It’s been months since I wanted to do anything other than take my next pill, but right now, I want to see Amelia Blue Harris again.
I feel a pang of guilt, as if I’m betraying Harper, then remember that I can’t betray Harper anymore.
21Florence
Tonight, after another day of useless therapy—Let me help you get in touch with your anger,Evelyn said, as though she, with her neatly combed hair, her salaried job, her gold wedding band, could possibly relate to what has me so angry—I can’t sleep. I press the button next to my bed and ask for sleeping pills.
Evelyn’s voice comes through the speaker: “I can’t offer you mind-altering substances.” She sounds groggy. I’m pleased I woke her up.
“You were so eager to sedate me a couple days ago.”
I release the button before I can hear her response.
I get out of bed, the hardwood cool beneath my bare feet. I’m wearing a nightgown that stops just above my knees, no sleeves. I twist my hair into a bun on top of my head, but it falls loose immediately. When I still lived with my husband, he woke with me when I couldn’t sleep, never angry that I’d disturbed his rest. At least, he never said so. Could be he was as angry as I am now, he was just better at hiding it.
I grab my guitar and sit cross-legged on the couch in the living room.
You want to know why I’m mad?
Ask my mother, she’ll tell you I was born that way.
Ask my ex, he’ll tell you I’m the reason he went away.
Ask my kid, she’ll tell you I’m crazy,
Ask my talent, it’ll tell you I’m lazy.
Just don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me,
Don’t ask me —
Why?
At the sound of applause, I nearly jump out of my skin. What was I thinking? I know better.
Places like this, someone’s always watching.
The Housekeeper
The morning they find the body, the housekeeper wakes before dawn, as she has every day since she began working here, cleaning the evidence of another late night before anyone else stirs.
There are all sorts of wealthy people, but the wealthiest, in her experience, prefer to forget that they’re being waited on at all, so she tries to keep her work out of sight. Even her uniform is a sort of camouflage, dull and nondescript, designed to let her fade into the background, more forgettable than the furniture. The decor here is meant to be seen, noticed, commented upon.Sheisn’t.
She begins in the kitchen, hiding any sign that it might have been used overnight, a clean slate for breakfast, a blank surface for another day. The half bath next, just off the living room, scrubbing the toilet so that it looks like it’s never been used. These people, she thinks, like to forget not only that they’re being waited on, but also that they have bodies that function just the same as poor bodies.
The bedroom and its en suite bathroom, she will clean last. She can’t begin until they’re no longer in use. This morning, she waits for the sound of someone stirring, anticipating the sweaty sheets she’ll change, the damp towels she’ll lift off the floor, the dirty underwear she’ll wash and fold. Perhaps there will be vomit on the toilet’s edges, remnants of an overindulgent night. As she waits, she considers the many reasons a human body might throw up: viruses and parasites, alcohol and drugs and eating disorders. There are so many ways for a body to reject nourishment, so many things that might poison it.
Finally, she tiptoes toward the primary bedroom, pokes her head inside. Instead of a sleeping body, she sees an empty bed.
If anyone had asked her—and of course, no one would—she could tell them what else she’s seen over the past days and weeks. People with jobs like hers—doormen, housekeepers, gardeners—they know the wealthy’ssecrets: when they leave and come home, what they eat and drink, when they fall asleep and wake up and with whom.
The power dynamic, she thinks, is terribly lopsided, and not entirely in the wealthy’s favor, though they’re the ones who hire and fire and compensate. When blending into the background is part of your job description, people forget you’re there, but your eyes and ears function all the same. Better, perhaps, senses heightened by your own silence.
The people she works for aren’t stupid. They made her sign an NDA, of course, leaving her contractually bound to keep their secrets as though she were nothing more than a human safety deposit box. As though they can lock her up and pocket the key. But she understands that nothing known by a stranger can be entirely secret, no matter the paperwork that stranger may have signed. Even if she never tells what she’s seen and heard, it will live inside her.
