The Au Pair

The Au Pair: Part 7

A dead body looks just like sleep. A form in repose. That is until you look more closely and see the small changes that come with one's final rest. The greyish pallor of the skin. The gaping mouth, frozen in place. 

Mr. Greaves looks really tired Hannah, says Georgie sympathetically as we walk past his parked car sat idling in the drive. 

Strange, I think. But we are in a rush. I'll check in with him on the way back I say. Heather was in a mood this morning and now we are late. 

Our morning routine is like clockwork. Usually. Wake the kids up at 7am. Bathroom regimen, get dressed, down for breakfast, hugs for mum and dad and then out the door for the 10-minute walk to school. Our little trio is nothing if not efficient. Rain or shine, our morning pattern is set with the three of us having it down to a fine art. But when Heather or Stephen get it in their heads to try and parent, to change things up, Georgie and Juliana push back.

On the morning of Mr. Greaves' driveway sleep-in Heather stops Georgie at the door to check his bag. 

Do you have everything darling? Lunch is packed? Tuck shop money?

Hannah's got it mum, Georgie says impatiently, wriggling away from her touch. His 7-year-old's burgeoning independence is heightened by a wariness that has grown more visible in the last month or so. Withdrawning from both Heather and Stephen, retreating into himself, I am aware of the delicate thread that keeps him tied to me and Juliana. 

Off we go you two, I sing song out the door, trying to keep things light. I feel Heather's cold stare in my direction, taking in the competition that she hired. I know Heather is wondering if she did the right thing all the months ago bringing me into their lives. But with Stephen's business trips and her own design work, what option does she have? At least that's what she tells herself. Or what I imagine she says as we close the door behind us and breathe in the fresh morning air, freed from the weight of her angst.

I've noticed that Stephen's trips have become more frequent. And that Stephen Johns is a constant travel companion. I've heard kitchen complaints when the house should be asleep as Heather cries to her husband for more attention. For more care. I've heard her on the steps and have waited, tense, for my bedroom door to open again on those nights. But Heather has kept her distance from me of late. 

It's as if she knows what I know and it's in the knowing where walls are formed. 

I drop the kids off at school and make my way back to the house, grateful for the quiet that I will walk into. Heather should be gone for the day with Stephen out of town so I'm surprised to see Mr. Greaves' car still parked as I walk up the long driveway. The Platz's call on his services for trips to the airport and ski holidays so, in a collegial way, we've become friends.

Heather must have gone out the back, I think. 

I know she'd never stand for the idling so I'm anxious to get him moving. I peer into the darkened driver side window and see the chauffer's head resting on the steering wheel. 

Mr. Greaves? I knock on the window. Eddie? I bang a little louder. 

I decide to open the door and wake the poor man but it's locked from the inside. I feel the back of my knees get itchy the way they do when I know something is wrong. I walk to the other side of the car and peer through the passenger side window. I am hoping to get a better look, though at what I don't know. I just want my friend to wake up. For my morning routine to get back on track. 

I get what I'm looking for. My mother always said I couldn't take no for an answer. Squinting through the car window the blank stare and gaping mouth of the Platz's chauffeur confirms what my body already knew to be true. 

Eddie is dead.