Roman knows that part is true. I think that is why he says yes. That, and because when Roman is tired, he always gives in, and when I am tired, I never give in. “I guess…as long as you’re with them, and nothing dodgy goes down, we can try…It would save money.”
Because of the nature of her work, Daisy can only hang with me and Holden during the day. Roman doesn’t come home from work until it is dark out. Some people are night people, and some people are accounting consultants who worry about layoffs.
And it is that universal truth that allows Daisy to move into our lives, first as a companion and a caregiver…and, months later, as something else entirely.
Chapter Fifteen
• • • • •
Daisy and I meetat the little park on Elizabeth Street, the one that the city is about to bulldoze to build another condo. We sign a “Save the Park” petition, and then, walking through this sliver of outdoor space, with hydrangeas and a sculpture garden, we agree that the park is toast. The rich always end up bulldozing everything.
“Damn shame,” Daisy says.
We find a spot on the grass by a pergola where a librarian on a metal folding chair unpacks a bubble machine and sets up for Mandarin story time. We spread out the Aden + Anais Essentials Muslin Baby Swaddle. We both drink iced red-eyes—cold brew with a shot of espresso—out of red paper straws. We both love red-eyes and hate paper straws.
Daisy tells me that she speaks a little Mandarin. “Job requirement,” she says. “I’m not fluent or anything, but I can order at a restaurant, take a taxi. I could teach Holden, if you want?” Yes, I’d like that, I tell her. “You’d love Shanghai. It’s so alive. You come back to New York and feel like everyone is asleep.”
“I want to go sometime,” I say. Who am I kidding? Chinatown is a treat.
Marcela sits down nearby with Noah and a couple other CentralAmerican nannies on one side of the semicircle. Marcela always wears sundresses and a full face of makeup and never forgets wipes and makes it look like taking care of a baby is the world’s easiest job. The Caribbean nannies spread out on the other side, opening Tupperware with pureed sweet potatoes inside. The Tribeca moms arrive late, grabbing territory as if they were westward expansionists. Daisy studies how we all stake out our spots. “I’ve seen actual mobsters sit down with less tension,” she whispers. We giggle.
“Ni hao. Hello!” the librarian says. “Xièxiè. Thank you!” And we all mutter “Ni hao” and “Xièxiè” at our babies.
I wave to a couple of moms I recognize fromJuju Beanmeetups. Tribeca moms. They are fancier than the Stuy Town moms. I feel Daisy watching me watching these moms. She can see how tense I get when they breeze in, toned and elegant. They are walking alongside their nannies—an extra set of hands—pushing the latest Bugaboo Fox 5 Complete strollers, the model that had been famously backordered after supply-chain issues in Europe. After this, they will take their babies to a cooking class at the Preschool of the Arts, which costs seventy-five dollars for forty-five minutes and has a wait list.
Daisy refused Queenie’s ring and insisted I wear it. I feel the diamond on my finger and fiddle with it, hoping the sunlight catches just so and it blinds the Tribeca bitches.
“They your friends?” Daisy asks, lying back on the blanket.
“What? Oh, no. Not really.”
“You don’t need them,” she says. “You have me now.”
—
After story time, Daisy and I wander down a quiet tree-lined street eating soft serve from the Mister Softee truck. Daisy licks a dollop of ice cream off my cone before it falls on my shirt. “There, saved you,” she says, smiling.
“Thanks.”
I get an alert on my phone and open theJuju Beanapp. @BoyMomBrynn wants to connect. Daisy grabs my phone. “No. Please don’t.”
She feigns a QVC voice, reading, “Bonds between women can positively influence emotional well-being and connectedness. Find your custom-made village for just ninety-nine dollars.”
“It’s stupid.”
Daisy laughs. I take my phone back. “I mean, I want to have mom friends. Not just for me, but for Holden. Playdates, community, whatever. But the only thing we have in common is that we all recently gave birth below Twenty-Third Street.”
“Hmm. Maybe you just hate women?”
Before I can tell if Daisy is joking, she’s leading us to a used bookstore. “Oh, I love this place. C’mon. You still writing poetry?”
She holds the door open and easily pulls the Yoyo inside. “Nah. There isn’t anything poetic about my life. It’s strange,” I say, following them into aisles crowded with first-edition books. “My days last a thousand hours and nothing happens. Until you.”
Daisy rubs her finger over the books’ spines. “Em! That’s a downer. I get really depressed if I’m not, like, constantly creating, living every day on the edge, ya know?” She takes a James Dickey book off the shelf and flips through the pages.
“Does eating soft cheese count?”
Daisy turns the corner. “You’re funny, Em. Most people aren’t funny. Most people are humorless and boring as fuck. Everyone thought you were lame in college, but I always knew you had a lot going on in that head.” She taps the side of my head. “A loud inner voice.”
