The Caregiver

It was naptime. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. Three books, a pacifier, a well-loved stuffed animal and a sippy-cup of milk all pleaded their case eloquently. But the child stubbornly refused to be convinced. After all, she had just recently learned how to hook her knee over the crib rail and secure her freedom at will.

"Just rest, then. Okay, Emma?" pleaded Gwen, tossing a handful of small toys into the crib. "Ten minutes, sweetie, all right?" The fact was, after a morning spent dealing with Emma, Gwen desperately needed a nap herself. She dimmed the child's bedroom light, clinging to the belief that if Emma would just lie down, her exhaustion would take over.

Returning to a living room strewn with the child's toys and playthings, Gwen thought about calling her husband. She discarded the idea because she knew she'd start crying when the subject inevitably turned to Emma. Although Craig had never admitted it to Gwen, she knew that he loved the fact that she never cried. When they were dating, Craig had told her a number of times about his former girlfriend's propensity for staging embarrassing public scenes. From this, Gwen had concluded that her stoic nature was a big draw for Craig, so she took pains to maintain her composure around him.

Gwen and Craig had met five years earlier when she came into the emergency room where he was doing his rotation as a medical student. It was a busy night and Craig was initially irritated that her case was given priority status. He first saw her from across the hall in triage and she looked like just another pretty, preppy-looking woman holding an icepack on what he assumed to be a broken toe. It was only when he was called in to examine her foot that he realized that her big toe had been almost completely severed. The surgery took six hours and she insisted on being awake throughout. When she returned two weeks later to have her stitches removed, Craig asked her out. He proposed six months later, giving her a ring inscribed with the words "Thank heavens for weed whackers."

The child's babbling eventually subsided and Gwen was almost asleep on the couch when she heard a rustling noise by the hall coat rack. Suddenly Emma charged out of the hall, chortling giddily. She made a mad dash for her easel. Before Gwen could stop her, Emma had scribbled all over her face with a blue marker. As Gwen grabbed the pen and disarmed her, Emma popped the cap in her mouth.

"Emma! No! Markers are not for eating, you know that!" Panicked, Gwen fished around in Emma's mouth, eventually locating and retrieving the cap.

"Only on paper," announced Emma solemnly, pointing to the easel as if she had just invented the rule herself.

"Yes, exactly," said Gwen, guiding the child by the arm toward the bathroom. "Only on paper. Not in mouths or on faces."

"Or on walls," added Emma. Gwen froze.

"Emma? Oh, no, you didn't . . ." But Gwen knew that, of course, she had. And sure enough, when she took Emma back to her room, she found a big purple and green mural scribbled next to the crib. Two markers lay on the crib sheet, bleeding inky circles.

Gwen was so tired and frustrated that she wanted to walk out the door and not come back. This was not the life she thought she was choosing when she decided to stay home for her daughter's formative years. She had pictured herself spending carefree days pushing her child in a stroller, pointing out dogs and fire engines, laughing and singing lullabies. In the beginning, it had been something like that. More boring than she had perhaps imagined, but relatively tranquil.

Then, in recent months, things had changed. Emma had become more and more willful and belligerent, and Gwen had begun to feel like a teacher who has made the mistake of bringing candy to her charges on the first day of school. She had studied all the popular child-rearing books and tried earnestly to follow their counsel, but still she felt a nagging sense that she was doing something wrong. She thought of confiding in someone, but who? Not her mother. A chronic abuser of substances, Gwen's mother would have been likely to wave the situation away with the suggestion that a pill--for Gwen or for Emma, take your pick--would solve the problem.

And Craig was similarly useless. He was aware of the situation, of course, but he seemed to think that the answer was hiring some sort of nanny. Gwen suspected he had visions of Mary Poppins or perhaps a comely au pair, neither of which appealed to her. Craig didn't seem to understand why Gwen was so reluctant to pay another woman to come to her house, sit on her floor, and play with her child. To his mind, that was what people with children did. To her mind, that was what people like her mother did, people who were too self-involved or childish themselves to make the sacrifices required to build real relationships with their children. Or so Gwen had always believed.

Yet, here she was, making the appropriate sacrifices, and for what? Despite her best efforts, her child demonstrated no respect for her and seemed to thrive on finding ways to torment her. What was particularly troubling for Gwen was that it had all happened so fast. Wasn't this sort of behavior supposed to emerge during the child's adolescence? Emma was barely three years old! Gwen could not understand how she had become so completely powerless, spinning helplessly in the drain, hopelessly unable to rewrite the terms of their incipient relationship.

Before Emma was born, Gwen had used her recently minted business school degree to do contract work as a management consultant. Now she could not imagine how anyone could have ever trusted her for advice on managing a company. On days like these, she pictured a tour group of business people in gray suits standing at one side of her living room. She could see them taking notes on their clipboards, murmuring to each other and shaking their heads sadly from side to side.

* * *

From time to time, the advertisement would run in the Sunday paper. It read:

Need Help Taming Your Toddler?
Call Lacey
Experienced, Reliable Caregiver
References on Request
(617) 555-7377

Lacey was usually called in as a last resort. A child would be flailing, screeching, reeling out of control, driving his parents mad and exhausting their reserves of patience and humor. A frantic phone call would be placed, invariably by the mother, and Lacey would stop by the house for a consult. When she would arrive, it would always be awkward. Most people took one look at her and assumed her to be unprepared for the task at hand. There were the obvious reasons, of course . . . no one had ever met anyone quite like her. And perhaps it was her size, which was small, or maybe it was her soft, quiet voice. Lacey was accustomed to people being initially dubious of her abilities.

However, her calm, composed demeanor, along with her impeccable references, usually convinced people to take a chance on her. It is also important to remember that most of these people were desperate. Their children were becoming more willful and disobedient with each passing day and something had to be done! So these people would set up a trial period with Lacey, after which they would always be so completely bowled over with her results that they would marvel at how they ever got along without her.

She was, quite simply, incredible with young children. She could get them to do things that their parents couldn't--dress themselves, pick up their toys, carry dishes to the sink--all without raising her voice or levying threats. The promise of her praise seemed to motivate even the most headstrong child. Household calm would be restored as the child emerged as if from a fugue state. Parents would regain their ability to laugh. Their heads would clear and they would suddenly look at each other as if for the first time. All thanks to Lacey, remarkable Lacey. And when order was restored and the family was capable of functioning without her, Lacey would discreetly absent herself, place her ad, and seek another situation.

* * *

When Gwen told her mother about the extraordinary mother's helper she had hired, she deliberately neglected to tell her that Lacey was a cat. Her mother lived on the west coast and came east only at Christmas, so it seemed unlikely that she would meet Lacey any time soon. Over the years, Gwen and her mother's hostile relationship had evolved into one of cordial distance, with many topics conspicuously avoided. The total absence of the random and unpredictable emotional outbursts that Gwen remembered from her childhood made her occasionally suspect that the person on the other end of the phone was not her mother but someone who was paid by her to make obligatory calls. Either that or the more likely explanation: the dosage of her mother's antidepressants had been increased in recent years.

Despite the legacy of her mother's inconsistent and ineffectual parenting style, Gwen was loathe to shed her role as the good daughter. For this reason, and so as not to alarm her mother, Gwen made a conscious effort to avoid lying to her about Lacey. This turned out to be easier than she had thought it would be. In answer to the question, "She sounds wonderful. Does she have children of her own?" Gwen said, "I don't believe so. But she has a great deal of experience, and her references were impeccable." When asked, "Well, how old is she?" Gwen replied, "That's kind of hard to say. She's not particularly old, but she's very mature. And you wouldn't believe how much Emma adores her. Emma even sits still every morning and lets Lacey do her hair. She never did that for me!"

What Gwen did not tell her mother was that this ritual involved Emma sitting on the kitchen floor while Lacey stood with her paws on Emma's shoulders and licked all of the child's hair into a smooth, graceful style. Lacey's lack of opposable thumbs meant that Gwen still had the task of attaching the barrettes, but this was no longer difficult because Lacey's grooming technique was so successful in calming the child down.

In all fairness, Gwen could see why someone outside their household would not have understood about Lacey. She didn't even understand it herself. It was strange to have a babysitter who was not, well, human. She never would have responded to the ad in the first place had she known. On the phone, when Gwen initially called about the ad, Lacey had sounded very nice. But when she appeared on the doorstep with four legs, a tail and marmalade fur, Gwen was at a complete loss for words.

Luckily, Lacey seemed totally composed.

"You're probably surprised by my appearance," she had said.

"No." said Gwen. "It's just . . ."

"You didn't expect me to be a cat. Really, it's quite all right. All of my clients have this kind of reaction initially. If you didn't, I'd probably wonder about you." Lacey seemed amused, although not in an unkind way.

"Your other clients?"

"Oh, yes, I've worked for several families in the area. I took the liberty of bringing you a list of their names and numbers. Please don't hesitate to call them."

"All right. Thanks."

"You're very welcome, dear. Well, I really should be on my way. It was very nice meeting you."

Suddenly, Gwen felt very guilty for not inviting Lacey to come in.

"Won't you stay a while? Come inside?" she offered.

"Oh, no, that's quite all right," said Lacey. "In my experience, it is better if I don't meet the child until I have come to an understanding with the parents. Otherwise, it can be confusing and stressful for the child."

"Oh. Of course," said Gwen, who had not considered this. After a polite sort of nod, the cat turned and marched down the front walk. At the sidewalk, she turned toward Gwen, who was still standing on the front step. Lacey flicked her tail and Gwen found herself waving back. Then Lacey turned and headed down the sidewalk, marching briskly in the direction of Sherman Street.

Gwen looked down at the small piece of paper she had been given. It was a typed note containing four names and telephone numbers. Gwen folded the paper in half and went into the house. She stuck it in a kitchen drawer and promptly forgot about it. But then Craig got stuck working a week of back-to-back shifts at the hospital.

While attending alone to bedtime for the fifth night in a row, Gwen thought of Lacey. It had been a particularly difficult evening, with many random points of contention and hidden land mines exploding. On her fifteenth trip upstairs to return Emma to her crib, Gwen wondered to herself, How on earth could a cat possibly deal with this? The question remained with her after Emma finally surrendered to sleep, so Gwen rummaged around, found the reference list, and dialed the first number.

"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.

"Hello, I . . ." Gwen paused. I what? She had not rehearsed the conversation in advance and for a moment it occurred to her that perhaps she was losing her mind and Lacey did not exist at all. Or perhaps a cat had stopped by the front steps earlier in the week, but it had not come seeking employment and capable of conversation. Her thoughts were interrupted quickly by the voice on the other end of the line.

"You're calling about Lacey, am I right?"

"Yes."

The woman laughed. "Sorry, it's just that whenever anyone calls about her, there's always that same hesitation. I'm sure I had it too when I called her references before she worked for me."

Gwen smiled and began to relax. The woman, whose name was Anne, told Gwen how Lacey had worked for her for three years, beginning when her twin sons were two. Kevin and Kyle were little demons, to hear her tell it, making trouble from the moment they woke up until they passed out at night from sheer exhaustion. Until Lacey came along. Then, everything changed. In almost no time at all, they became courteous and respectful. They would listen when spoken to and would take turns with toys and playground equipment.

"And without yelling or threats or anything negative at all. Lacey is just one in a million, that's all I can say. You should be thrilled she's available and snap her up before someone else does!"

Gwen was beginning to come to the same conclusion, but she tried to stay the course and ask the questions she came with.

"Was it a problem at all that she's, well . . ."

"That she's a cat?"

"Well, yes," said Gwen.

"As a matter of fact, no," said Anna. "My husband and I wondered about that, too. But really, it is the darnedest thing. Once she's with you a week, you'll completely forget she's a cat."

Gwen thanked her and hung up. She called the other references and had very similar conversations. Lacey was a saint, a miracle-worker, a rare find not to be passed up. Yes, it was initially unsettling that she was a cat and not a person, but this was a detail that was quickly forgotten once she was seen in action with children. The children in question were always bright, promising, energetic toddlers. In other words, hellions. Under Lacey's kind, careful guidance, they blossomed into thoughtful, considerate youngsters. "And stayed that way!" claimed one woman, whose son was now 15 and attending a competitive high school. Before Lacey, she told Gwen, the boy bit playmates, started fires, ate chalk. When Lacey came, these behaviors vanished. "And now," the woman boasted, "Tom is first violin in the youth orche stra and vice president of his school's Gilbert and Sullivan society."

When Craig came home from work later that night, Gwen came very close to telling him everything. However, she had already played out this scenario in her mind. He would be suspicious and might even question her sanity. Who could blame him? The whole thing sounded loopy, and certainly would have to Gwen had she not met Lacey. So instead, she simply recounted to him the odyssey of bedtime: the endless trips upstairs, Emma's complaints and tears, and Gwen's frustration at her inability to placate the demanding child.

The monologue served its usual purpose: Craig felt unspeakably guilty. He had been an enthusiastic and doting parent when Emma was a baby, shirking as many of the demands of his residency as he could get away with. But now that she was so, well, challenging, he found himself increasingly reluctant to place himself in the eye of the storm. In addition, his responsibilities at work had notched up recently, and through the hospital scuttlebutt Craig was beginning to hear a subtle but distinct grumble about his performance.

Before Emma's birth, and in the early months, Craig liked coming home to his wife, his family. He would change into a pair of sweats, open a beer, sift through the day's mail. He'd sit on the couch and let Gwen run her hands through what was left of his hair while he told her about his day. But those days were gone. He felt selfish mourning them but could not help himself at times. This made him feel all the more panicked when Gwen came to him looking so lost. Secretly, he was counting on her to steer them back, if not to that time, then at least in its general direction.

"Maybe we should consider getting some help," said Craig. He knew she hated it when he made this suggestion, so he quickly tried to backtrack. "I mean, don't get me wrong, hon. I know you're trying so hard with her. And you're a really terrific mom." Craig tried to start again. "It's just that she's been so . . . you know . . . hard lately. It's got to be wearing you down. Do you think you could maybe think about that?"

Gwen nodded slowly. Craig, pleased that he had finally succeeded in getting through to her, gave her a hug. Gwen felt a little duplicitous for not just coming clean about her interest in hiring Lacey. But, ultimately, this was the best approach, she was sure. She called Lacey the next day.

"It's so nice to hear from you," said Lacey. "You reached my references?"

"Yes. They all said wonderful things about you."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"So, we were wondering when you might be available to start?"

"Well, let me see . . ." Gwen could hear pages flipping. On the phone, it was impossible to tell that Lacey was not human. "How's Tuesday morning at 10 am?"

* * *

When Craig came home from the hospital at 9 pm Tuesday night, the house was so quiet that he initially assumed that Gwen and Emma were out. He guessed that Gwen was doing what she would do when things reached the point of no return: putting Emma in her carseat and driving her around until she collapsed.

"In here, hon."

"Hey," said Craig, joining her in the kitchen. "She down?"

"Yup." Gwen was drinking a cup of tea. Craig lifted the tea kettle off the stove and shook it slightly from side to side to check if there was enough water in it for him to join her. This fact confirmed, he lit the burner beneath it. Just then, he noticed that there was an orange cat sitting on one of the kitchen chairs.

"Well, hey there. Whose cat?"

Gwen paused. She wasn't sure how to go about this, but the day had gone so well that she felt slightly giddy. She began to talk quickly.

"Craig, this is Lacey. She's going to be staying with us for a while. She's here to, well, sort of help with Emma. She has a lot of experience with children and Emma is really taken with her, so we got off to a really good start today and . . ."

Craig approached the table and tentatively stroked the cat's head.

"Wow. Um, hon," he said. "Don't you think we should have talked before you just went out and got a cat?"

"Well, it's funny that you should say that, because, in a way, we sort of did. Remember when we talked about me getting some help with Emma?"

"Uh, yeah, but I meant like a babysitter or something."

"Actually, the term I prefer is caregiver," said Lacey.

Craig recoiled as if Lacey had bit him.

"Oh my god!" he said. Gwen tried to touch his arm but he shook her off.

"Sweetie, relax, it's okay. She's here to help with Emma."

"Oh my god," said Craig again, staring at Lacey.

"I often find it's hard for parents to adjust to me at first," said Lacey in her quiet, even voice. "Interestingly, the children always seem to accept me as a caregiver from the start. However, I should take this opportunity to tell you that I think it best if you refrain from petting me. It undermines my authority in front of the children. Also, I think it best if we keep our relationship as professional as possible."

"Gwen, can I talk to you?"

Lacey took her cue from Craig. "I think I'll retire for the evening. Craig, nice to meet you. I'll see you both in the morning." She jumped to the floor and trotted into the living room.

"Gwen, what in the name of . . .?"

"Hon, please, let me explain." Gwen proceeded to tell Craig everything. Her feelings of desperation, responding to the ad, meeting Lacey for the first time, hearing the glowing references, and finally seeing her with Emma.

"Craig, do you have any idea what time Emma went to bed tonight?"

"No."

"Seven fifteen. With no protests or complaints whatsoever."

"Okay, great. But still, this is too creepy."

"And you should see them together. Lacey got Emma to pick up all of her toys and Emma was laughing and giggling as she did it. And she sat still at the table for once and actually ate some of her food because Lacey sat there with her. I tell you, I know it's crazy, but there's something about her . . . Please, can't we just give it a week and see . . ."

Craig looked over at Gwen. He felt, on some level, responsible for setting this bizarre chain of events in motion. Of course, how could he have known that his simple suggestion of hiring in some help would lead to this? He was a doctor, after all, a man of germ theory and reason and predictable, verifiable events. He had never owned a cat but he knew enough about them. Cats did not have jobs. Cats did not speak. They slept, mostly, on couches and beds. Occasionally they played with toys, presented themselves to be petted, and ate foul-smelling canned meals.

But when Craig looked in his wife's eyes, he saw an urgent need. A need that he realized he could meet just like that, by signing off on this crazy idea of hers. Craig did not know what to do. He felt queasy. "What about Henry?" he said.

Gwen gestured pointedly to the dog, who was fast asleep and drooling on the woven rug in front of the sink. He knew what she meant. Nothing disturbed Henry. "Okay, okay . . . fine. One week. But if it still freaks me out, she's got to go. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

* * *

The week went well. Lacey seemed to know her place, which pleased Craig although he remained guarded. Lacey was a quiet presence, barely noticeable as she moved through the house, following Emma around and murmuring softly to her.

Lacey had a subtle sense of timing and humor, which enabled her to guide the child smoothly through the rhythms of her day. Gwen noticed this on the first day, when Emma demonstrated one of her favorite tricks for grating Gwen's nerves. She selected one of her dolls, held it by the legs, and proceeded to use it to bang loudly on her toy piano. Gwen's typical reaction to this behavior was either to announce "Enough!," take the doll away, and invite the child's wrath, or to ignore the racket, grind her teeth, and give herself a migraine. But Lacey simply smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered, "Hmm . . . 'Three Blind Mice,' am I right?" Confused, Emma stopped banging and squinted at her. Lacey paused for a beat and quietly said, "I thought you were playing 'Three Blind Mice,' but it was a little hard to discern. Let's hear you try it again, softly now." To Gwen's astonishment, Emma dropped the doll and began gently poking the keys with her fingers.

Lacey displayed an enviable ability to use Emma's eagerness for approval to her advantage. She liberally dispensed praise when it was merited, but carefully withheld it when none was due. As a result, within a few days of Lacey's arrival, Emma's outbursts began to subside. And when Emma occasionally acted out, Lacey remained unflappable. She never raised her voice, threatened, or struck Emma. Nor did she ever use any of the weapons available to her by virtue of her species: her claws, her sharp teeth.

Lacey did, however, have one feline trick in her repertoire. When Emma would repeatedly misbehave and refuse to heed warnings, Lacey would deftly climb to a shelf on the bookcase just out of Emma's reach. From her perch, she would calmly reassure the child that she would come down when Emma regained control. Sputtering and weeping, Emma would make a few feeble grabs for Lacey's tail, which was tantalizingly out of reach. But within a few minutes she would give up, sniffle a bit, and settle down.

Gwen happened to see Lacey use this technique one day, overhearing the events building up to it from the next room and hovering there to find out what would happen. When Lacey's approach worked, Gwen felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. She realized that she had assumed that Emma was going to get frustrated with Lacey's game and run to find her instead. She thought about saying something to Lacey, but what would she say? This was what Gwen had hired Lacey to do and she was doing it well, very well in fact. And she couldn't bring herself to confess her insecurities to Craig. She knew he'd feel ill-used, since she had been the one who insisted that they let Lacey into their home. So instead, Gwen took a deep breath and reminded herself that the week was almost up. Four years of marriage to Craig had taught Gwen that in his mind, one week meant one week. On the morning of the eighth day, Gwen waited for him to broach the subject of Lacey. It happened while Gwen was doing the breakfast dishes and Lacey was outside watching Emma play in the yard.

"So, listen, I'm running late but we should probably talk about all of this."

"All of what?" asked Gwen.

"You know. Lacey," said Craig.

"Yes, I know."

"Okay, look, let me just say this. I know you meant well, but I knew from the start that this whole thing was a little crazy. I mean, come on, she's a cat. You know?"

"Absolutely," said Gwen. She set down her sponge and began to think about how exactly she would phrase it when she broke the news to Lacey. She thought she might rely on her collection of euphemisms left over from when she was single, before she met Craig: It's not you, it's us . . . We've decided to pursue other options . . . A line from a television game show came to her out of nowhere: But we have some lovely parting gifts.

"But, you know, hon, the truth is . . . she's great."

"I'm sorry?" Startled, Gwen turned to face him. Craig shrugged.

"She's just an amazing, I dunno, babysitter."

"'Caregiver,'" said Gwen flatly.

"Whatever. The point is, she's great with Emma, and she gives you a break so you can get things done . . ."

Craig's voice trailed off. He didn't know how else to explain it. He had been as surprised as anyone to find that the changes in Emma had defied his expectations. But after a week, the spirited little girl's energy was channeled in a much more positive way. And he had noticed that Gwen seemed different--more relaxed, he assumed--and she had started spending more time at her desk. Craig took this as a good sign, eager as he was to see their formerly stressful household coming to some sense of order. There was more food in the fridge, lots of fresh fruit, and nice pasta salads that Gwen suddenly had time to prepare. Gwen had also gotten her hair trimmed. While she was at the salon, she got a manicure, too, using a gift certificate she had received as a shower gift when she was pregnant with Emma. Craig was pleased at these turns of events. "But she's . . . a cat," said Gwen.

"I know, I know! It's nuts, but somehow that has started to seem like a stupid reason to let her go when things are going so well. You know?" Gwen did know. But for some reason she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She turned back to the sink so Craig would not see how close she was to tears. Through the window, she could see her child in the sandbox, presenting a sand cake to the orange cat sitting across from her. For a moment, she felt that she could almost step outside of herself and see them as a stranger would, peering though the glass at any young girl, any cat, any sandbox in the world. A stranger, however, might not notice that as the child played contentedly, the cat was pretending to eat the sand cake, keeping watch for yellowjackets, and occasionally giving the child a reassuring lick on the nose. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Sure. That's great. Emma will be so pleased."

"No, really, hon. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Really. I'm just . . . surprised, that's all." Craig sidled up behind her. Gwen stiffened when he touched her, but he did not seem to notice. He moved a lock of her hair and kissed her behind the lobe of her ear.

"I'm full of surprises," he whispered.