The house is quiet when I wake, the floorboards cold under my feet as I push myself out of bed. “Sophie?” She doesn’t answer. Sometimes she gets up early to work on a project, or goes for a walk. She likes to study the patterns in the snow and ice. It worries me when she goes off into the woods by herself, but she wears hiking boots and carries a whistle, and trying to keep her home when she’s feeling inspired is like trying to capture lightning in a bottle.
Shivering, I wrap my flannel robe tight around my body and shuffle into the kitchen. Sophie’s put a pod in the coffeemaker for me, left a note stuck to the machine.
Sorry, Mom. The snow was calling … XO
My baby, the artist. I pin the note onto the bulletin board, on top of the others I’ve saved, then check that she’s locked the door and reset the alarm. She’s always forgetting, says we have nothing worth stealing anyway. I remind her that’s not the point.
I let the shower run hot as I can stand it, steam filling the room, soap swirling around my feet and down the drain. My hair is long again and the wet tendrils lay flat against my breasts. My mind drifts as I think about my plan for the upcoming week, which clients might need more help before Christmas, whether I should place an ad for another cleaner. Maybe I can expand and take on some janitorial work next year when Sophie goes away to school. I enjoy this feeling of accomplishment. In the beginning it was just me, a beat-up car, and a box of cleaning supplies. Now I have four full-time employees and nothing holding me back.
After I’m dressed, I unplug my phone from the charger and notice I’ve gotten a text from Marcus. You still want to skip this week? Let me know. Marcus teaches a self-defense class for my domestic violence support group and sometimes gives me private lessons.
I text him back. Yeah, just busy, but I’ll see you at the meeting. I make a second cup of coffee—the first is for sanity, the second is pure pleasure—and prop my phone up against the bowl of fruit on our kitchen table. I sign in to Skype and wait for Jenny to answer my call.
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.”