Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,71

we would drift, in a bubble, just me and this amazing kid.

Those were the only times I could quiet my mind, when I didn’t worry whether I should be working instead or if I was doing enough. I didn’t wonder whether someone might see us as a “welfare family,” taking advantage of the system as we sat on a blanket at the park, sharing slices of cheese. I never cared about any of that on those days with her. For that afternoon, we were each other’s moon and sun in our own little world.

By midsummer, I had been working with Classic Clean for six months, and I had a solid twenty-five-hour-a-week schedule with them. Additionally, I juggled several of my own clients on the side, cleaning their houses or yards once or twice a month. Along with the Cigarette Lady’s occasional offerings, other clients started leaving me things on the kitchen counter. Henry always gave me something. He knew that after I left his house, I picked up Mia and drove her to her dad’s. One time he gave me a box of donuts, another time a large jug of a fancy brand of apple juice.

Henry’s health seemed to be failing him a little. The pills by his bathroom sink had multiplied, and, judging from the state of his toilet, they had upset his stomach quite a bit. His wife had been home a few times lately, too, but she spent most of the time on the phone, arguing with insurance companies or her mother, who, from what I could tell, had to be transferred from one old folks’ home to the next. I loved seeing the two of them together. Henry’s boisterous demeanor changed to a softness that I craved from a partner in my own life. He made her tea. They discussed what needed to be picked up from the store for dinner. Henry said he’d make “that one thing” she liked, and she gave him a fierce hug before rushing out the door. She always made sure to say goodbye to me, using my name and everything, with such sincerity sometimes that I almost expected a hug of my own.

I tried to carry these moments with me on the days when I cleaned the Porn House. That house had an air of anger to it, or disgruntlement. I didn’t like being there. A note on the counter read simply, “Change the sheets, please.” At least she said please.

Around Father’s Day, I’d gotten into a huge fight on the phone with Jamie, and I was cleaning the Porn House at the time. After that, being in that house reminded me of him, no matter how hard I tried to sever the association.

The fight had been about Mia’s last name. I wanted to change it to mine. She’d eventually start school, and every time I took her to the doctor, they asked me if I was her mother. It didn’t make sense for her to have his last name if she lived with me nearly all the time.

Jamie vehemently disagreed with this. He argued I hardly spent any time with her, that most of her days were spent in “that disgusting day care.” I regretted letting his mom pick Mia up one day I had to work late, as Jamie had used her judgmental opinion of the facility against me ever since. But I’d never do anything right either way. If I stayed home or worked less, he faulted me for not working, saying that his child support went toward me sitting on my ass. If I went to school, I was wasting my time. Now, apparently, working too much was also bad.

That day on the phone he said, “And you’ve never told me to have a happy Father’s Day.” I’d almost finished the kitchen, polishing away the grease splatters on the brick-red stovetop.

“What?” I said, not really asking. Jamie had never once wished me a happy Mother’s Day. He’d never told me that I was a good mom. The closest thing he’d come to praise was to tell me that I was smart enough to push his buttons and manipulate him to get what I wanted. Even that summer we were dating, I don’t think he ever praised my appearance. He called me ugly several times after I got pregnant, and especially after Mia was born.

“You’ve never called me a good father,” he said.

“Jamie, that’s because you aren’t one,” I said. “You blame everyone around you for everything.