Never Let You Go(4)

She comes into view, her blond hair still messy from sleep, her face pale without makeup, but she has an ethereal kind of beauty that makes her look angelic—and much younger than her forty-five years. I always tell her that if she wasn’t my best friend, I’d have to kill her.

“God,” she says. “What a morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Teen girls.” She shakes her head. “Enough about that. What are you doing today?”

“I have one cleaning job. Then maybe some Christmas shopping.”

“I thought Saturdays were your day off.”

“One of the new girls I hired just quit—she’s back with her boyfriend.” Most of the girls I hire are from my support group. Women starting over with the shreds of their lives stuffed into suitcases, garbage bags, or the backseat of their cars. Unfortunately, they aren’t always ready to move on. “She says he’s changed, but you know…”

“Right.” We’re both quiet. She doesn’t need to tell me that she’s thinking about her ex-husband, just like she knows I’m thinking about Andrew. Jenny and I also met in group.

“How’s Sophie?” she says. We talk about Christmas gift ideas, anything and everything that crosses our minds. For the last couple of years we’ve done all our shopping together—Jenny can actually turn Christmas chaos at the mall into a fun adventure. Since she moved to Vancouver a few months ago, I miss her terribly, but we try to talk often.

“I’m not sure about Greg,” I say. “What do you get someone you’ve only been dating for a few months?”

“How about a nice dinner? Or cologne? The Gap has sweaters on sale.”

“I don’t think he’s the Gap type.” I smile, trying to imagine Greg, with his colorful tattoos and tight-shaved head, wearing a preppy sweater. I’ve only ever seen him in his UPS uniform, or shirts and dark jeans when he’s dressing up. He looks intimidating, but when you speak to him, you notice his warm brown eyes and happy-go-lucky laugh. Maybe cologne is a good idea. Then I realize I don’t even know what cologne he wears.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say. “I was wondering about inviting him over to help decorate the tree with Sophie and me, but that’s always been our tradition.”

“You should probably ask her how she feels about it.”

“Good idea.” I glance at the clock. “I better get going.”



It’s started to rain, the snow on the side of the roads turning to mush that grabs at my tires. Winter in Dogwood Bay means you never know whether to expect rain or snow, or sometimes both. I’m a half hour late, but it won’t matter. Mrs. Carlson, a nice old lady who lives with her cat and bird, always leaves in the morning to visit her sister on cleaning days. I follow the garden path around the side of the house. The rain is melting snow off the shrubs and trees, chunks hitting the ground with a muffled thud. I squeal as one almost hits me.

When I unlock the door, the house is freezing cold. I fiddle with the thermostat, bumping it up a couple of levels, then set my boots on the mat, slide on my slippers, and put my tray down on the kitchen counter. Something smells burnt, like toast. The dish rack holds one plate and teacup, and a knife. A small plastic Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, hung with a few brightly colored ornaments. There’s already a stack of presents underneath.

I start on the kitchen, scrub the counters and sink until they gleam, then mop the floor. I hum Christmas carols as I work and think about when Sophie and I should put up our own tree. We always get a fresh one, then decorate while watching Elf and drinking hot chocolate.

I move into the living room, wipe every surface with lemon-scented cleaner, fold a knitted blanket, fluff the pillows, vacuum the cat fur off the back of the couch and from under the cushions. I haven’t seen Gatsby, but he’s probably sleeping under the bed. Next I vacuum the carpet so the lines are all in the same direction, backing up as I go, careful not to leave a single footprint. I grab my tray and move down the hall, then pause halfway when I hear a noise behind me. I turn quickly, my body stiffening. A streak of white. Gatsby.

I make a kissing noise and call his name, but he doesn’t come running like usual. He must be chasing a spider.

When I’m finished in the master bedroom, I make my way to the spare room at the other end of the house. Mrs. Carlson rarely has guests, but the room always needs dusting because of her budgie, Atticus. It’s my least favorite room—the dander from his feathers makes me sneeze and Atticus screams the whole time I’m cleaning, but today he is remarkably silent.

As I push open the door, a cold draft whistles toward me. The window is open. I hurry over and slide it down. So that’s why the house is so cold. When I turn around, rubbing my arms to get warm, I spot Atticus hunched into a ball at the bottom of his cage. He’s always perched on his wooden branch, screeching at me or ringing his bell. I frown, take a tentative step. “Atticus?” He doesn’t move. I take another step. His eyes are closed, his tiny chest unmoving. I look back at the window. How long had it been left open? Mrs. Carlson’s going to be devastated.

Back in the kitchen, I rummage through my purse on the counter for my phone, knocking it over in the process. My lip gloss rolls out. I don’t stop to retrieve it. Mrs. Carlson’s sister answers and I have to repeat my name. Finally she puts her on the phone.