Lasagna

I am seventeen years old.

I have taken a part-time job as the afternoon nanny for a wealthy family who live down the street from the university I attend on a substantial academic scholarship. David and Dianne Robertson live in a stately historic home, immaculately restored to her impressive turn of the century grandeur. A heavy oak door anchors the wide front porch. A low- hanging swing rocks quietly in the breeze. The door opens to reveal a parlor and formal dining area, their undisturbed linens and table settings waiting sleepily under a light layer of dust. Long, dark wood planks, set into place just before boys from this Southern town went to war, creak faintly under hand-woven, vintage Persian rugs. I rarely enter the house this way. Most days, I make my way down the long driveway and park next to the veranda where I enter the house from the newest addition, a spacious and airy sunroom with large windows on every wall.

I have been hired to keep up with the twins, Lily and Lila, who are two. Their older sister, Annie, is five, very busy, and has her own caretaker. The newborn, Charlotte, spends most of her time with Dianne, although when Dianne goes to tennis I am entrusted with the baby, as well.

My childhood was comfortable, happy, and solidly middle class. My parents worked hard to put my younger brother and I through private schools. We went to summer camp every year. if finances were a strain, and there were certainly times they were, my brother and I never suffered for it. We did not, however, have separate nannies. This was a level of wealth I had not yet encountered, even among friends whose families had multiple homes and house keepers.

My favorite room in the Robertson’s home is the kitchen. There is a commercial oven and stove that, while rarely used for much other than boiling water for macaroni and cheese, impress with their potential. The granite topped island hides a microwave behind cabinet doors. This is the first time it has occurred to me that a microwave might live hidden below the countertop rather than seated above it. The pantry is always fully stocked with snacks and treats for the girls. The refrigerator is never empty. Dianne has offered that I should always help myself to any snacks or leftovers that grab my attention. I eat mostly ramen noodles and Lucky Charms stolen from my roommate’s secret stash, so this is a welcome offer and I take her up on it. I, conveniently, share snacking habits with the toddlers in my care. Goldfish and applesauce please the three of us equally.

My time with the girls is spent primarily shuttling them home from the German immersion Montessori school they attend during the day, and spending time with them in the hours before Dianne returns home in the evening. I rarely see David, but when I do he is kind.

One day, during a particularly challenging semester, I return home with the girls and open the refrigerator to fix their snack when I find the remains of a homemade lasagna from the night before. My mouth waters aggressively as I pull the casserole dish from the fridge and carve out a slice for myself. I prepare a snack for the girls and reheat this holy thing in the microwave under the countertop. It is so much better than ramen noodles and stolen Lucky Charms. I will surely dream of this lasagna for days to come.

Dianne returns home earlier than expected, to grab a few things before she goes out to meet some committee for something or other.

“Oh, by the way, there’s leftover lasagna in the fridge. I know I said to help yourself to anything, but that’s David’s favorite and I told him I’d save it for him when he gets home tonight. So you can have anything but that.”

I die. I have already. eaten. the lasagna. Not all of it, but enough to count. Enough that Dianne will surely notice. I am humiliated. I am a broke college student who has greedily ravaged the refrigerator of someone I barely know and now I’ve eaten what had been set aside for David, who I rarely see. I nod and say nothing. I hope it won’t matter. I hope it will just be a little less lasagna than she planned. I hold my breathe until I am back in my dorm to study that evening.

I don’t see the Robertsons for a couple of days. When I return, Dianne is cool. Not icy, but noticeably chilled. We go through the motions of preparing the girls for the afternoon. I will have the baby while Dianne goes to play tennis with her friends, today. She is rushing, and running late.

“Oh, by the way. I really meant when I said not to eat the lasagna. It’s fine for you to eat our food, but I specifically asked you not to eat the lasagna that I’d saved for David and you did it anyways. Please don’t do that again.”

I am mortified. I apologize. It has been too long for me to tell her what happened, that I’d already eaten the lasagna before she asked me not to. I should have said something in that moment. I should have made a joke out of it. I could have made it light. I feel horrified to have overstepped. I didn’t know. I thought it would be okay.

I am seventeen years old.

This is a silly story about an embarrassing moment with a lasagna, but I think it is also where a very particular fear in my head found a voice. This fear that, despite my best efforts, I will eventually disappoint the people who trust me. I will not know it, but I will misstep in a way that causes me to let someone down and I will be humiliated for it. This moment with the lasagna happened half my lifetime ago, but my throat still drops into my belly like it did that day more often than I’d like to admit. I am so often waiting to hear how I’ve screwed things up, preparing in advance to make amends for sins I did not know I committed. I am ready to take the blame. It feels very vulnerable to admit because I am generally doing quite well in my life, and the people who love me seem perfectly happy with me. I wish I did not have this voice that questioned them, that made me suspicious of others’ trust in me. I wish I did not suspect that just about every other phone call will be the one I find out I’ve done it again.

Showing compassion to myself at thirty four years old has required a great deal of showing compassion to the seventeen year old who learned a particular set of survival skills just as she entered the world on her own. There are many ways I’m learning to re-encounter and show compassion to who I was at seventeen and what I decided was true about myself and my place here. I’m learning it’s not good for me to be someone else’s secret. Honest mistakes are not moral failings. The people who love me are not expecting disappointment from me. I don’t have to prove I belong in every room I enter. I am, and will always be, enough. I am whole and worthy, just exactly as I am. My presence matters, and what I need matters, and that I can speak it. I need not be humiliated. I need not simply nod and absorb what is not mine to carry.

I am thirty four years old. I am learning.