Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,73

for the first time in months. He’d been sick. Or in the hospital. Both of those things. From what I could tell, that guy had been married to the love of his life. Then she died too soon, and he was left alone to live out the years he needed someone to take care of him the most. The Porn House and the Sad House seemed to scream opposite life lessons, to illustrate that no matter what the circumstance, we all end up alone in some way or the other. The husband at the Porn House, masturbating while his wife worked nights or read romance novels in the other room. And the widower.

For me, being alone started not to sting as much. Mia and I had become a team. I loved not having to worry about if the other adult we were with was having fun or stressed over their bored sighs, obvious signs that they wanted to leave. I never had to ask anyone what they wanted to do for dinner. We could get ice cream for dinner without worrying if the person at home would feel left out or judge me as a parent.

Our studio had its downside. But it was our space. I could rearrange furniture any way I wanted, at any time. I could leave it messy or obsessively clean. Mia tap-danced and jumped from the couch to the floor without anyone telling her to be quiet. When I’d first started working as a maid, I thought I’d spend my days in longing or envy. At the end of the day, I went to a place I not only called home but that felt like it. It was our little nest that we’d fly from someday.

When I finished the Porn House, I tried to carry all my supplies over to the Sad House in one trip. Outside, it was damp and misting rain. It was weather that grew mold. Weather that made my skin creep with mildew or moss.

I opened the sliding glass door with my pinky because my hand held my tray of supplies. The door led to the kitchen, and as soon as I entered, I smelled the familiar wood chip and aftershave smells of the Sad House. I was about to set down the tray when I turned around and screamed.

His face was covered in open sores. I immediately regretted screaming; I wanted to cry. He’d never been there during a clean, and I’d never met him. And now I’d screamed at the sight of his face, which showed obvious signs of how much he’d been struggling.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I said, nearly dropping my tray, the tote bag of rags, the garbage bag filled with used rags.

“No, no, I’m sorry to startle you,” he said. “I was a little slow to get up this morning. I’ll get out of your way. I was just on my way out.”

I moved away from the sliding glass door so he could get by. Neither of us offered to introduce ourselves or shake hands. I watched him walk into the side door of the garage. From the window, I watched as his beige Oldsmobile pulled out of the driveway and away. I wondered where he went, where he felt he had to go for those few hours.

The kitchen looked the same as it always did, except for a few dishes in the sink and on the counter. The bar at the end was stacked with medical bills, instructions for medications, and hospital release forms. Lonnie had said, when she called to tell me to go to the Sad House that week, that the woman from the Porn House had been looking after him—maybe because she was a nurse, or because he just didn’t have anyone else.

The covers on his bed were pulled back like he’d left them when he’d gotten up that morning. The other side was still made, almost exactly like I’d left it the last time I cleaned, the decorative pillows still in their places. The sheets were speckled with blood. I pulled back the covers all the way and carefully pinched the corners of the sheets to pull them toward the center, then took the cases off the pillows, stuffing everything into one case. On my way to set them on the washing machine, I went through the bathroom. There were several drops of blood on the floor, a new rail installed by the toilet and in the shower, and a seat in