The Sitter

It was another late night as I grabbed the phone hanging from the wall once again, my mind chattered with anxiety while I placed the call. I dialed the number that was burned into my mind. It rung and rung and rung, to no answer. Again, I clamored with the phone as I placed the call. My heart was racing as a numb feeling climbed into my body while I was waiting for someone to pick up the phone.

The dial tone echoed in my ear one more time, then finally after what felt like an eternity, I heard a disgruntled voice answer, “Hello?” I waited a moment before I responded. I could hear muttering, the sound of laughter and loud conversations.

“Ma?” I replied with a whimper. “Are you finished yet?”

I heard her hesitate as if her voice did not want to mouth the words. “It’s late, why are you calling me?”

I blubbered out my reply, “Because I miss you ma, can you come get me?”

Again, I heard loud roars of laughter. I felt like whoever they were, they had to be laughing at me. My mother waited for them to quiet down and said quietly, “I am not finished here, and I don’t know when I will be. You’re going to have stay there another night.”

I felt my body deflate like a balloon, every breath of hope blown out of me. I glanced at the clock ticking on the wall by my right side. It read 1:27am.

“But why ma? Why do they need you there still? I need you to come pick me up, please ma,” I said while pleading with her.

Her tone was a somber one as she said, “There is nothing I can do about it, I will see you in the morning. Love you.” She promptly hung up before I had a chance to reply.

I was left with a monotone buzzing humming in my ear and warm tears welling up in my eyes. As I stood in my cotton pajamas with tears beginning to roll down my face, I pictured my mother coming to pick me up and taking me home instead of leaving me here.

Suddenly a warm incandescent light illuminated by my side. I pivoted to see my sitter, Elizabeth, stood in her bedroom doorway. As I squinted, I could faintly see her floral nightie, but the light surrounding her blocked her face from my view.

From in the light, I heard her voice speak to me with a soft and soothing tone as she asked, “Louis what are you doing up at this hour? It’s half past one in the morning.”

I wiped the snot that had begun to stream from my nose, rubbed my eyes clear of tears. “It’s my mother,” I said. “She’s not coming to pick me up.”

I noticed she avoided answering my question directly, and I couldn’t understand why. She leant down towards me as I felt my legs shaking under me. I watched as she reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder with the most tender fingertips.

“Now it is too late for these questions. Your mother works hard for all the yummy food you get to eat at home, Louis,” she said with haste.

“But,” I replied.

She interrupted my attempt to speak, “You mustn't worry hun, I am here for you whenever you need me.”

As her whispering voice soothed my worries, I stared deep in her eyes. I felt that they were filled with a warm swirl of rich cocoa. While the spread of wrinkles on her face reassured me that whatever she said to me was correct.

She then ushered me down the hall into the carpeted lounge. As I entered the room, I felt my feet change with the texture—from the old unforgiving hardwood of the hallway to the plush carpet that welcomed me in. There was a calming night lighting casting through the shutter that had silhouetted the room, as I staggered behind Elizabeth. I noticed she did not reach for the light switch to navigate her way.

She shuffled her feet towards a glass-paneled door. In the past, she had told me it was an extension her husband John had built when they had children of their own. Looking around, I could see the room was filled with memories from their past—lots of photo albums, calendars, and loads of books.

In the corner was a double bed, and I could see there was faint streetlight trickling in through the door beside her. She gestured her right arm towards the bed, and while pulling back the covers, she said in a hushed tone, “Hop in. It’s best you go back to bed, Louis.”

I obliged and shuffled towards the corner of the bed. As she pulled up the covers and tucked me in tight, I was afraid of her leaving me alone and tears started rolling once again. I felt without her I was no match for the dark night, and I always hated the quiet—it made me feel like there was no one else in the world.

I quivered and sobbed and mustered a voice, “Please Elizabeth, please don’t go. I am afraid.”

She looked down at me and quietly said, “Afraid of what, Louis? You don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

I huffed and puffed while giving my reply, “The darkness! It makes me think no one else is here and I am all alone. Not even my mother is here to save me.”

She patted my shoulder and calmly said, “Now, now, not to worry. I’ve got something that will ease your mind.”

Before I had a chance to say another word, she turned and pivoted towards the glass-paneled door. As she opened the door, the creak of the handle gave me a shiver. I crinkled my eyes as a soft yellow light was switched on in the lounge. The light instantaneously calmed me, and I let out a blow of air.

I could now hear rustling and fiddling coming from within the lounge room. There was a click and a clack and a small scratch, then a sound I had never heard before.

“The Phantom of the Opera, performed at ‘Her Majesty's Theatre’ London,” the amplified voice announced. My mind went quiet. The light was turned off, and I heard the shuffling of feet.

“Goodnight, Louis,” Elizabeth said, as she left the glass-paneled door slightly ajar.

The music had begun at that point, and I had this feeling that I was surrounded by hope, that everything was going to be okay. Then I could hear the orchestra gradually increase in volume to a point of crescendo. Loud crashes and angry swells of instruments echoed until suddenly there was only silence.

What came next was a voice with immense beauty. It went high and low, dancing between my ears effortlessly. He sung and sung as my eyes grew heavy. I had forgotten about my mother, and all that mattered to me now was the phantom’s voice.

He led me down a train of thought. I wondered how he became the phantom. Was he scared like me once upon a time? It seemed impossible to me that he could have ever been a kid like me. He must have been born an adult.

He sung so confidently. I thought, if only I could be brave like him—not afraid to shout and sing, to have everyone hear my voice. But I am afraid of many things, so I couldn’t be the phantom. He wouldn’t be scared of the dark, and he couldn’t be afraid of the silence because his voice could always overcome any fear.

Slowly his voice started to fade, and with it I found myself in a vivid dream. It was so surreal, like nothing I had dreamt before. I could hear a woman crying somewhere nearby that was piercing my ears, but I could not see her anywhere around me.

I was in a dark room and started to feel uneasy. I bolted out of the darkness into the light. I could still hear her croaking cries, and I pushed past some bushes to see her slumped. Her shrunken body was held up by a light post on a gravel road.

Something about her looked familiar, and so did the road beneath my feet. While I intensely stared at her, my vision began swelling like a king tide accompanied by a full moon. She seemed to be unaware of my presence and continued to wail. I was afraid, but I felt compelled to find out what was wrong with her.

She was shrunken into herself, something I'd never seen before. Normally adults were so sure of themselves, but not her. I spoke with gusto so she could hear me clearly, “Hello! Hello! Can I help you? Please, can I help you!”

I waited for her reply, but the only thing I could hear now were her tears hitting the gravel. I watched as the tears turned to small puddles. Strangely, I pictured how my tears would look on the gravel next to hers—two small puddles slowly joining into one.

“Hey! Hey! Lady, I'm here to help.” I put my whole body into that one, but still I could not get her attention. I started to look around to see if there was anyone around me hearing her cries, but the street was empty and there were no cars in sight.

I turned back to see the woman had stopped weeping. She was upright and breathing heavy. Her breath was warm and drifting up into my nose. I slowly took several steps back from her as she removed the hair from her face.

I was stunned. I recognised this woman.

“Ma, is that you?” I asked with confusion. She had a mask on that covered three-quarters of her face. I felt frightened, but I had to know what was happening to her. Why was she covering her face with this strange mask? I wondered what she was hiding from—was it something that I could not see?

I watched as her exposed eye darted around and fixed its attention on me. I could see tears trapped under her eye, while red webbed lines surrounded the hazel-colored center.

Then my intrigue sharply turned into concern for her wellbeing. For the final time, I asked, “Ma! What are you doing here? Why are you crying?”

Her response was spoken without words. Instead, I watched her visible eye dart up and then down, until her eyelid covered her eye.

I stuttered and shook my head, pleading with her, “Ma, it’s not you, is it? Please tell me what is wrong?”

She continued to look down at the puddle of tears on the gravel below her. My questions were left to silence, and just as I was about to get closer to her, she snapped her head up and grabbed at me with both hands.

I gasped and awoke in a state of panic. A car driving by outside had backfired and spluttered. I regained my bearings and noticed outside light had trickled in through the sliding door.

I sat up and wiped away some sweat that had built up on my forehead. Looking to my right, I saw the glass-paneled door left slightly ajar. I was puzzled how this much sweat had built up on me as there was quite a chill to the room. The covers were damp with dewy moisture from the morning air.

It took extra strength to unfurl the sheets. My left leg followed as my right leg swung. I touched the ground and felt some sun—it had just peaked through at the perfect time. My cotton pajamas had stains of sweat, and as I examined them, I crept towards the lounge-room.

Pleasure met my feet as my toes sunk into the warm carpet. As I entered and turned my head to the right, I noticed the record player had turned off in the night. Sat beside it was a record cover with a three-quarter mask that was white and glossy with black lining on each edge. It read “The Phantom of the Opera.”

Suddenly, flashes of my dream surged into my mind.

“Yes, yes!” I exclaimed. That was the strangest dream I've ever had. The phantom had entered my dream, but in the form of my mother.

As I began to dig deeper into my dream, it became more and more elusive. Slight frustration built up inside of me, until I noticed how quiet it was in the house. Normally at my house, I could hear my mother snoring loudly in the morning, I could always hear it from every corner of our house. But here it was quiet, and all I could hear was the slight breeze brushing through the branches while the birds started their morning songs.

I observed the light that was pouring in through every window, but there were still some dark pockets that shadowed the view in front of me. I rushed to the old grandfather clock that was ticking on the mantle. It read 7:16am. I jumped at the thought that entered my mind: where is my mother? She is not here to collect me yet!

Disgruntled, I walked towards the hallway. As I entered the dimly lit passage, looking left, I saw the phone perched on that wall in its cradle. I recalled briefly the tears I had shed while speaking to my mother earlier that morning.

Turning right, I saw wood-paneled walls on each side. There was an open doorway on the left. It was inviting. As I walked towards the opening, the floorboards creaked angrily with each step.

I poked my head around the door frame, and my eyes were met with a neatly fitted double bed in the center of the room. The pillows on top had been placed with consideration and purpose. On each side were two wooden nightstands with ornate lamps that were decorated with floral patterns.

It reminded me of Elizabeth’s nightie I had seen earlier and the questions that I asked that had gone unanswered. So many of my questions were left unanswered.

Scanning the walls, I noticed the shutter window that was fixed above the bed had been cracked open. The sounds of the outside breeze and morning birds were louder, and they intermittently broke the silence. The sunlight was trickling in as warm spots of light had begun appearing on the bed. It was projecting ephemeral shifting patterns that I traced slowly with my eyes.

As I scanned the walls on each side, I could see opposing bookshelves with dust that had settled on them for so long it made them seem ancient. In front of the books were sparsely placed photo frames perched on the shelves. It looked to be of Elizabeth, John, their children, family, and friends.

In my mind, I could nearly hear how loud the mornings must have been in the past. I would have loved a full house of family and friends. But my mother and father only made me, and after that, they moved away from each other. I felt a knot in my stomach, like I was missing out on something, but I couldn’t figure out what. I never had a full house; it was always more vacant. Then I wished I had a brother who could’ve had fun with me.

At that point, I felt I had peered in long enough for my curiosity to be content. I then turned my attention to the end of the hall. My eyes were met with a Kookaburra hanging from a door frame by a piece of twine. It was slowly spinning one way, then the other. As I stared at it some more, my attention waned, and my neck stiffened.

I remembered Elizabeth always told me that the Kookaburra would protect me from my fears, but when I was younger, she would have me sleep in that room, and I felt quite the opposite. Only during the day did I feel comfortable enough to explore it. This morning it was dimly lit, and some trees outside were blocking out most of the light from the window.

The bed was neat, and it looked unused for quite some time. I scanned my eyes up and down, side to side. Books, books, and more books. I was astounded by the amount of literature Elizabeth had accumulated. Most nights, she would have me read while on her lap. Sometimes I read; sometimes she did. But reading was always a priority.

My attention was then drawn to the small circular table about the height of my torso. On there laid a jigsaw puzzle; it looked half finished. I recalled many nights spent with Elizabeth putting together jigsaw puzzles to pass the time. I smiled thinking about the love I had for her and the abundant time she spent with me.

But my happiness was accompanied by a swirl of indescribable anxiety. I recalled Elizabeth had said last week that after ten years old, I wouldn’t need her as my sitter anymore. My mother had told her that I was old enough to be on my own.

It’s the first week of August, and my tenth birthday was soon approaching on the twenty-third. Then, out of curiosity, I placed one finger down on the jigsaw puzzle and dragged it towards myself. I traced my finger as it tracked through the dust, and as I lifted it away, my nose began to itch. Soon enough, I let out consecutive sneezes.

It prompted me to head out of the room, and beneath the Kookaburra, I watched as it had begun swinging back and forth. In front of me was a closed door that had a handle that was high up. I remembered being six years old and getting right on my tiptoes to open the door. I wondered why it was so high; maybe it was to stop kids from getting into mischief.

Now I did not struggle and easily pulled the handle down as the metal creaked with a sharp twang. Blue brilliant light rushed towards my eyes and forced me to rub at my eyes. As they began to focus, I was met with two faces—familiar ones that I loved to see, especially in the morning with a breakfast spread.

Elizabeth was sat at the right end of the table as she smiled with content while staring at me. On the left end of the table was John. He gave me a crooked grin and continued eating. I could see on his lap he had a thick newspaper, with reading glasses sat by his breakfast.

As my bare feet met the floor, they were met with cold linoleum. I took a breath in through my nose; I smelled my favourite cereal in the room, which instantly warmed me. Looking to the kitchen, there was quite a mess from the morning and last night. I saw tea bags, cups, plates, and cutlery. But at my house, my mother would always clean. Anytime I left a crumb, it would be gone in an instant. She would clean and clean. Sometimes I wondered how she had the energy for that and not for other things.

Elizabeth must’ve seen me caught up in thought and shuffled in her seat while John took a sip out of his cup.

“Good morning, Louis, how did you sleep?” she asked.

I nodded and said, “Yes, good, although my dreams were scary last night.”

She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then said, “Well, I fixed you a bowl of your favourite cereal. Here, have a seat.”

I took two steps forward and grabbed the back of the leather seat, pulling it back while trying not to drag it clumsily.

“Let me help you with that,” she quietly said.

“Thank you, mum,” I instinctively replied. I always felt I had two mothers instead of a dad. It was more than enough for me.

I lifted my legs, and my butt hit the seat. I could feel the cold leather pressed up against me. My sweat-stained pajamas were no match for the morning air. As I looked to my left, I saw that John had finished his breakfast and had picked up his paper. My view was obstructed, and all I could see was the occasional licking of a finger and a page briskly turning.

I redirected my attention towards the brightly coloured blue and red cereal box in the center of the table. It read ‘Uncle Toby’s Fruity Bites.’ I could nearly taste them just by looking at the box; they were my favourite treat at Elizabeth’s house.

Sometimes late at night, I would nag and nag until Elizabeth relinquished my fruity bites, and she would be half falling asleep while I enjoyed my late-night snack. I grabbed the box and unfurled the plastic lining, poured them in my bowl, and then grabbed the glass bottle of milk. I doused them in milk and ate them quickly.

Not a word was said for what felt like a while, and just as I was about to finish the last fruity bite, John excused himself from the table.

“Thanks, love, I'll be out back.” He left his plate, bowl, cutlery, and newspaper resting on the table. He headed out the doorless frame towards the backyard once again. He always spent most of his time out there. Sometimes I would sneak out the back to see what he was doing. A lot of the time he would be angry and muttering to himself.

I wondered what he was so angry about. From what Elizabeth had told me, he drove buses for a living. Until one night, he was driving back from one of his trips. His brakes malfunctioned, and he was forced to perform an emergency procedure. Throttling the handbrake to stop the bus, he lost control and tipped the bus on the side of a rural highway.

Ever since then, he was more reclusive. I did not understand what had really happened to him and how it had affected his aging mind. I figured he needed lots of alone time, and I did not question when he disappeared out to the backyard. He would be in the garage for hours at a time. It felt like I was not meant to enter that space. It was his and only his.

Again, my thoughts were interrupted by Elizabeth’s question, “Are you ready to go home now?” I had almost forgotten that my mother had not come to pick me up yet.

I turned towards the ticking behind my head. It read 8:15am.

“Yes, mum,” I replied.

“Okay then, let me tidy up, grab your things, and we will head off soon,” she said while clearing the table.

I ran off down the hall, and I felt excitement building alongside some discomfort again. I hoped my mother was alright. Sometimes it felt as if she was so far away when she was only down the road. I would get worried I'd never hear her voice again.

I headed towards the front door down by the hallway. I stopped and stared at the perched phone in its cradle and heard my mother’s voice in my head. Then I heard Elizabeth’s footsteps coming down the hall. I could see she had my bag in her arm. She dropped a pair of blue shoes out in front of me. I put them on and stood back up.

I saw her right arm stretched out and her open hand.

“You ready, hun? It’s time to go,” she calmly said.

I nodded, obliged, and stuck out my arm, connecting my hand to hers like a tether as she opened the front door. We were met with tall hedges and concrete flooring. As we stepped off the landing and onto the ground, I noticed a yellow haze through low-hung clouds. The sun was over there, I thought to myself, and that's where we are headed, right towards it.

We weaved our way through the hedges, and as my feet hit the ochre-colored gravel, my dream re-emerged. I saw the light post and gravel, but no woman in sight, no cries, no tears, no tiny puddles beneath my feet.

I then noticed Elizabeth’s hand grew tighter around mine, and as we exited her driveway towards an asphalt road, a car whizzed by and then another. She kneeled down on one knee beside me and chimed,

“Now Louis, you know what we do before we cross a road. We look left, then right, left, then right, and left once more. If there are no cars, we are okay to cross.”

I replied with a modest “Yes.” I did as she said and hurried across the road when it was clear, hand in hand. My mother’s house was only a ten-minute walk from Elizabeth’s house.

I enjoyed the walk, looking into all the strangers’ front yards, wondering what they ate for breakfast and if it was as good as my fruity bites. Before I knew it, we were approaching my mother’s house. It was distinct. To me, it looked like a flattened face with orange eyes. But in reality, it was a small, modest home.

Within the large windows, the orange canvas curtains were always drawn. I felt Elizabeth’s hand disconnect from mine as she said,

“Go on, ring the doorbell.”

I looked up at her and said,

“So is it true? Is this my last time staying with you?”

She gave me the warmest smile, as warm as the morning sun, and said,

“I’ll always be with you, Louis. Now go on, your mother must be missing you.”

I felt tears trying to push out of my eyes. She rested her hand lightly on my cheek and wiped at my eye. She nudged me forward, and I solemnly walked over to the front door and buzzed it multiple times.

I waited several moments and heard no movement. I immediately thought to myself, I hope she’s okay, she has to be okay. I frantically buzzed several times more. Finally, there was some movement I could hear from behind the door. As the door opened, Elizabeth said her goodbyes,

“Bye Louis, love you.”

I watched as she walked away, and I turned and said to my mother with concern,

“Ma, is everything okay?”

She gave a tired reply,

“Yes Louis. Now I have to rest. I'll talk to you later.”

As I stepped inside, I could sense how tired she was and how unaware she was of what she had put me through. Then I felt this odd feeling, like something was changing, and that from now on it wasn’t her I was going to miss—it was Elizabeth.

The way she spoke so quietly, the way she read to me till late in the night, the records she played to ease my worries, even the phantom—I would miss dearly. I am going to miss it all. The fruity bites in the morning, the fruity bites at night. I am going to miss my sitter.

I watched as my mother staggered her way over to the couch. I placed my bag on the ground and asked again,

“Are you sure you’re okay, Ma? You look really tired. I really wanted to have breakfast with you, please!”

She gingerly laid down on the couch and said,

“Please keep it down, Louis. I’m okay, baby. I just need to close my eyes for a bit.”

I watched as she turned over with her back to me. I sat on the coffee table by her side. She was resting peacefully now. I studied her messy hair for a moment and then whispered,

“Ma, why are you always so tired?”

Edoardo Hines is an emerging writer with a keen interest in exploring the intricacies of human emotion and psychological depth. His work often examines themes of longing, loss, and the search for comfort within moments of vulnerability. Although he is currently an unpublished author, Edoardo is dedicated to developing narratives that evoke introspection and emotional resonance. His storytelling is characterized by atmospheric detail and a focus on the subtle, often surreal, experiences that shape human perception and connection.