all of Haylie’s clothes were hanging neatly in her closet. The sheets were washed and dried and stretched back over the bed. Every empty beer can and plastic cup had been located and contained in the plastic trash bag by the door. The floors were vacuumed and mopped. I’d dragged the wine rack, undamaged, back out into the kitchen, where the counters sparkled, suds-free. There was no evidence of the party at all, not even a trace of cigarette smoke in the air. The entire town house smelled like the lemons my mother had cut open and microwaved. And she’d been right about the meat tenderizer—the bloodstain had almost completely disappeared.
She was rolling the vacuum back out the front door when she stopped and cleared her throat.
“Hey—it’s okay if I take a shower? My bag is right out in the van.”
I looked at her. I thought she was joking. She looked back, blank-faced, her hand raised like a hitchhiker’s, her thumb tilted toward the stairs.
“You want to take a shower here?”
She leaned on the vacuum, and it started to roll forward. She almost lost her balance. She caught herself without a smile. “Well. I’ve been cleaning for a few hours now. Helping you clean. And I feel icky. I’d like to take a shower before I drive back.” She paused to purse her lips in disapproval. “If that’s not too much trouble.”
I didn’t know what to say. It was an odd request and, under the circumstances, a slightly unreasonable one. “Mom. They’ll be back here in less than an hour.”
She didn’t say anything. She lowered her eyes to Bowzer, who was asleep in the corner of the entryway. My mother had made a little bed for him: Elise’s old eyelet white bedspread, which my mother had brought in from the van and folded into quarters, with an empty plastic trash bag underneath that.
“I’d really like to not be here when they get here.” I looked at my watch, then back up at her. “Can’t you just wait until you get home?”
“No.” Her voice, her expression, everything, made it clear she was not really asking. She turned the vacuum back in the direction of the front door. “I’ll get my bag. I’ll be fifteen minutes. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time.”
She did not take a shower. She took a bath. And it took her thirty minutes, not fifteen. When she finally came back downstairs, I was reading by the door with my coat on, my purse and backpack under my knees. Bowzer, sensing my presence, had rolled over onto his back beside me. I rubbed his chest, using my nails, and he seemed very pleased about it. His fur felt gummy and old.
“Oh.” My mother looked down at me and smiled. “Jane Eyre. That’s one of my favorites. A real love story.”
She looked like a completely different person. She looked clean. She was wearing nice clothes, a cream sweater and brown cords. It was the kind of thing she used to wear to volunteer at the shelter—presentable, but not showy. Her wet hair was slicked back, the ends just starting to curl.
“You’re ready?” I stood up. “You don’t need to dry your hair?”
She shook her head, pulling on her coat. “I have a hat.”
On my way out, I held the door open for my mother with my foot. She had her bag slung over her shoulder, Bowzer and his blanket balanced in her arms. As she passed, I smelled mint and rosemary. She’d also used Haylie’s shampoo.
We made our way down the front steps. The party, and the resulting cleanup, had resulted in two full bags of garbage. I walked behind my mother, carrying a bag on either side of me. We were at the end of the driveway when she turned around.
“Okay, honey. I parked far.” She leaned toward me, one arm out. “Let me kiss you good-bye.” Bowzer emerged from his blanket cocoon and tried to lick her cheek.
“I need a ride,” I said.
She bit her lip. She blinked. She looked even more rabbitlike, mute and anxious. All her hair was under her hat. “You don’t…” She glanced up and down the street.
“I need a ride, Mom. I don’t have a car.” I tilted my head and stared at her. This request could not possibly be a problem. But given the way she stared back at me, I had to consider that she was, at least, surprised by it. Maybe she’d forgotten that I didn’t have a car.