THE MAID’S DIARY
After releasing my mom’s ashes, I follow GPS directions to Rose Cottage, my new clients’ house. On the passenger seat beside me is the empty urn. Ash still sticks around the rim. Bits of my mom. Somehow I’ve still managed to keep part of her despite my best efforts.
Rose Cottage is in Point Grey, a high-end community west of the city, near the university, with nice beaches. The neighborhood houses many of the “one percenters” I clean for.
As I drive over the Burrard Bridge and glimpse the North Shore Mountains across the water, I think about the Glass House on the opposite shore. It’s one of my long-standing jobs. The house belongs to Vanessa and Haruto North, and I can imagine old Beulah Brown, their neighbor, sitting in her upstairs window with her new binoculars trained on the happenings across the inlet. Maybe she’s even watching the traffic as I drive over the bridge.
As I take the off-ramp and get closer to Rose Cottage, anticipation grows. My spirits lift. I love getting new clients. It’s like a first date—you just don’t know what to expect but hope to be pleasantly surprised. A new house is a new package. A fresh mystery. Full of clues that might lead to hidden secrets. What will this house tell me about the occupants? For howlong will these new clients entertain and intrigue me? How vested will I become in solving their mysteries? Will they have social media accounts I can follow? Might they even be worth stalking in person? I wonder if a detective feels similarly when approaching a new crime scene.
I pull into the driveway and study the house. Rose Cottage is no cottage. Perhaps it was once, but now it’s a completely redesigned and renovated structure. West Coast modern. Solar panels on the roof. Lots of glass and unfinished wood that is supposed to scream “I care about the environment.” There’s a sign stuck in the freshly laid sod on the front lawn that readsPASSIVEDESIGNSSOLARHEATING.My first question is: Did the occupants of “Rose Cottage” leave the sign to prove a point? Is this who they are? Wealthy with a guilt-driven narrative that screams: I care. About climate! The environment! Racism! The underclass!
I check the Rose Cottage worksheet on my phone. Holly has indicated the clients want service twice per week. Mondays and Fridays. A deeper clean on Mondays, after the weekend. A more superficial one on Fridays.
No one appears to be home. I exit my car and ring the front doorbell to be certain. (I once walked in on clients having sex. I never want to repeat the experience.)
Once I’m certain the place is empty, I follow the instructions on my phone to retrieve a front-door key from a lockbox. I open the door, go directly to the security panel on the wall, and punch in the listed code to disarm the security system.
I stand for a moment in the hallway, breathing it in. All clean lines, modern, mostly white interior with bold splashes of color and touches of rustic. From the entryway there is a view through to a lush garden. Excitement crackles through my blood. Yes, I know, I know—it’s the addictive dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin—a delicious hormonal and biochemicalcocktail mainlining into my veins. A salve to my whomp of grief this morning. And I grab hold of it. I allow the protection it gives me from my deeper feelings.
I go fetch my Dyson and other cleaning supplies from my car, change my shoes, hang up my rain jacket, and pull my cobbler apron over my head. Then I start my walk-through. (As always I remain cognizant of the potential for nanny/maid or pet cams that would require adjustments to my snooping behavior.)
Kitchen first.
It’s white and black. Wine fridge. High-end espresso machine. Breakfast dishes have been left in the sink—eggy with bits of toast. Dirty coffee mugs. A half-eaten grapefruit. On the edge of the kitchen island is a piece of paper. I gravitate toward it. It’s a printout of an ultrasound scan alongside a reminder note for some appointment. Something cold washes over my skin. I pick up the scan and feel a punch deep in my belly. I glance up, shocked. Although I’m not sure why. The fact that the occupants of Rose Cottage are a pregnant couple as well as wealthy enough to hire a cleaning service twice a week should not surprise me. Yet something about it burrows into my chest.
I regard the scan more closely. My mood shifts down another gear. I set the scan down and walk into the living room area. My eyes are drawn by the maintained garden beyond the big sliding doors. At the rear of the garden is a bushy hedge and trees. The property appears to back onto a laneway. I turn and catch sight of the two massive paintings on either side of the fireplace. And I freeze.
Stone cold.
Can’t move.
Can’t think.
A high-pitched shriek begins in my brain. It rises in a crescendo—like a desert sandstorm blasting against the windowsof my mind, banshees screaming and scratching to get in. My feet are rooted to the wooden floorboards. My pulse begins to race. I’m going to faint. A panic attack. My body is reacting before my mind can catch up.
My therapist told me—when she was discussing trauma—that the body keeps the score even when the mind can’t. Sometimes a person has no reasonable narrative for a traumatic event, so the conscious mind blocks it completely, trying to act as though nothing unusual occurred. But the body remembers. She explained it like this: A woman has a terrible car accident, and she saw people die horribly. The woman tries not to think about it. She tries to “get on” with life. And she does. She thinks she is fine. Months or years go by, and then she drives past the exact spot where the bloody accident occurred. And a chemical trigger is pulled. All the survival fight-or-flight hormones swamp into her body. Her neural memory is once more alive. And because the woman never developed a narrative to cope with the event, she short-circuits.
My body is short-circuiting, reacting to the paintings. They dominate the room. Maybe seven feet tall by four feet wide each. They depict a warrior of a ski racer in a helmet and goggles, his muscled body clad in Lycra, thighs like pistons. He’s bombing down a mountain. And it feels as though he is coming down at me. In one painting his body is at a wild angle as he barely clears a slalom gate. In the other painting he’s skidding to a stop in a spray of snow, one bent ski pole held high in victory.
I try to swallow. Try to breathe.
It’s him.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean I’m inhishouse. It doesn’t mean the ultrasound baby is his. Rose Cottage could belongto anyone. Someone could have bought those paintings at an auction. The Rose Cottage couple could be ski fans.
I glance around in a sweat. There are several framed photographs on a bookshelf. I lurch toward them. A wedding. An engagement photo. Photos of a happy couple in settings with pyramids and lions and elephants and oceans and jungles and mountains. One after another. The same couple through the years of their life together.
Itishim.
Jon Rittenberg.
With his wife, Daisy.
He’s here. Back. In my city—this ismyplace now. He left. Long ago.
Yet here I am. I’m inside his house. I’ve been hired to clean his mess.
A bolt strikes me. I whirl around to face the kitchen. The scan on the counter—Jon Rittenberg has a baby on the way.
