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, Ididspot something on fire. Because laying down on one of the lounge chairs by the pool was our new nanny . . . smoking what looked to be ajoint.
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 starttodayis 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.
