my arms loaded with cleaning supplies and bags of clothing. “I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.”
Many of my private clients said my presence in their house gave them the motivation to do some cleaning themselves. Those were the ones who had me come once or twice. My regular clients—the biweekly, weekly, or monthly cleans—knew the drill: leave me alone so I can do my job. I didn’t overbid a house to give myself more time. If I was finished with more time that visit, I stayed and did a little more. With the private clients, my reputation was on the line. I’d be the one they’d hopefully rave to their friends about. If they needed someone to hang out with them and chat and listen to their current struggles while we cleared out a huge mess, I could do that, too.
On day two at the Hoarder House, we cleaned the youngest daughter’s bedroom. We bagged up twelve kitchen-sized trash bags, lugged them outside, and put them with the rest to go to the dump. Under the miscellaneous papers, Popsicle stick creations, mounds of forgotten food, deflated balloons, various twigs and rocks, and clothing too torn or small to wear, we found a little girl’s room. I found a few figurines from a dollhouse, and I placed them carefully in the doll-sized living room. We put books and bins of My Little Ponies back onto a shelf, painted purple and pink. We put clothes in the dresser, shoes on the shoe rack. I hung a red dress with a matching coat in the closet. I found a pair of black shiny Mary Janes.
It felt good to clean that room. I thought about the times when Mia was at her dad’s and I went through the clutter in her room. She hated throwing anything away, and I only convinced her to give away toys by bringing her with me to donate them to a women’s shelter or consignment store where she’d get credit. But all the little Happy Meal toys, the drawings, the broken crayons, had to be thrown out. After hours of purging and organizing, Mia would come home, walk in her perfectly clean and organized space, and smile like everything was new again. I hoped the same for that little girl not much older than mine.
I bagged up more laundry before leaving, having returned the two other bags that had been cleaned and folded. At home that night, Mia helped me fold the shirts, socks, and dresses. She held up a skirt to her waist and commented how pretty it was. I watched her twirl around with it.
“Can I have it?” she asked, and I shook my head no. I explained they were another family’s clothes. “Why are you washing them?”
“Because I’m helping them, Mia,” I said. “That’s my job. To help people.”
Only then, when I heard myself say it, did I believe it was true. I thought back to the woman who’d thanked me for cleaning her house and put a wad of cash in my hands, holding them in hers for a second, then telling me I better get going before her husband got home. A couple of my landscaping clients called me their best-kept secret.
I still carried around a day planner, scribbling clients’ names in various boxes, memorizing the schedule as best I could for when someone called to ask if I was available at a certain time or day. I didn’t have to wear a uniform or go to meetings with my boss or have my cleaning supply tray inspected. I didn’t have to stop by an office, miles out of my way, to get bottles refilled with cleaning agents. Five-toilet days still slayed me, but I somehow felt a little better about cleaning them.
After each four-hour session, the Hoarder House looked more like a regular home. I righted the shelves in the living room, swept up all the birdseed, and found dozens of DVDs under the couch. Though I tried to hide it, I felt thankful that she never asked me to clean the bathroom. I’m not sure how long things stayed clean. I’d tidy up the kitchen one afternoon only to see pots and dishes with dried red sauce on them all over the counters and stove the next. I hoped it made her family happy. I hoped it made her feel more peace before her baby was born. Mostly I was glad to be done.
* * *
The building of the domestic