Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,99
it was, I needed to make a commitment to myself. To trust in my innate strength. I could do this, all of this, just fine on my own. The ring that slid down over the middle finger on my left hand served as a constant reminder of that.
With money, even temporarily, life felt almost carefree. I filled my gas tank without subtracting the total from the amount remaining in my account. At the store, I didn’t go through a process of mental math—the date, what bills had been paid, what bills were due, how much money I had, how much I’d pay, or what credit cards had available balances—before deciding if I could afford to buy paper towels. I slept—without extra clothes on to keep warm, without a knot in my stomach, without too much worry. But Mia still tossed and turned, coughed and sneezed, waking up complaining of pain in her throat and ears. And while I could temporarily afford to take time off to take her to the doctor, I couldn’t keep the sinus and ear infections from consuming her.
Late at night, when I needed a break from homework, I scrolled through the classified ads. I gazed longingly at photos of houses, two-bedroom apartments, all completely out of my price range. My income barely covered my rent at the studio, roughly half of what the other places would cost. Even though I had a little extra income now, it wasn’t sustaining. It was a cushion to catch us in case we fell. And, if I’d learned anything, when you’re teetering on the brink of making it, you always lose your balance and fall. I shook my head and clicked away from the ads, back to my homework. Even dreaming seemed like something I couldn’t afford.
For days, I heard the pediatrician’s voice in my head. “She needs you to do better.” How could I do better? It didn’t seem possible to try any harder than I already was while dealing with hoops placed in front of me to jump through, which sometimes held me, trapped in place.
That week, I’d submitted a copy of a handwritten paystub from Classic Clean to renew our childcare grant, and a woman from the DHHS office called me, demanding I submit a real one. When I kept trying to explain that it was my boss’s handwriting, and an official paystub, she threatened to pull my grant approval and deny my assistance immediately. I started sobbing. She told me to go to the local office to get it sorted out the next day.
People lined up outside the Department of Health and Human Services office long before it opened in the morning. Not knowing this, the first day I arrived about thirty minutes after the doors were unlocked. Every chair in the waiting room was full. I grabbed a number and stood leaning against a wall, watching the interactions between mothers and children; between caseworkers and clients who didn’t understand why they were there, why they were denied, why they had to come back with more paperwork.
A chair opened, but I let an older woman, wearing a long skirt, holding the hand of a small, meek child, take it instead. I glanced at my watch. An hour had passed. When I looked at it again, another had gone by. I started to get nervous about my number being called before I needed to go get Mia from day care. She would have been bouncing all around me here. Not like the children who surrounded me, sitting quietly, whispering to ask if they could go to the bathroom. Most stereotypes of people living in poverty weren’t seen here. In the lines on their faces, I could see the frustration, the urgency to get out of there so they could go to the store and buy food, go back to work. They, like me, had been completely drained of hope, staring at the floor, waiting, sincerely needing what they asked for. We needed help. We were there for help so that we could survive.
When my number glowed in the black box, I rushed toward the window, fearing they would call the next number if I didn’t get there fast enough. I placed my purple folder on the counter, pulled out all the copies of the checks I’d received from clients and the handwritten paystub. The woman picked up a couple papers while she listened, then examined the paystub.
“You need your boss to print out an official one,” she