Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,78

I’d gotten for five bucks at Walmart—a Little Mermaid doll whose tail changed from blue to purple in the warm water of the bath. She looked at me, dazed from her stuffed sinuses, eyes bright pink and collecting goop in the corners. I patted her knee, rubbed her leg a little, then faced front, took a deep breath, and started the car.

We headed west on Highway 20 to the coast. I’d traveled this highway between Mount Vernon and Anacortes since I was born. One stretch in particular reminded me of a night when I must have been close to Mia’s age, looking at the stars on our way home from visiting my great-grandparents. It was Christmas Eve, and I strained my eyes, searching for the red light of Rudolph’s nose. Mia was the seventh generation of our family to be born in the area. I’d hoped those deep roots would ground us, too, but they hadn’t. They were too far gone, too buried. My family’s history remained elusive to us. I’d grown tired of asking family members if they wanted to see Mia, and I craved grandparents, aunts, and uncles who were like some of my clients—their houses covered in photos, their children’s numbers first on auto-dial, a basket full of toys in a corner they kept on hand for the grandchildren. Instead I had brief moments of familiarity on a highway, memories ingrained in me so deeply they could almost pass as a belonging.

In the times when I’d scrape at the bottom of my despair for too long, I thought about these things. Though I was thankful that Jamie could take Mia for the week, I knew it would come at some cost. He would hold it against me, bring it up when he felt like shaming me for working too much, cite it as a reason Mia should live with him.

“Mommy,” Mia said from the back seat. “Mommy.”

“Yes, Mia,” I said, my elbow pressed into the window and the top of the door panel, my hand cradling my forehead as I drove.

“Can I have my window down?” she asked, her sick voice squeaking a little. “I want Ariel’s hair to blow like in the movie.” I did it, not caring how ridiculous that seemed. I just needed to get to work. I needed to finish work. I needed to sleep.

We drove up and over the canal that separates the mainland from Whidbey Island. I glanced to my right as an older brown Ford Bronco passed us. I locked eyes with the other driver, and he gave me a smile, then pointed to Mia’s window, just as I saw a flash of red hair in the back window behind Mia’s seat.

“My Ariel!” she screamed, kicking her legs against the seat in front of her. She’d let Ariel out the window too far and lost her grip.

I set my jaw and faced forward. Mia wailed like I’d run over a newborn puppy. Over the next bend was a stoplight where I could do a U-turn. I have time, I thought. I could turn around, stop on the eastbound side of the highway, jump out, grab her doll, and then take the next exit, go under the bridge, turn back around, and we’d be on our way. Sound logic while driving sixty miles per hour through exhaustion’s deep fog, amid the cries of a toddler in the back seat.

“I’ll go back and get it,” I yelled, to get her to stop making those horrible sounds. My head hurt from the lack of sleep and the two huge cups of coffee I had that morning to counteract it. It had been several days of caring for a sick child, and I desperately needed a break. I just wanted the screaming to stop.

After turning around, I stayed in the left lane, speeding up only to slow down again, merging toward the left shoulder. It was an unseasonably warm day in September. As I stepped from my car out onto the asphalt, the wind from cars speeding by felt hot, blowing through my favorite green t-shirt that had thinned over the years. I scoured the grass that divided the east- and westbound traffic, my ponytail smacking toward my face, so much so I used one hand to hold it against my head. I must have looked odd, searching for a doll amid the candy wrappers and soda bottles full of piss that had been dumped in the median.

Finally, I saw the wisp of red