Lauren was my first girl -- not my daughter, but a girl I cared for as nanny. I cared for so many children that way, but Lauren was special. Everyone would tell you that. Lauren didn’t make friends so much as she made sisters -- a special talent for an only-child. I was lucky enough to be one of her extensive family. She made me her sister up front. I came into her home every Sunday for five years. I would have done it for free. She was such a delight.
We met up again that summer. Lauren, a beautiful and vibrant young woman now, came to see me. She brought the dollhouse -- my dollhouse, then her dollhouse, now my daughter, Elsie’s dollhouse. I would call Lauren next week, we agreed, and set up a time for her to babysit Elsie, sweet and blond-bobbed toddler, a little shadow of Lauren when I first started with her family.
By the next week, she was gone.
“What was the weapon?” A friend asked me, just last night.
Bungee cords and a knife.
Bungee cords and a knife.
Bungee cords and a knife for my sweet, dear Lauren.
Bungee cords and a knife.
Bungee cords and a knife for my sweet, dear Lauren.
It is the smell of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo, sudzing and bubbling up in fine blond hair on a wriggly little human. Bright smile. Warm splashes. Echoing laughter. Soft rosy skin. Thick, terry towels.
“Who are you?” They ask.
Snuggles and cuddles, band-aids on scratched knees, and silly bedtime stories.
“I was her babysitter.”
Summer evening light filtering into her bedroom. “Do I have to go to bed, Kate? One more story! Let’s stay up and watch the fireflies. PLEASE?”
“Oh.” They reply. “I’m so sorry.” They say. It’s just the babysitter.
Impromptu trip home from college just to see her play Annie, watch her belt The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow into the rafters. That sickening moment of rabid protective instinct when my brother told me she had her first boyfriend.
That moment when that horrible teenager cemented those fears in cold hard truth. Bungee cords and a knife.
I wash my own daughters’ hair with baking soda. It doesn't have any smell.
That shampoo. What was it called?
No more tears.
Stunning! I read when you wrote about her when it happened. I cried for you and her that day. Today, I think you were special in her life. Babysitter is a special treasured title.
ReplyDelete