Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,32

with our neatly organized caddies full of sprays and brushes, a large bag of square white rags, a vacuum, and mops. I had little experience on how to use it all in the beginning. Classic Clean was much different than working for Jenny—we were there to scrub everything by hand. My work was no longer about just dusting and polishing to make things smell nice and shine. And we did it all with a plethora of sponges and brushes and organic soap and vinegar.

I’d fumble my way in, trying to carry my supplies from the car all in one trip, and set up a “work station,” just as I’d been told to do. I opened the binder to my timesheet and wrote in the last name of the client, then called the office to leave a voice mail to clock in, noting the start time. In the beginning, it was a race down to the minute as I fought to finish each house in its allotted three or four hours and clock out.

My days started to have some regularity again, beginning with dropping Mia off at the day care around the corner from our house. I never felt great about that day care, but it was the only place that would accept my childcare assistance money. Not only did I think the facility was cold, crowded, and its workers looked like they hated their jobs, Mia came home with a new illness immediately after getting over the last one. I needed her to be there so I could work, even though I sacrificed her well-being. My ability to earn wages was the only thing that mattered to us now. Once, I stood at the entrance to the day care, holding Mia’s clammy toddler hand. I knew that she needed me. She needed us to be home, but I couldn’t explain that I might lose my job if I stayed home with her, and what that could mean for us. We paused before going through the doorway. I looked down at her, her upper lip thick with ropes of green snot.

“What is coming out of your nose?” asked a dark-haired woman, who I assumed was the day care assistant, one I’d never seen before, as she sauntered over to us. She directed the question at Mia, but she was really talking to me. As Mia reached up for me, the assistant turned away from us, shaking her head. I felt terrible that I had to leave Mia there. After doses of Tylenol, after her throwing up the night before, I didn’t have a choice.

Mia’s day care only called for me to pick her up if she became listless and lethargic, if she threw up repeatedly, or if she had a high fever. Some days, by the time I got her home, I parked her on the couch in front of the TV, under her blanket, half holding a sippy cup of juice, and she didn’t move until it was time for her dinner and bath before bedtime. Travis would sit next to her, and they’d watch cartoons while I cooked and cleaned.

Despite my building resentment, I saw that Travis truly loved Mia. He liked having a little buddy to accompany him on the four-wheeler or sit next to him on the couch to watch TV. But I think I loved what we represented more than what we were. He was a wonderful father figure, more than making up for what Jamie lacked. A working man, like my dad was. When work slowed down, he was goofy and made pancakes. For me, the goofiness didn’t make up for the listless, somewhat constant gaze at the television screen, but I saw Mia’s eyes shine when she looked at him. I envied that. I wanted to be smitten with him, too. Seeing them on the couch like that, after I’d worked a full day, made me feel a little safer—maybe even that things could possibly be okay.

At work, after Catherine had gone, Lonnie and I developed a ritual. With each new clean, she went along to “introduce” me to the house, as if each home had a spirit that I had to get to know.

This was the happiest I’d see Lonnie. She really seemed to find some personal connection in these homes. “You can get to know each other,” she’d say with a wink.

Much of what Lonnie told me in these meetings about each house wasn’t on the printed-out document we received for each