Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,53

they looked part of the decor. There was so much stuff to go through. Decisions to make about what to keep and what to throw away, the amount of loss heartbreaking. I stored some of it in the basement under our apartment, but not much for fear it would get destroyed by the dampness and mold and mice. But I couldn’t get rid of all of those things, either. They were our history.

There wasn’t any way I could have verbalized any of that to Pam in that moment, but she seemed to understand intuitively as she stared at me. Maybe she’d once had the same dilemma as a single parent in compartmentalized space. Suddenly, her face got a kind of Mrs. Claus twinkle, and she told me to follow her.

We entered the door to the smaller shop that sat between the office and her house, and she pointed to a small hidden space at the top. “It’s a really big space up there, and it’s not getting used,” Pam said, shrugging. The loft space had a rickety ladder I’d have to somehow hoist my stuff up to get to the top. On the floor where we stood were various assortments of old things—like the stuff you’d find at a garage sale that had already been picked over. “Whatever you need, take it.” She gestured to the various pitchers and plastic shelves when she saw me looking at them. “Take from any pile. Our church is having a huge yard sale and needs the donations, but if you see anything, you can just have it.”

I looked down and saw an old footstool. “I could use this as a coffee table,” I said. Pam smiled and nodded. “And maybe this jar for kitchen utensils.”

“If you need anything else, even if you need me to wash your work rags, just let me know,” she offered. I wanted to hug her. I wanted her to hug me. I needed a hug from a mom so badly I could easily see myself choking on a few tears and asking for one. “And I do need some help with the yard, if you’re available,” she added.

“I have time next weekend I know for sure!” I said eagerly. “I can check my calendar if you need it done sooner.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “There’s no rush.” She opened the door to a walled-off section under the loft where she stored her cleaning supplies. “Maybe you could organize this room, too.” When she flipped on the lights, I saw a long hallway filled with spare vacuum cleaners, a floor polisher, and rows of mops and bottles.

I was already calculating the extra wages in my head.

Pam smiled at me. Her eyes twinkled a little more. Studying her short, roundish body and kind soul, I wondered if the other cleaners felt as close to her.

On free weekends, I started going through my stuff stacked in the loft at Pam’s. I whittled down my papers, books, and keepsakes to two storage bins. Most of it either went in the trash or to thrift stores, disposing of things I’d once carefully folded to save. One afternoon, when I knew no one was on the property, I went through and got rid of the last of the baby clothes I had set aside—the special newborn outfits I’d saved for last, which I’d hoped, someday, another baby of mine would fill. At least I could exchange them at the consignment store to properly clothe the kid I already had, who seemed to need new pants and shoes almost constantly. But maybe that was the lesson there—appreciating the stuff you had, the life you had, using the space you were given. I wished it wasn’t a forced journey, but I recognized it as an important part of mine.

13

WENDY’S HOUSE

By my third visit to Wendy’s, a new client’s house, her health had started to abruptly and visibly plummet. “The cancer doesn’t give me much time,” she’d drop in conversation, her shoulders uncharacteristically slumping. No response ever felt right, so I mirrored her sage nods, agreeing with her in a grievous way. Yet Wendy’s shirts were still starched. Her house was still so clean I was often confused why she paid to have me work there.

Sometimes, after I finished cleaning the kitchen, she made me lunch, insisting that I sit with her at the dining room table. We’d exchange stories about our children over a lacy white tablecloth, eating tuna sandwiches on white bread, cut into triangle quarters,