TEXTUAL HEALING

My nanny is supposed to be at work in an hour. Anytime the phone rings within an hour of an employee’s designated arrival time, I brace myself for the inevitable “Dog ate my homework” excuse for why they can’t work. I pick up the phone already canceling my plans in my head.

Instead of my French nanny’s voice, I hear a computerized voice akin to a serial killer. It’s the only voice I’ve ever heard with less charm than hers

“You…have…a…cell…to…land…line…text…coming, please…hold.”

I do.

The computerize voice then recites the text:

“Getting on a flight to Paris. Death in the family. Not my fault.”

As they say in French, c’est tout. That’s it. Three lines, 13 words, no class. You see I would feel badly if Frenchie had lost a family member, if she actually lost a family member. But young Frenchie made a Cardinal mistake, just days before, leaving a note to herself to book an Air France ticket on her parents’ miles. Either Frenchie is incredibly psychic or Frenchie’s got some explaining to do. Possibly she can text me the real story, since this one is bullshit.

Every time I get a text, I feel like I’m fifteen. Maybe that’s because texts should really only be sent by fifteen year olds. When I was a teen, I spent hours of my after school time on the phone with the same people I had just seen all day. We’d watch “Days of Our Lives” and eat Doritos, each at our own house, connected by the widespread grasp of Ma Bell. Now, fifteen year-olds spend hours on their Sidekicks or Iphones, texting back and forth, talking about nothing. Each text is stream of consciousness, diarrhea of the brain, meant to be read, responded to and deleted immediately. But that’s what you do when you’re fifteen: waste time and talk about it.

Not when you’re a grown up, with a job, being depended on. Possibly leaving the country on a moment’s notice might warrant a bit more communication than 13 impersonal words. Of course that’s probably why she sent a text, no communication.

I’ve tried to think back on where I may have gone wrong. Sure, part of this was my fault. I hired a French nanny, after all. I’m lucky she didn’t send a text that read: “I surrender.”

With every hiring and the inevitable un-hiring, I’m left picking up the pieces, wondering what I did wrong. Then I’ll talk to a friend or two, each with similar stories, each reminding me there are just a lot of crazy people in the world. Hiring a nanny is a tricky thing. Moms are supposed to thank the nanny profusely for achieving the simple task of doing her job. We’re supposed to treat a nanny like family, but she’s not expected to do so in return. We’re expected to pay on time, give healthy Christmas bonuses, but have no recourse when a nanny decides Paris beckons.

Somewhere out there is a reliable employee. Ideally she will have good English, a reliable car, and good references. But most important, hopefully she’ll have no cell phone. That way when she quits, she’ll at least have to tell me in person.

I’m sure I’ll hear from Frenchie. Undoubtedly, she’ll return in a month of two from her existential crisis in Paris, realize that it’s hard to live without an income, and will have assumed I kept her job for her. She’ll send a text:

“Back from funeral. Can work tomorrow.”

I’ll spend some time thinking of how to respond, knowing there is only one response. But unfortunately, I can’t remember how to say it in French. If only I’d paid better attention in 7th grade, I’d be able to remember how to text; “Go fuck yourself.” But since I don’t, I’ll settle for the alternative.

“Merci, mais non merci.”

Thanks but no thanks.