Saying goodbye, like learning to share my daughter with a man who’d been horrible to us, never rose above anything but hard. Dramatic scenes of morning drop-offs at day care began as soon as we pulled into the building’s parking lot. By the time we’d walked to her classroom, a worker had to peel Mia off me as she screamed, kicked, and cried out for me as I abruptly turned and walked away after saying, “Goodbye, sweetie. I love you. I’ll see you after snack.” Some day care workers took her from me and held her for a bit, but most extracted her from my body and put her on the ground, and I’d have to look at Mia as she cried at the window, banging on the glass.
Bringing Mia to a day care integrated in an old folks’ home had seemed like a good idea, since she hardly ever saw her grandparents. But twice a day, I walked through the halls, watching the staff line up the residents for medications and complain to their faces about the way they smelled. It felt like I was witnessing, firsthand, the end of life, and, in contrast to the Sad House, it might have been one of the most miserable ways to go.
* * *
The Sad House didn’t get dirty. Sometimes I had to scrub blood droplets off the bathroom floor, and the toilet was a disaster. Other than that, everything had a thin layer of dust on it. The old man was there most of the time unless he was in the hospital, but he seemed to use very little of his house.
Judging by their photos, his wife had died in the late eighties. At first, I had assumed she’d died recently, but I couldn’t find any photos of her that appeared to be from the last several years. Trinkets she’d collected remained on the windowsills: little worry dolls and bird nests, neatly lined up. Tacked to the corkboard over the desk in their kitchen fluttered to-do lists in her handwriting. The bathroom had two sinks, and hers still had a hair dryer plugged in and hung on a hook that I dusted during my visits. His had a cup with a comb and his medications—which were different every time I came. I’d checked the medications, wondering what his illness was. It felt more like a broken heart.
On a shelf in the bathroom, directly behind where he stood to look in the mirror, were the ashes of his wife and their son. In a photo, the son stood on top of a mountain and gave a peace sign. He wore a green bandana and had a long beard. Inside the frame was a familiar poem:
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
Below, two small boxes rested side by side: one pink clay with molded roses and the other dark pewter. His wife’s picture leaned behind the pink one. I opened it to see what was inside. The boxes held ashes, and tags and statements from the funeral home.
He ate pastries and sandwiches from a grocery store deli, drank coffee with a lot of Kahlúa. He was probably in his late sixties or early seventies and still liked to golf and gamble at the Indian casinos. In the garage moldered a nice-looking speedboat and a Jeep CJ. On the living room wall was a picture of his wife in front of the Jeep, smiling and wearing sunglasses. He smoked unfiltered Camels in his bedroom, standing in the frame of the sliding glass door, or on his front porch when the weather was decent. His younger son, who lived a couple hours away, didn’t seem to visit much. He was alone, dying slowly in a shrine that hadn’t changed since his wife had passed away. He’d done everything right—good job, gorgeous house, married a woman he loved and traveled with—but despite all this he was still dying alone.
When I went home the first night after cleaning the Sad House, I couldn’t stop thinking about my client. It had just been a mindless job and something to pay my bills, but now it felt like the work had an unexpected imprint on my life, and the vulnerability I was exposed to somehow relieved me of my own. Though I never met or spoke to any of them, though many did not know that I existed, my clients began to feel like family members or friends I worried about, wondered about, cared for from a distance. I wondered what my clients did in the evenings. Where they sat. What they ate and watched the day before. How they felt day to day. My life had become so quiet. These people gave me something to look forward to, people to hope for and want good things for other than myself.
* * *
Mia kept getting switched from one classroom at the day care to the next because of the high turnover among employees paired with the ebb and flow of enrollment numbers. For a couple of weeks, every time I saw her morning teacher, she actively wiped away her own tears before taking my child, who was bucking and screaming and reaching out for me. I overheard her talking to a parent once about how hard it was to work somewhere that paid her so little. “I went to college for this,” she’d said angrily. I hated leaving Mia with her, hated that I couldn’t afford to support a place that paid the workers at least close to a livable wage.
One morning, after a particularly difficult goodbye, I got in my car and cried, allowing myself a couple of minutes to give the sadness the love, attention, and affection it deserved. I’d had to drop Mia off a little earlier than usual, but the struggle to get out the door had made us late. My frustrations showed, and I walked away without blowing a kiss goodbye. Nightmarish thoughts of my own mortality consumed me. Like, what if I died in a car accident and her last memory of me was walking away, leaving her screaming and crying with strangers?
Those thoughts crept into my mind that morning more than usual. I knew I’d spend the next two days working at a house in a pocket of Camano Island that lacked cell phone reception. I didn’t like being away from Mia, didn’t like leaving her in a day care that didn’t seem like a warm and caring environment, and I especially hated the thought that if anything happened to her during the day, no one would be able to contact me. But the job had been too good to pass up.
“It’s a move-out clean,” Lonnie had told me on the phone. “We don’t do those as much anymore.”
For most cleaning jobs, Classic Clean gave the potential clients an estimated rate. They’d meet with the owner, inspect the level of work that needed to be done, and make their best guess on the amount of time (and sometimes people) it would take to do it. Regular clients, who had weekly, biweekly, or monthly cleans, had set numbers of hours and rates, but the construction and move-out cleans normally had a budget to work around.
My schedule had about five or six houses rotating on it, but those were all bimonthly or even monthly cleans, meaning most of my paychecks had about twenty hours total for two weeks. I couldn’t get another job because my schedule varied from week to week, so I got caught in a bind of waiting for more hours to become available, no matter what the job might be. When Lonnie called to ask if I’d be interested in doing a move-out clean, I gave her an enthusiastic yes, even thanking her for asking me to do it instead of her other employees.
The job was a double-wide trailer just down the street from another client’s house that I had started to call the Chef’s House, because of the gigantic stovetop. The owner, on the one rare occasion he’d been home, stood in his kitchen next to it, taking up the entire space between the stove and the island in the center. “I had to take out a personal loan to pay for it,” he said, running his hand gently over the outer edge. “It’s probably worth twice as much as your car!” Though I didn’t doubt the truth of that statement, I tried not to frown at him pointing out that I drove an older Subaru wagon and instead asked if there were any special instructions he had for cleaning it. In two weeks’ time between cleanings, the entire stovetop area would get completely covered with grease, thanks to his affinity for using the deep fryer on the counter and the countless bottles of infused olive oil. He must have used the fryer several times a week because the entire house was drenched in its oily stench. “Yes,” he said, pointing for emphasis. “Do not use the scrubby side of sponges!” so I wouldn’t leave any scratches, and I’d have to go through five or six rags instead.
When I pulled into the driveway of the double-wide for the move-out clean, I was already ten minutes late. Pam was there, along with the coworker I’d have for the duration of the day. I rushed over to join them. “Sorry for being late,” I said quickly, trying to
sound sincere. “Mia didn’t want me to leave her this morning.”
Pam huffed a little, mumbling about kids needing to understand and respect their parents’ need to work. I didn’t ask her to repeat herself or clarify what she said, imagining that she’d been in my shoes before, feeling as if she hardly ever saw her children due to work, and gotten through it just fine. Pam nodded toward the other cleaner, a gruff-looking, heavy-set blond woman with her hair in a scrunchie, who looked grumpier from boredom than from my lateness. “This is Sheila,” Pam said. “She’s leaving us this week.” Sheila and I looked at each other, giving a nod and half smile. We were already unloading the van, which was stocked with a wide assortment of unfamiliar sprays, not used for the weekly cleans. These were the heavy-duty cleaners to remove mold, grease, and stains. She handed me supply trays and bags of rags, impatiently waiting for me to juggle my coffee, which I kept in a recycled jar.
“Before we go in, I need to explain a few things about this house,” Pam said as we stood outside the trailer. She asked Sheila and me to lean in close. Sheila looked at Pam, but I kept looking at Sheila, wondering why she’d quit, swallowing my burning envy.
Pam looked over her shoulder into a tall grassy field. She motioned to it and said, “Through there is the house of the Barefoot Bandit’s mom.”
The Barefoot Bandit was a household name at the time. His real name, Colton Harris Moore, was rarely used, but I knew we had the same birthplace in Skagit County. The Barefoot Bandit was only nineteen years old and had been wreaking havoc around the area lately, breaking into wealthy homes while the owners slept, once leaving behind bare footprints in the dust of a garage. He had broken into the Chef’s House the week before to use a computer and procure my client’s credit card information to order bear mace and night-vision goggles and look for unattended small aircraft. I could picture him sitting at the desk I dusted every other week, knowing how easy it would have been to find credit card numbers amid the scattered piles of papers. Local news outlets called him armed and dangerous and said he was possibly hiding out at his mother’s house.
Though I doubted he was there, the whole scene felt like the setup for a perfect horror story. After all, we were in an abandoned trailer down a long dirt path in the woods. Move-out cleans have a haunted feel to them anyway—like you’re cleaning up a crime scene, erasing all traces of any human interaction.
As we walked to the front door, Pam continued to prepare us for what was inside. She explained that the house belonged to a couple who had divorced. The wife had moved out while the husband had stayed with a couple of roommates. “The owner is under a tight budget, so we need to work very efficiently,” said Pam, turning to face us before opening the front door. “I’ll be here for a few hours today to get you started, and Stephanie—you’ll return tomorrow to finish up.”
I wasn’t sure what “very efficiently” meant. We already weren’t allowed lunch breaks, as it was assumed that we would take a “break” when we drove from one job to the next, stuffing apples and peanut butter sandwiches in our faces. But there would be no traveling today. I’d be here in this double-wide trailer for six to eight hours a day for the next two days, deep in the woods, in a house that didn’t get cell phone reception, so I couldn’t call anyone or even be on call in case of an emergency with Mia.
“Be sure you stay hydrated,” Pam said, fumbling with the lock. She put down the mop bucket she’d filled with extra cleaners and paper towels. “And make sure you take small breaks to rest whenever you need.”
My eyebrows went up at this comment. This was the first time I’d ever heard of our time on the clock having any allowance for breaks. Maybe move-out clean bids included short breaks and regular cleans didn’t. Up until then, I’d assumed we weren’t allowed to sit down.
Most of the houses I had cleaned up until that point were owned by people who could afford to keep them up, and it was rare that I was the first maid to clean it. Move-out cleans are deceptive. The house is empty. There’s no dusting around lamps on tables, or books and knickknacks on shelves, so at first glance it looks like an easy job. Instead, they’re the longest, most unforgiving, the filthiest. Most often, the owner has decided to sell, after the house has been rented and gone without regular cleaning for years. In these homes, a film of dusty grease, like rubber cement, covers the kitchen. The floors around the toilets are stained yellow; hair is embedded in all the crevices. Each time you wipe a surface, the original color is revealed, which makes the remaining discolored surfaces look even dirtier.
Walking into the trailer, I noticed the blackened tiles in the entryway first. The carpet had a visible dark path that led into the living room. When we stood in the dining room, we peered up at a chandelier, barely touching our heads, draped with dusty spider webs.
“I’ll do the guest bathroom,” Pam offered, making me like her a little more. “It’s pretty bad in there.” She put her hands on her hips, gazing up at the spider webs. “Sheila,” she called over to the woman inspecting the corner of the blinds in the living room that were bent and black from dirt. “You can dust. Make sure you get those blinds, too.” Pam looked at me, took in a deep breath, and said, “I want you to do the kitchen.”
I followed Pam as she walked into the next room, peering into the fridge that she’d unplugged and left open during the walk-through. She made a face, like a grimace. It would be the only time I’d ever see her react to grime; usually she kept a pleasant-looking cheeriness to her, even when she was reprimanding us. “You’ll have to pull all the drawers out and soak them,” she said, her head turned toward me, but her eyes were still fixed on the inside of the fridge. I came closer to peer over her shoulder. “Take out all the glass shelves and soak those as best you can.” She stopped to pick apart the accordion-like rubber on the door. “I would use a toothbrush on the seal around the door. Make sure to get the crusted-on food stuck in the crevices. Let me know if you need help,” she said, patting my shoulder and smiling. “Those dried-up puddles from packages of meat can be hard to get out.”
We continued to walk around the small kitchen, Pam pointing out the thick, brownish-orange layer of grease under the hood above the stovetop. We stood under the stains, our mouths open to gawk. There were splatters of what looked like chili on the ceiling. The burner control knobs were also covered in crusted bits of brown food. Every square inch of that kitchen, even inside the cupboards, had to be scrubbed and wiped down.
When I stood at the sink, I could just barely make out the corner of the Barefoot Bandit’s childhood home through the window. I couldn’t stop looking to see if his head would pop out of the grass. I felt protective of my beloved Subaru, the car I depended on to get me to and from work. I imagined him demanding my keys at gunpoint, then driving away in it.
To clean the ceiling, I had to stand on the kitchen counter. Pam came over to check on my progress and watched me with a wary eye. She asked me to let her know when I’d finished so she could show me what needed to be done in the master bathroom. She was still working on the guest bathroom. I could hear her coughing from the bleach fumes, even though she’d put on one of the white disposable masks. They didn’t do much to shield us from toxic fumes. Pam wore them to set an example and reminded us to do the same. If any injury resulted on the job, the first question would be whether we’d been wearing any safety equipment provided by the company.
Pam caught me resting my arms when she walked into the kitchen. I’d been standing on the counter for almost thirty minutes in an attempt to remove the spotted stains from the ceiling. And I was failing.
She motioned for me to follow her, and we walked toward the half of the house I hadn’t seen yet. The master bedroom still had its furnishings, and the closet was only half emptied. A thick fleece blanket with wolves on it covered what looked like a waterbed. I couldn’t help but grimace, imagining scenes of the man—whose kitchen I’d just spent two hours scrubbing dried food from—entertaining women in the bedroom. I wondered what kind
of woman would join him on the waves of his fuzzy wolf blanket.
These visualizations or hypotheses I made about clients were what got me through days of personal dread, fatigue, and loneliness. The imagined occupants of these houses walked around with me. I saw them sitting up in bed at the dawn of a workday, using a wet washcloth in the shower—the one balled up on the floor, which I gingerly handled, even with gloves. They also left traces of themselves and their actions. I could see them standing at the kitchen window, drinking their morning coffee, while I wiped away the ring their cup had left behind.
When I was sixteen, I worked at a pet shop cleaning out animal cages—rats, mice, gerbils, hedgehogs, ferrets, and birds. The owner spoke in a voice that dripped with passive aggression, a tone high enough to make me wince. One morning, I showed up at work already stretched thin from the duties I endured at the job, knowing I could not make it through another day of sticking my hands into bird cages, the birds’ wings frantically flapping, triggering every flight response in my body.
Maid Page 9
