8 The reading room is about the size of a closet, and the woman working there takes a break from a complicated knitting project and rummages around in a box for a while before handing me a small pamphlet. “We’re getting bookcases next month,” she says. “Donated by the…” I tune her out and nod politely, hope that whatever she’s given me to read is going to be worth the story (which seems to be about salt ponds) I’m stuck listening to. It is. It’s not a very long pamphlet, about fifteen pages, and the author spends three pages talking about how he’s related to the Donaldsons through the marriage of a cousin a hundred years ago, and how that led to his interest in the Donaldson house, which “yielded gracious permission to visit the estate.” I grit my teeth—I hate how boring and full of suck-up crap these things are—and turn the page. I was hoping for a description I could use to create a basic layout, but instead I get photos. Lots and lots of photos, pictures of what seems to be every ro
9 Mom is home when I get there, lying on the sofa again. She sits up as soon as I walk in though, and before I’ve even opened my mouth I can tell she knows I’ve found something because a huge smile breaks across her face. “Tell me, baby,” she says. “Tell me everything.” So I do. Except I don’t tell her about the beach, about how I was just there and left in a hurry, saying I had to go and making up some lame excuse. I don’t tell her who I was with. I just tell her about the pamphlet. “It’s perfect,” she says after she’s looked through the copy, and throws her arms around me. “You did good today. You did so good.” I pull back and look at her. Her eyes are shining and I can tell she’s already planning. “So what’s next?” “You’ll see, baby,” she says. “In the meantime, we’re going to have to celebrate tonight. How does a lobster dinner sound?” “Sounds good. Where are we going?” It turns out we aren’t going anywhere because apparently I’m going to the grocery store to get lobsters. “Low p
10 Mom goes out after we eat our lobsters and as soon as she gets in the next morning, she tells me there’s a party at the yacht club tonight and that we’re going. The bartender, Glenn, told her about it. She tells me this in an offhand way, which means that not only is this party important, she’s done with Glenn. Which also means that now there’s someone else. I wait, and sure enough the conversation switches to Harold. He’s the real estate agent she told me about before, the one the first agent, Sharon, didn’t like. Harold specializes in beachfront property, and although I’m sure he doesn’t know this yet, he’ll be totally in love with Mom in about a day. I listen to her talk about what kind of houses she thinks Harold could get us, what she’s going to say when she meets him, and then we talk about what needs to happen tonight. Mom is going to the party as “Miranda.” Miranda is staying with her friend Tom (“He’s in banking, darling, you’ve heard of him, right?”) for a few days at Tom’
11 Mom wakes me up at seven and tells me she wants donuts. “That’s great,” I say. “Bring me back one.” I pull a pillow over my head and shut my eyes. “Okay,” Mom sighs. “I’ll just put away all the stuff I was working on and drive to the store. I didn’t realize you were busy.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m trying to sleep.” “Please, baby,” Mom says, sitting down next to me. “I have to meet Harold later and—” “Fine,” I say, because I know where this is going and that’s Mom staying here until I agree. “But you know, in the time it took you to wake me up you’d have been halfway there already.” “But I don’t want to go. And besides, what good is being halfway there?” She kisses my forehead and goes back downstairs, humming. I get up and throw on some clothes, head out to the car. The donut place is packed and I’m stuck waiting in line behind a guy with two screaming children who seem determined to try and shatter the windows. Mom always wants donuts or some sort of pastry after a good night
12 Mom’s gone when I get back, a scribbled note telling me she’ll see me later. There’s nothing angry in it, nothing about missing donuts or anything, and I know that means she left soon after I did, probably forgetting I was out picking up something for her. Upstairs I find one of those free real estate guides lying on her bed, a red circle around one of the entries. She must have seen it and decided to pay Harold a visit. I sit down and read the whole thing: house for rent, two bedrooms, water view, right by an ocean inlet, blah blah blah. The person listed as contact is—yep, that’s right, Harold. I bet we’ll be moving real soon. I pack up my things and most of Mom’s. Under the pile of maps she’s been working with is a piece of paper with a list of names on it. Maid to Order, Merry Maids, that sort of thing. I can guess what’s coming. We’ve never done anything exactly like it before, but going in as a maid to snag the silver is a good option, a smart one. I can’t think of any reason
13 Mom gets back late, very late, and she isn’t alone. I hear footsteps crossing through the house with hers. “I don’t usually do this,” Mom says, a giddy note in her voice that, if I didn’t know better, I would think is real. She starts to say something else but then coughs. I wish she’d just go to the doctor already. I’ll get her some cough syrup tomorrow. Maybe that will help. Whoever she’s with mumbles something in reply, voice low and drunken-sounding, “…sure your roommate isn’t home?” Roommate? Must be someone recently divorced and gun-shy about being with someone who has kids, even one who is eighteen. I’ll have to remember, if he’s still around in the morning, to call Mom—damn, what’s her name again? Miranda, that’s it. Miranda. “No, no, she isn’t,” Mom says. “It’s just you and me, Harold.” Harold. Of course. He mumbles something else and Mom laughs the way she does when someone says something she’s heard a million times before but is acting like it’s the first time. “I can’t t
14 I go home and put everything away. Mom comes downstairs, stops in the living room, and stands staring at me, one hand resting on the sofa. “What’s up?” I ask. “You look a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah. I’m going out for a while, but I’ll take a cab, leave the car here.” “No, take the car. I’m going to stay in today. This stupid cold…” She shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. I can hear stuff sloshing around when I breathe.” “When you breathe?” “Yes. You want me to describe my phlegm to you or something?” “Oh yes, please. Look, if you’ve got stuff in there, maybe it’s the kind of thing that a doctor—” “It’s not a big deal. It just feels strange. Is there any coffee?” “Just started a pot. While you’re waiting, you can have some cough syrup.” I wave the bottle at her. “Ugh. If I say no, are you going to dump it into my coffee?” “What do you think?” Mom sighs. “Fine. I’ll take some.” “Now?” “Honestly, Danielle.” “Just take it. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through t
15 When we leave the ferry we walk up to what Greg tells me is “the town.” It’s nothing but stores and an amazing view. “You want to look at anything?” he asks, pointing at the stores. “Hell, no.” I know a racket when I see one and I’m sure this “town” makes a fortune from people who run around buying things simply because they had to ride on a boat to get here. “Okay, that wasn’t even a question,” Greg says. “We’re definitely getting out of here.” He starts walking, heading away from the stores and up a narrow road. I watch him for a second, just sort of…caught, I guess, by how easy it is to talk to him, to hang out with him. “You coming?” he asks, looking back at me, and then he grins. “Or are you checking out my ass?” I roll my eyes and walk up to him. “Please. You don’t have an ass.” “I knew you were checking it out! And I do so have—” He twists, looking back over his shoulder. “Well, okay, maybe not in these pants. But I do, really, I swear. And it’s actually quite—” “I so don’t n
16 Mom’s waiting for me when I get home, sitting on the sofa eating soy crackers and grinning. I smell the reason for her grin as soon as I walk into the house. “Pizza!” “Yeah,” she says. “I think I remember a certain someone liking it.” “You thought right.” I sit down and eat two slices. “You want any?” I ask when I’m done, looking at the six remaining slices. “Maybe later.” I laug
h then, and she says, “What? I might.” “Uh huh. I’ve never seen you eat pizza, you know. That’s not normal.” “I’m plenty nor—” She breaks off, coughing. “Did you take more cough medicine today? I’ll go get it and—” “Later. Right now we need to talk.” So we talk, or rather, she does. It turns out she spent the day checking maid services. “Here,” she tells me, and hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. I recognize it as being right outside Heaven. “This is the one we want. You’ve got an interview tomorrow.” “So do you want me to drive you or—wait. I’ve got an interview?” “I’ve been out a lot, been se
17 Joan and I have to clean the second floor (the Donaldsons, like a lot of rich people with huge old houses, don’t use the third) and when we get there we go our separate ways. Shelly and Maggie clean together, but Joan has made it real clear that she does her thing and I do mine. It’s fine with me and I head through the rooms Joan told me to do, dust and disinfect and vacuum. I also check for alarm sensors. There’s one sensor in the master bedroom, in a closet by what I can only describe as the most obvious safe ever, and that’s it. I go downstairs and ask Maggie if she has an extra container of bathroom cleaner in order to check the windows. All of them, every single window and all of the outside doors I pass, have sensors. There’s even one on a tiny decorative window high up on the kitchen wall. This is not a house Mom and I could easily get into without an in, that’s for sure. But then we have one. Me. I go back upstairs and turn on the vacuum. I push it around the floor, thinking
18 The next day is brutal. I spend a couple hours cleaning up puke at our second house—sick kids, I’m told, as if that makes some sort of difference. Then, at our third house, as I’m scrubbing a bathroom that belongs to a small boy who’s being potty trained, Joan comes in and says, “Don’t go in the master bedroom,” before stomping off to smoke. After I finish Little Mr. Pee-a-Lot’s bathroom, I go out in the hallway to vacuum and a strong smell makes my eyes start to water and my lungs start to hurt. What has Joan done? I go outside and find her. She says, “Mixed ammonia and some other cleaner by mistake,” and then offers me a cigarette, as if that will make my lungs hurt less. I’m pretty sure things can’t get much worse after that, but then we stop at our last house of the day. It’s a small one, a little cottage tucked on a side street at the very edge of Heaven. Maggie and Shelly moan as we park the car, and Joan says, “I keep hoping the damn place will burn down.” I don’t get what th
19 When the house comes into view I figure his reaction will be like Mom’s. I mean, I can see that the house is small and dark, built so it’s all sharp angles. You can’t not see it. I think I love it because it’s like that. It’s what it is and you can’t cover it up. He stops the car and doesn’t say anything. I look over at him after a minute. “Don’t like the house, right?” “Actually, I do. And it seems…it seems completely perfect for you. You must love it.” “I do,” I say, surprised. “Mom can’t stand it, but I think it’s great. The side of the house facing the water is almost all windows and in the morning, when the sun rises…it’s amazing. I could live here forever so easily but—” I break off, aware I’m babbling. Why is it that I don’t talk about any of this stuff with Mom, who wouldn’t really listen but at least isn’t a cop? “How about sunsets?” “What?” “You know, when the sun sets. They must look pretty amazing too.” “I haven’t really noticed. Mostly I just get home from work, make di
20 Things with Mom and Harold aren’t that bad after all. Mom came home in a horrible mood, but that’s because she had to get mad at Harold during dinner. She could tell he was getting ready to pull a “you seem too good to be true” speech—with three marriages come and gone, he’s a little gun-shy when it comes to women. Anyway, it pissed her off because she says, “I thought he was stupider than that, baby. And so now I have to be extra careful with him. It’s annoying.” After I make her a couple of cups of coffee she calms down and leaves a fake tearful message on Harold’s voice mail saying she loves him and wants him but things are complicated and maybe they need a break. He calls back later that night, but Mom doesn’t answer. She listens to the message he leaves, though. “Nothing like shaking them up,” she says as she turns her phone off, smiling at me. “Tell them you love them and then run away—makes them crazy. I bet you I’ve got the security code for the alarm system at the house dow
21 I don’t normally care what day it is but I know today is Thursday. Why? Because I have the day off. No scrubbing toilets, no vacuuming, no sitting in the car with Shelly pigging up every inch of space and Joan doing her part to keep the cigarette industry in business. I get up and make eggs and bacon and coffee. Well, sort of. I don’t know if I’d eat the eggs, but the bacon seems to have turned out okay. Mom’s still asleep when I’m done, which is surprising because normally the minute she smells coffee she’s up and asking when it will be ready. I go to her bedroom. Her door is open and the blinds are up but she’s lying in bed staring at the wall. “Mom?” “Hey, baby.” She sounds awful, like there’s a whistling teakettle stuck in her chest. “You sound awful.” “I just slept funny. Will you bring me a cup of coffee?” “How about”—I go into the bathroom, look around until I find the bottle of cough syrup, and then go back out and wave it at her—“some of this?” “I’m not coughing anymore,” s
22 Greg finds us a spot in a corner. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat because the place is still so packed I can’t move my arms—and because I’m not really fond of chili—but it turns out there’s just enough space, and whatever is on the hot dogs doesn’t taste like chili at all. It’s a weird combination of meat sauce and gravy and it’s good. Really good. “So did that stuff you got for your mom before help at all?” Greg says when he hands me my second hot dog. “I guess. She’s fine now. Well, sort of.” “Sort of?” “She says she’s okay but she doesn’t seem better. You know?” “She should go to the doctor,” Greg says, and picks up the last hot dog. Not-chili leaks onto his shirt cuff. He sighs. “The downside of the New York System.” “I haven’t had that problem.” “I suppose that’s true as long as I don’t look at the floor.” “Hey!” I kick him lightly in the shin, and then realize I’m flirting. Actual honest-to-God flirting. It’s fun. “And I’ve tried to get her to go to the doctor. She won’t go.”
23 I’m tired on my way to work in the morning and Mom is quiet, drives with the radio off and her window rolled down, the wind whistling through the car and making it impossible for us to talk. I know she isn’t mad with me anymore but I know Mom, and what she saw yesterday will stay with her. She will look at me differently for a while and I will be told even less than usual about where we’re going, what we’ll be doing. She won’t do this to hurt me. She’ll do it because it’s just how things are. How she is. “You’ll call if you need to,” she says when she stops the car. “I will,” I say, and five minutes after Stu has handed out the day’s assignments, I do. When I’m done talking to her I toss my cell in the Dumpster. Stu has it emptied every morning—he reminds us of it whenever he’s talking about planning and efficiency. He says it shows he’s always on top of things. There’s a lot of things I won’t miss about this job. Stu is in the number-two spot. On the way to our first house, Joan te
24 Mom is waiting for me just down the road. “Baby,” she says when she sees me, and then slides on a pair of latex gloves. She takes the bag, puts it in the trunk. I hand her my gloves when she shuts it, watch her peel off her own and then disappear up over the hill she’s parked next to. I can hear, faintly, the roar of the ocean. She comes back empty-handed. I’m already in the car, and when she gets in she leans over and kisses my cheek. “You did a good job, baby.” I nod, look out the window. I watch everything blur as we drive, picking up speed. “Hey, you okay?” “I—” I’ll never know what I might have said because blue lights flash then, around and around and right behind us. Cops. Mom slows down, pulling the car over to the side of the road. “No matter what, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?” I nod, scared by her voic
e, by what’s going on. This has never happened before. Mom turns the car off. The blue lights are still on, still flashing. I hear the crunch of footsteps as the cop mov
25 I start to shake when we reach town, when the police station gets closer and closer, becoming all I can see. The cop parks and gets out of the car. He picks up the bag, and I hear the silver shift inside. “Keep quiet and everything will be fine,” Mom whispers, comfort and warning in her voice. I press my hands back into the circle of metal that holds them, do it over and over until the skin around my wrists starts to hurt. Mom’s taken out of the car first. I start shaking more. Even my teeth are doing it now, chattering like I’m caught in a snowstorm. It sounds weird. No one seems to hear it but I press my teeth together anyway, so hard I hear them click. Mom doesn’t look back as she’s led away. I’m helped out of the car next. My legs don’t give out on me even though I’m sure they will. I stare at the back of Mom’s head, not wanting to see who is steering me inside, when it occurs to me, suddenly, that it could be Greg. My stomach lurches and I quickly look over. It isn’t him. I’m s
26 The cop from before, the one who led me to the bathroom, comes back after I don’t know how long has passed and opens the door, flicks two fingers at me in a “come on, hurry up” gesture. I get up and walk out of the room, wait for her to tell me where I’m going now. “They’re waiting for you down there,” she says with a frown, and points to the left before walking off. I can see the sun, just barely rising, out of a far window, which means I’ve been here all night. I take a deep breath and head off in the direction the cop told me to go. I pass one room with no cops, then another, and now I’m in a hallway lined with offices. I don’t look in any of them, just keep walking. So far, so good. I’m not kidding myself—I’m sure I’m not going anywhere, figure this is something to rattle me—but at least for a second I can pretend I’m leaving. “Dani?” I turn around. Greg walks out of an office I just passed, heading toward me. I open my mouth and then close it because I have no idea what to say.