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I pout until she shows me how I can have the look of a large skirt without the layers of petticoats. I’m in awe at the way she’s able to put the sketch into a computer program with my measurements, and it shows me how I’ll look. I assumed it’s the equivalent of putting a dress over me in the store or something. Not even close. If I didn’t know it wasn’t possible, I would have believed I stood for the picture.
The first dress is a no. I like a few elements of the second, so she changes it in the program. I’m not in love until the fifth one. I gasp.
It’s stunning. The skirt is made of a transparent organza. At the bottom of the skirt is a duchess silk hem of two inches that matches the duchess silk of the top. Big, obnoxious roses are lined by crystals in contrast to the minimalist almost boring top half. The neckline is a boatneck, covering my chest to an inch below my neck. Considering the historical church, I go with sleeves. The sleeves are sheer with duchess silk cuffs to match the detail at the hem and below my breasts.
“That’s the one.” I sigh.
“All right, Mrs. Rodriguez, dress is done. Let’s have some fun and get you a wardrobe.”
CHAPTER12
Nicolette
On day two, I fire the nanny.
I find her spanking Ofelia. The cries of the little girl yank me out of bed. Opening my door, Ofelia is inches away trying to shield her bottom from the woman’s hand. She had peed the bed, the nanny is saying, berating the little girl for the mess.
The nanny’s hand is raised. I have no idea what came over me. Grabbing her by her hair, I pull her away from Ofelia. Anger fires through me when I see her drop the little girl. I use the nanny’s surprise, my anger, and her hair to drag her ass down the stairs as I tell her exactly what I think of a woman who hits a child.
Satisfaction rushes through me seeing her stumble over herself when I toss her out the front door. I tell her she’s lucky I don’t let my husband handle her. Going back inside, Ofelia is in the arms of my mother. I tell Yessica to clear out the nanny’s room and have her driven into town.
All the satisfaction disappears when Ofelia yells at me for taking the nanny away. I try to comfort her, but all she does is push me away. At breakfast, I talk to Catherine about the issue. I find out there is not one, but two nannies in Houston Blanca used.
“I thought Manuel was against the use of nannies?”
Catherine shrugs. “It was something he believes important. But he also didn’t have anything to do with the children. They lived separate lives, including how they raised the children. Joe wants his grandchildren raised speaking Spanish. But Blanca raised them on English.”
“I’ll work on the Spanish with them later. Right now, they hate me. They have no one they’ll let take care of them. I need you to get one or both of the nannies down here, today. Offer them double their previous salary,” I tell her.
An hour later as I’m sitting in the nursery trying to talk to Ofelia, Catherine tells me one of the nannies is on her way. We have a plane in Houston to bring her down, she’ll be here for a late lunch I’m promised.
I’m hoping Manuel doesn’t get mad at me for getting the nanny down here. But I can’t stand how scared they are of me. The nanny is something familiar they desperately need.
* * *
Nicolette
On day three, Luisa finally stops crying every time I enter the room. But she still hates me. The nanny, Tessa, adores the girls. I thank her for bringing smiles to the girl’s faces. We sit down together with my mom to discuss the care of the girls and Elias. I tell my mom to stop telling them to call me Mommy. I can’t help but think it’s a part of the problem. Maybe they’re afraid and scared and wondering where their real mommy is. Until I remember I am their real mommy because Blanca is dead.
The decree from Manuel haunts me. Once the girls are down for their afternoon nap, I can’t put it off anymore.
I log onto the one social media connection we have. I’m relieved to see she’s on now. Only, how the hell am I supposed to ask the question? Patty is a girl I went to Catholic school with. Her mother died before Patty turned one. Since her dad needed help, he hired a nanny and later married her. There was no happily ever after for them, though. Because even sixteen years later, Patty’s grandparents and father were locked in a custody battle. For a year, Patty was in and out of school before it was settled without any change.
I open a message and start typing. Afraid if I don’t send it immediately, I won’t, I hit send without even spell checking. Tension inches up in me until I’m up pacing the room, waiting for her reply.
My phone rings, and I run for it. I answer, and it comes pouring out the same way I wrote the message. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m struggling with this. And you were the only person I could think to ask because you’d gone through it. Thank you, thank you for calling me.”
“I’ll answer any questions I can.”
“What do you think? I don't know what to do. Guilt fills me so deeply, and the kids hate me. What if they keep hating me because deep down, they know I’m not their mom?” I share my deepest fear.
Her laughter is light. “Breathe, sweetie. The kids hating you is a kid thing. They hate every new thing unless it’s shiny and makes a mess. I’m sure they are feeling your tension. As far as your husband’s order…”
I have my eyes squeezed shut, preparing for her to go in on Manuel and ready to defend him even if I’m calling her because I don’t think it’s right.
“I agree with him. It would be different if she were alive. But she’s dead and her children are still here and still need a mother. They need to be fed, clothed, taught, and loved. I think it’s the most painful thing about death and dying. People die every day. And the world…it keeps moving on. You have to keep going. Thankfully, as young as they are, they don’t understand. They might feel the loss of their mother, but they don’t truly understand it.” I hear the tears in her voice and cringe at causing her pain.
“By keeping a woman alive they never knew, it keeps a sense of loss they'll never be able to fill. I love my grandparents. I really do. But it felt like they kept my mother alive for them. Not me. I don’t doubt my mother loved me. Yet being raised constantly with the reminders of somebody I didn’t know, there was this huge amount of guilt for loving my stepmom, and even a huge amount of resentment she wasn’t my mom. It doesn’t make sense. Emotions don’t make sense. You can try to figure them out in therapy four or five years later, and maybe it’ll help, but the rock-hard foundation of what you grow up with… to dig it up and build a new one—it’s not just hard. It’s painful.”
