The Maid's Diary(20)

A little more gently, Mal asks, “Did you happen to see what shoes the maid was wearing yesterday?”

“Oh yes. White running shoes with an orange streak on each side.” Beulah takes another wobbly sip of tea, then carefully sets the cup into its saucer. “Horton has spoken to the maid before. I saw them talking over the garden fence once. I asked if he knew her name.” She pauses. A strange look enters her eyes. “He says it’s Kit.”





THE MAID’S DIARY

I splash cold water over my face in the little bathroom downstairs in Rose Cottage and stare at my eyes in the mirror. They judge me. And I argue with myself—all the sides of myself. All my internal voices that have been rudely shocked into life and are clamoring to be heard one over another, louder, louder:

“Quit this client while you still can. Call Holly right now, tell her.”

“But imagine what you could find in here. All the dark secrets the Rittenbergs might hide. You have the key, girl. You know how to disarm the security system. Rose Cottage is your freaking OYSTER, girl. It will keep you occupied for months.”

“Are you fucking serious? This is bad news, Kit. You need to step away. STAT.”

“This will destroy you. This will push you way over the line of no return. This is you in destructive mode, Kit. This is next level.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! When did you last clean a celebrity athlete’s home?”

“What would your therapist say? She’d say you need help. This is not normal.”

“Who cares about normal? What in the hell is normal anyway? Normal is overrated.”

I listen to all the voices, and I hear a certain tone beginning to dominate the cautious, scaredy-cat Kit. The bold, brash Kit is winning. I pat my face dry, stand erect, shoulders squared, and I take in a deep and steadying breath. I reach into my apron pocket for my tube of hot-pink lipstick. I always keep a bright lipstick in my pocket. It’s my armor. I lean forward into my reflection and carefully reapply the bright splash of fun and aggressively feminine color. I smack my lips together. There. I study my work. I approve of the look—sort of cute, playful, but a weaponized femininity. I’m sure my therapist has big thoughts about this. I smooth wisps of hair back from my face, pop a stick of cinnamon gum into my mouth, and begin to chew. Chewing always helps channel my adrenaline, hones my focus.

I check my watch—barely enough time for a quick walk-through before I must start cleaning in earnest. I set the timer on my watch.

Studiously avoiding the brash paintings of “BergBomber” in the living room, I hurry upstairs. There are four spacious bedrooms and an office. The first two bedrooms—queen beds. Appear to be guest rooms, unused. The office—Jon Rittenberg’s. A man cave. Framed black-and-white photos of craggy mountains. Bookshelves with nonfiction works penned by the “survivors” of extreme pursuits. Conquerors of peaks, oceans, and jungles. Plenty of self-help books—how to be better, bigger, stronger, how to make people listen to you. Low-carb and “keto” diet books—“build more muscle,” “maintain a strong physique.” A Peloton with a large monitor and spin shoes hanging on the back. Yoga mat. Weights. It all screams of an aging Olympian going soft around the middle, losing his edge, and worrying about it. This fills me with a sadistic spurt of pleasure. I touch the glass desk with its iMac and a massive curved monitor. I get the sense Daisy and Jon Rittenberg have not been in this house long. It all feels very newly moved into.

I start to exit the office but stop as one of the mountain photos snags my attention. I recognize the crags. It’s one of the peaks that looms over the village I grew up in. A small, world-class ski community two hours north of the city to which my parents immigrated because the resort municipality offered my father a job. My dad was a sanitation engineer. He worked at the wastewater treatment plant that treated the town’s sewage. A darkness clouds my mind. I start to hear the taunting, singsongy voices of the kids at my school: “Katarina Poop-ovich’s father works at the poo plant. Hey, Turd-ovich, what’s your dog’s name—Stinky?” I hear the roar of mocking laughter. The old pain and anxiety crunch through my chest. Suddenly I feel fat and pimply again. My eyes flood with tears. My mom would hug me when I came home from school crying. She would stroke my hair and tell me I was beautiful, and God I miss her so much.

I hurriedly exit the room and slam the door shut, locking the laughing, jeering rich-bitch kids inside. Those kids whose houses my mother cleaned, whose beds she made, whose clothes she put away.

I move to the main bedroom. It’s done in soft shades of gray. Big windows that allow a beautiful slant of light. There’s a walk-in closet and en suite bathroom. With one eye on my ticking timer, I enter, absorbing the atmosphere of the room. I stare at the king-size bed. Slowly I walk up to a bedside table with a box of tissues and a book.

I pick up the book. It’s the story behind the making of a reality show about rich housewives. This must be Daisy’s side. My gaze goes to Jon’s side. This is where they make love, and babies.

A hardness coalesces in my core.

I imagine my therapist’s voice: “Why, Kit? Why do you feel these things? Why are you doing this? Write why, why, why until you fall through the trapdoor into something new.”

I don’t need to ask. I know why.

I’m already through the trapdoor. All I see are dark warrens burrowing farther down into shadows, deeper into crypts filled with fun house mirrors that bounce back my reflection in a thousand kaleidoscopic ways. In one mirror I see fat, sad teenage Katarina Poop-ovich. I’d managed to forget about her for a while. She’s back now quite clearly.