“Time and a Half”
The photographs are just as creased and time-worn as the hands that hold them. I see shot after shot of poorly portrayed perfection: smiles gone stiff from too many retakes, eyes flat and humorless from what is happening beyond the scope of the camera lens, messes tucked away beyond the depth of field. Mrs. Rinaldi caresses the paper reverently, her cloudy gray eyes focused on the parts she wants to see.
“My Sasha was always so pretty,” she tells me as I clean the sitting room around her, trailing a knuckle over a plump rosy cheek. The child in the photo is young, perhaps six. “Prettier than I ever was by a mile.” She blinks a few times, then lifts her white-tufted head to peer at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused, but she tracks the movement as I lift her jewelry box to carefully dust it. “Do you have children, Claudia?”
I smile, the muscles straining. “Yes. A son and two girls.” I finish with the jewelry box and turn to the windowsill to wipe it down. I love my children fiercely, but it’s a sore wound that she’s poked, because providing for them by doing things like taking housekeeping gigs keeps me away from them.
Mrs. Rinaldi, oblivious to my mood, gives me a wobbly smile and nods. “That’s wonderful, dear. Children can be such a blessing.” But the stormcloud of her eyes mists over, and her smile melts away. “I miss mine terribly. I wish I’d done better. Done more to keep her around.”
“She was gay, my Sasha,” Mrs. Rinaldi begins, her knobby fingers twining together and hands squeezing each other tight. “I didn’t take it well when we found out, but her father…well, her father couldn’t stand it.” The tears glazing her eyes fall, and I hand her a tissue in between cleaning the panes of the window. To say I’m uncomfortable with the turn of events is an understatement. “He–he got rough with her. Tried to…to force it out of her. And I just stood there and let it all happen. Let him hit our baby girl and throw her out into the street.”
Quiet sobs fill the room for a time, and I pause in my duties to place a hand on her thin, heaving shoulders. It feels inappropriate to be so familiar, but in my defense she started it. And there’s another part of me, one I’m not proud of, that hisses it’s wrong to try to soothe the loss and regret it sounds like she’s earned, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I see flashes of my own mother in her, and when I close my eyes I see the part of me that’s frozen as a little girl crying out to be seen and heard. My mother is dead now, haunting me with all our unfinished business, but Mrs. Rinaldi is here and sobbing and pitiful, and my hands are holding her.
“I just want her back,” Mrs. Rinaldi croaks, the tight clutch of her fingers causing bone to flash white through her translucent skin. “I know I don’t–I don’t deserve another chance, but I want one. I’m going to die without ever getting a chance to tell her how sorry I am.”
That gets me, a fantasy of my own mother saying something similar bubbling to the surface to bring tears prickling at the backs of my eyes. I set down my cleaning rag and wipe my hands on the seat of my pants. I squeeze Mrs. Rinaldi’s cold hands, dragging over the desk chair to be able to sit in front of her.
“It’s not my place,” I begin slowly, hoping I’m not about to make a huge mistake, “but why can’t you? Tell her you’re sorry, that is.”
Her head twitches in what might be her shaking her head no, or might just be a nervous tic. “She’s gone,” Mrs. Rinaldi eventually whispers, her hands clutching mine where they rest on our connected knees.
I cock my head, stomach sinking. “She…she passed?” Mrs. Rinaldi has never mentioned that her daughter died. But then, it’s not like she would; I’m just the hired help.
She nods, heart wrenching sobs spilling from her thin painted lips. “Seven years ago. It was a drunk driver.” She’s quiet for long seconds, the only sound in the room her hitching breaths. “It was quick, at least. No suffering.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rinaldi,” I tell her, my heart breaking for her. My oldest is fifteen now and learning how to drive, and I can’t help picturing myself in her position. My stomach rolls and pitches at the thought.
“Edna,” the old woman offers, smiling sadly through her tears. She sniffles and breaks the hold I have on her hands to grab some tissues. “I think once you’ve seen me blubber the need for formalities goes to the wayside, hm?”
I chuckle, my mind still snagged on nightmares of getting a late night call from the police. “Edna, then,” I agree.
I can only guess why, but something in me snaps loose then, and I find myself talking. “Me and my mom didn’t get along too well, either,” I begin, my eyes turning to the freshly-cleaned window. Robins patrol the grass beyond for worms, stabbing into the soil with their sharp little beaks, their prizes dangling and wriggling from their mouths. “She passed away, too. I think it was…twelve years ago, now? My youngest wasn’t even born yet.
“She never hit me, and she made sure me and my brothers never starved, but she was hurtful in other ways. I kept trying to get her to see, to hear me when I told her that the things she’d said had messed me up. I don’t know if it was her pride or what, but she just…couldn’t. And once my babies were around I couldn’t let her keep hurting me, because what kind of a message does that send? That’s it’s fine to let people hurt you just because they’re related to you?” Edna Rinaldi has melted away, my eyes firmly focused on the past, where my mother’s face is twisted with rage as I tell her that if she can’t learn to respect me then she’ll lose me. I can still feel the way it cleaves into my chest when her face only really crumples in despair when I add that that means she won’t get to see her grandchildren, either.
“I kept hoping she’d see reason, that she’d understand that I didn’t think she was a bad person, just a hurt one who needed to learn how to handle that hurt. But she never did. She died all alone in a home because staying the same was more important than staying with me.” Edna presses tissues into my hand, and that snaps me out of whatever this spell is. I start, my face heating as I realize I’ve gone way over the line of what’s appropriate and have begun crying messily to boot. I jump to my feet, swiping at my face and apologizing profusely. I snatch up my rag and my basket of supplies.
“I–I’m so sorry. That was really unprofessional of me.” Fuck fuck fuck please don’t fire me, I think in a panic, my hands going numb. “I’ll just–”
“No, please, Claudia,” Edna says, getting to her feet much more slowly. I stand rooted as she makes her way over to me, her cool hands landing on my shoulders and squeezing them. She smiles at me, and if it’s a little wobbly and sad it’s at least not angry; it’s enough to let me take a full breath at last.
“Your mother truly didn’t know the gift you gave her,” Edna says, her throat bobbing as more tears glaze her rheumy stormcloud eyes. “If I could, I’d tell Sasha that I was sorry that I failed her so badly. That I didn’t protect her, that I turned my back on her just because things got messy. Maybe I’d even get to walk her down the aisle to get married to a wonderful woman.” My throat closes with emotion, hot tracks winding down my cheeks to drip onto the front of my company T-shirt. “ Her hands cup my face briefly, firm thumbs swiping away my tears in a tender gesture my mother never made. “I can only hope there’s another life after this one where I can try again.”
All I can think to do is nod, and after a moment Edna’s hands fall away, leaving me standing there, cold and unsteady, my supplies basket clutched so tight my hand starts to cramp.
Silence stretches, and when I can’t stand it anymore I clear my throat and take a hesitant step backwards, towards the door. “I’ve still got the living room and the foyer to get to,” I manage, clearing my throat again to clear up the rest of the hoarseness. “So I’ll just…”
“Of course, dear,” Edna says, shuffling back to her chair and carefully retaking her seat to resume her perusal of celluloid memories. “Can’t keep you all day with my sentimental rambling!” Her voice is ugly with false cheer, and I fight the urge to physically recoil.
“No! No, that’s not it. You’re totally fine. I just–I-I want to do a good job, is all.” I swallow and manage a smile. “I enjoyed our talk. Really.”
Edna returns my smile then turns her attention to her photo album, and I take the cue and scramble out of the sitting room to get back to work.
When I collect my fee at the end of the day I am shocked by the presence of five crisp, sharp twenties more than what I’m owed, all tucked into the neatly labeled envelope Mrs. Rinaldi usually leaves. I hunt Edna down to try and give it back, but she insists.
“Treat your babies to something nice,” she tells me, gently shoving my hand with the money back to me. “Think of it like you’re doing me a favor by letting me live vicariously through you.” She chuckles, but I can still see the sorrow she tries so hard to hide.
“If you’re sure. I…alright. I’ll take pictures for you! Of whatever we decide to do.” I know I’m violating the company’s code of ethics, but it feels wrong to tell her no after what we’ve shared.
“I’d love that,” she tells me, beaming, and I hug her awkwardly before leaving. I have no other clients today, leaving me free to try to wrap my head around everything that happened. As I drive home I thank every higher power that I can think of that I’m not my mother. My children don’t hold in their tears around me or walk on eggshells. My girls don’t count every single calorie or have nervous breakdowns in changing rooms. My boy doesn’t hide his low grades from me. And when I fuck up–which is far more than I’d like–I apologize, and I do better for them.
I don’t want to be an old woman crying over pictures, praying for a second chance that may never come. And I never want my children to have to cut me out of their lives to keep it from being miserable. As soon as I found out I was pregnant with my oldest, I made a promise: they would get the childhood I never got. They would get the mother I had deserved. It’s been so hard, but seeing my children flourish where I floundered has healed something in me. The little girl I was is still in there, still sad, but when it’s quiet, I hear her say, “at last.”
