she headed out for the day. She put notes in the boys’ lunchboxes, special treats sometimes—not too sugary. She was plugged in during the day, always calling right as the boys got home. Available if they wanted her.
It was the complete opposite at the Tuckers’—the kids ran wild, no limits on devices, neither parent wanted to be bothered during the day unless it was an emergency. The Tucker boys would still be in pajamas, hopped up on some sugary cereal when Geneva arrived in the morning.
She didn’t feel as bad about what had happened at the Tuckers’.
But Selena Murphy was a loving, present mom. A faithful wife. A fair and kind employer. She didn’t deserve what was going on behind her back.
Geneva immediately got to cleaning—making the beds, throwing in a load of wash, then the kitchen. It was intimate, wasn’t it, this position? Handling people’s clothes, tucking in their sheets, clearing the plates from which they’d eaten. She thought about that, as she wiped down the counter, how close she was, and yet—not. A paid employee; someone who might be fired at will. As intimate in some ways as family, but in no way as permanent. Expendable.
That word was in her head when she’d noticed a brown dot on the counter. She walked over to work on it. What was it? It was only when it came up on the cloth that she realized.
It was blood.
There was another spot over the by the stove. She cleaned them both, feeling an odd tingling of dread.
Now, the boys ate their snacks at the kitchen table while she unpacked their lunchboxes.
“My teacher hates me,” Stephen said startling her back to the present. He rested a chubby pink cheek in hand.
“No, she doesn’t,” said Geneva, starting the wash cycle.
There had been another chat at pickup. Stephen was acting out, said his uptight teacher. Apparently, he’d pushed another little boy down on the playground. “She knows that you’re a nice boy who can behave better with others.”
“She does hate you,” said Oliver unhelpfully. He was in a mood, too, though Geneva wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t a talker. Stephen would tell all, but Oliver held it in. “She hates you because you’re a brat and a baby.”
“Shut up!” yelled Stephen, reddening and near tears.
“Oliver,” said Geneva easily. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” said Oliver, sounding not sorry at all.
They were eighteen months apart, acted more like rival gang members than brothers most of the time. But there was a closeness there, too, some rare moments of tenderness. Sibling relationships were so complicated. When Oliver left the room, Stephen followed. They both cleared their plates on the way out. Geneva rinsed them in the sink, thinking of her older sister a moment, that textured mingle of affection and competition, of admiration and resentment. But she pushed the thoughts away as she finished cleaning up.
A few minutes later, she heard the boys running up the stairs. They’d been making videos of each other, recording on their iPads. This activity seemed to keep them goofily getting along, so she didn’t hassle them about too much time on their devices. It was creative at least, making and editing silly videos.
In the living room, she tidied—folded the blanket, fluffed the pillows. She caught sight of her reflection in the screen when she turned off the television. Hair up, outfit slouchy—baggy shirt and jeans too big. Her boobs—they looked huge, not in a good way. Men were so into it. But she just thought her large bust made her look fatter than she was—and she was no skinny waif. Today, she wasn’t even wearing makeup. She looked like the worst cliché of a housewife. One without a house and who wasn’t a wife.
Again, thoughts of her sister—her perfect sister who was a flawless beauty, never made mistakes, was always in control of every enterprise—surfaced, unwanted.
Are you even dating? she’d asked recently. She had nothing but disapproving things to say about Geneva, her life choices, her work. Geneva shouldn’t want her approval so badly, but she did.
The washing machine chimed that it was ready. She was about to go change it to the dryer when she heard the garage door open.
Shit.
Graham.
Her palms got all sweaty. But he’d leave her alone, right? The boys were up. Since it was Friday, Selena could come home at any time. She went to the laundry room, changed the wash. She’d make a hasty exit. Selena could pay her on Monday.
Then, after a few minutes, she heard Selena’s voice.