at everything I tried to feed her. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. That’s too slimy. It’s too yucky. I don’t like that, or that, or that… no, no, and no.

I found myself using the same ludicrous threats as David.

“Then I guess you won’t eat anything ever again,” I said, as I tossed her paper plate—which was filled with enough food options to qualify as a buffet—into the trash.

I fear I am not experienced, capable, or tolerant enough to keep these two in check for the duration.

I might have to leave early for the sake of my mental health, ashamed and embarrassed.

Even worse, that would mean abandoning my reason for being here, which I could sum up in two words: true crime.

I started college as a psych major before switching to journalism to pursue my passion. I doubt there’s a true crime podcast I haven’t met. Bone Ranch. Dr. Dead. Crime Addict. I’ve heard them all, though I certainly didn’t put my obsession with serial killers on my nanny application.

I think my compulsion is rooted in fear.

It’s all about staring down the dragon from the cushy comfort of my bed without being directly in the line of fire.

According to a psychology professor I interviewed for a feature story about our cultural fascination with murder shows, controlled exposure to something frightening gives us a safe way to subconsciously develop coping mechanisms.

When I saw the story about human remains found not too far from here, I had to come and investigate.

But where was I going to stay? There are not a lot of jobs that provide housing, and what I needed to accomplish couldn’t be done in a day or two.

Luckily, my Google Alert for Lake Timmeny delivered the answer directly to my inbox.

This is more than a job, it’s a calling. I remind myself that I can endure anything, even a sibling squabble that amounts to two humans screeching back and forth at each other: “Am not!” “Are too!”

To halt the ruckus, I deploy a secret weapon of the nanny trade: sugar.

“Let’s make s’mores,” I say, with a clap of my hands that gets their attention.

Brody takes tremendous pleasure in turning his marshmallow into a flaming ball of burning goo.

He swirls it around like he’s doing a Hawaiian fire dance, while Fiona keeps her reproachful eyes on me.

Letting a five-year-old play with fire? But so be it.

Fiona and I don’t have to be best friends.

We don’t have to be friends at all. I’ve got a job to do.

Unfortunately, I don’t appear to be doing it very well.

While Brody captivates me with his pyrotechnic skills, I completely lose sight of Becca.

My eyes go to the lake and my mind to the darkest place imaginable.

My panic is short-lived when David approaches with his daughter in his arms. She kicks outward in a playful struggle to free herself from his grasp as I prepare myself to be fired.

“Not to worry,” David says following my string of apologies. “This one’s quite slippery, especially when she wants her iPad.”

“I won’t let it happen again,” I assure him, knowing full well I’ve just given a piecrust promise: easily made, easily broken. That’s lifted directly from Mary Poppins. There is no better training for the nanny trade than Mary, and I think this quote is as astute as it is self-explanatory.

Becca squirms in David’s arms until he sets her down.

I notice how she has a blue glow stick bracelet wrapped multiple times around her slender wrist. It makes her easier to spot in the dark.

David probably came up with the idea, based on experience.

Since he didn’t tell me she was a roamer, I try not to feel too bad about my slipup.

But still, piecrust promise or not, I must be more vigilant.

“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “I was so focused on Brody and the hot marshmallows, I just…”

David places his hand on my shoulder. His fingers gently touch my skin.

I don’t know what to make of it, or how to respond.

A tingle of apprehension zips through me.

It could be benign, but it could also be totally inappropriate.

I think of my predecessor who quit so unexpectedly.

No wonder Fiona is on the defensive, though I suspect she may be blaming the wrong person.

I guess it’s not just Becca I have to keep my eyes on.

David releases his grip. “She’s a wanderer, but doesn’t go far and knows to stay out of the water,” he assures me. He grabs a beer from a six-pack on a table, twists the top before taking a long swig. “Fiona, on the other hand—now that’s a different story.”

I perk up. What does that mean?

David can read the question in my eyes. “She sleepwalks,” he explains, and takes another drink.

“I’ve never known anybody who did that,” I say.

“I guess it’s happened off and on for most of her life,” says David. “But it’s gotten worse since she started taking Ambien for her insomnia. Her doctor lowered the dose, so it’s better now, but not entirely cured.”

I’m fairly certain Fiona wouldn’t want us discussing her medical history, and I can’t help but wonder what other boundaries David feels comfortable crossing.

He continues, as if we’re talking about the weather. “Usually, she just goes to the fridge for a midnight snack, which she later denies.” He says this with a chuckle, but if Fiona is consuming extra calories, they sure don’t show on her figure.

I turn my attention to the children. They make a great excuse for exiting an awkward conversation.

Becca is trying to ride the poor dog like she’s a pony.

God bless Nutmeg, who basically allows it.

Before I have a chance to make my getaway, the music shuts off and Erika’s lilting voice draws all eyes to her.

“Everyone, everyone!” she calls out. In her hand, she holds a pitcher filled with glowing blue liquid, like Becca’s bracelet has been turned into a drink.

“The Lake Escape cocktails are ready. Come and get ’em!

” She holds the pitcher high to a rousing caterwaul of hoots and hollers from the adults, with Fiona’s voice the loudest of all.