46.

Joy was from the Philippines. It struck me about halfway through my conversation with her, when she told me that she loved “working” with babies, that I was in the middle of a job interview. That she was there to get hired.

“So you’re currently working for another family?” I asked.

“Yes.” Joy smiled. “Two girls. One is ten, the other, seven.” She folded her hands primly on her knees, anticipating questions. “They’re in school now. Mom Melissa doesn’t need a full-time nanny anymore. Just part-time.” The tone of her voice seemed sad, and I felt bad for her. She had so little control over it, kids getting older.

Adelle came, followed by Yvonne an hour later. Adelle had three grown kids. Yvonne from the Farrell Agency said she was “seasoned.” I thought she seemed seasoned too, by the way she reached for Ian right away and made a big deal about him, his long eyelashes, his dimpled chin, but his eyes kept darting toward me.

Monica was from Barbados. When I opened the door, she glided in with a beautiful scarf tied tightly around her head, which made me wonder about her hair. She was getting a degree in criminology at night and wanted to be a detective. She looked me in the eye more consistently than I could look anyone in the eye, and she walked with a fun swing to her butt. She had long legs and a formidable presence. She looked like she’d be alert and on-the-ball enough to prevent Will from running with Ian out of a park.

I barely remembered how she was with Ian, just that her smile seemed real, and that she had the air of someone who was doing worthwhile things with her time. I told Dad when he came home that night, and he was overly proud of me for making the decision so quickly. “Your mother was always amazed at what good child care was available in the city,” he said, which forced me to consider whether Monica might actually be an ax murderer.

He smiled at me from the foyer, slipping his shoes off and lining them up under the red silk chair. Ian was lying on a mat by the dining room window, reaching for a drape near his hand by the floor.

“Ian, don’t,” we both said at the same time, and Ian turned toward me with a sweetly defiant look on his face that was so Will it made my whole body ache.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Dad, I really do,” I said, grabbing my coat from the red chair and hanging it in the closet. “But this bikini thing could be interesting. Don’t you think?”

Bikini thing. I realized how silly it sounded, especially to someone like him. He paused and looked at me, then walked purposefully to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Pellegrino, giving me the impression that he was mulling it over. He struggled to twist the bottle, sticking it between his knees, but it wouldn’t budge. He grabbed a dish towel and after more struggling he opened it, then downed it straight from the bottle. “Aaaaah,” he said. At that point it was clear he’d forgotten what I’d asked, and I was once again too tired and disheartened to bring it up again.