The Sitter Read Free Page A

here in New York, Mom. Not like summer yet. I think it’s going to rain. How is it in Madison?”
    Cold, of course. It’s always cold in Madison. Well, except for those few months when it’s swelteringly hot, and the humidity off the lake practically knocks you over.
    Then I ask about my cat, Lucky. I miss Lucky so much. I’ve had him since I was twelve, but I had to leave him behind when I moved to New York. “How is Lucky, Mom?”
    “He’s okay. How should he be?”
    Then I get the report on Wendy, my successful, hardworking, married, nearly rich, fucking yuppie of an older sister, whose stupid, sacred shadow I walk in. And don’t you ever let me forget it, Mom.
    “Wendy and Noah bought a BMW, an adorable little convertible. I hate to tell you what it costs.”
    Oh, go ahead and tell me, Mom. You know you’re
dying
to.
    Then she asks me what I’m doing, and her voice changes—it suddenly sounds as if she just stepped in dog poop. “Ellie, dear, what’s new? Are you still temping at that stockbroker’s?”
    “Well, I’m still temping, Mom. But the stockbroker thing ended. So I’m going to be starting somewhere new.”
    “I thought you had a friend there. That young woman you mentioned. Teresa something. She was going to find you a real job there.”
    “Teresa’s only a secretary, Mom. She really doesn’t have enough pull to get me a job.”
    “Oh, I see. I didn’t realize you were working at such a low level. And I guess you couldn’t get a real job on your own?”
    “Uh . . . well . . . I enjoy temping, Mom. Really. And I . . . I’m still trying to work things out.”
    “Still hung up in the past? You’re really saying this to me? What year is this? Did I fall into a time warp? Are we living some kind of science-fiction movie where I’m doomed to live the same scene over and over?”
    “Mom. Come on. I didn’t call to argue.”
    “What’s past is past.”
    “Mom—”
    “Why don’t you get a tattoo like all the other crazy people your age? You could tattoo that on your forehead:
What’s past is past.
You ran off to New York to forget it all, am I right?”
    “I didn’t run off. I made a decision, and I moved here. Give me a break, Mom. I’m trying.”
    “You’re trying? You’re trying my patience, that’s what you’re trying.”
    “Ha ha. You’re such a comedian, Mom.”
    “Then how come I talk to you and I want to cry?”
    “Please. I’m really trying to get over the past. I need a real change. You know. A fresh start.”
    “Ellie, you’re twenty-four. You’re going to run out of fresh starts soon.”
    “Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.”
    “Listen to me—”
    “Mom, I’m sorry. Got to go. I have another call.”
    Sometimes I say that just to get off the phone. But this time, I really did have another call.
    “Ellie, I didn’t get to tell you about your dad’s root canal. Three hours in the chair. You wouldn’t believe the pain that poor man—”
    “Mom, please. It’s beeping. I have to take this call. Bye.”
    I clicked her off, but I knew her raspy, two-packs-a-day voice would ring in my ears for the next hour or two.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, babe. It’s me. Clay. I was thinking maybe we could get together tonight.”

3
    T he next Saturday, Teresa called and said to come over and we’d do lunch or something. I hadn’t seen her since that night at Beach Club.
    What would I say if she asked me what happened with Clay? Could I tell her the truth? No way. Too embarrassing.
    I pulled on a pair of pale blue chinos and a navy polo shirt and swept my hair into place with my hand. Then I stepped outside into a warm, sparkly day—June first, and summer was just about here!—and began to walk up West End Avenue.
    In a windowsill, some late daffodils swung gently in the soft, warm breeze. Someone had planted red and purple tulips around the trees that lined the avenue. Two blond-haired boys zipped past me on their silver Razor scooters, jackets flying behind