Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (4 page)

M
y big mistake had been to show any signs of life. All I wanted to do after that thing with Dolores was hole up and let the world carry on without me, but once Mom realized I was capable of getting myself out of bed and to the doctor's office, she assumed I was also capable of existing as a legitimate human being again. She was on my back constantly now, nagging me to perk up, pull myself together, make an effort, fake it. “Betsy!”

What was she screaming about now? I rolled over in bed and checked the clock. 7:43. The wake-up calls didn't usually start until quarter after eight. That gave Mom fifteen minutes for her pep talks before she had to head off to work.

“Sweet-ie!” At least it was the carrot instead of the stick today. “Can you come downstairs? … Now? Please?” I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Why was
it okay for Hank to sleep in but I always had to get up? Why would I even
want
to get up? It's not like I had anything to actually live for these days.

“Bets?”

I could hear the click of her shoes starting up the stairs. Damn. I slammed my hand on the bed and said, “Coming.”

I really, really didn't want my mother in my room. She'd start opening windows, putting things away, nattering on about how much better I'd feel if I just called a friend, took some pride in my appearance, ate better, exercised, “pursued an interest,” whatever.

Well, you know what? I tried the outside world and I didn't like it. Moreover, it didn't like me. Isolation suited me just fine.

I got up anyway. I pulled on the same T-shirt and shorts I wore every morning for these little mother-daughter chats. As I did up my fly, I started working on phony plans for the day. I'd tell Mom I was going to drop off some resumés at the West End Mall this morning. That should keep her happy for a while. I could go back to bed as soon as she left for work.

I schlepped down the stairs, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. Mornings never used to give me headaches.

“Ah! You're awake. Great! Look who's here for you …”

Nick. Carly. Brianna. Nick … Terror — I'm not exaggerating—had me by the throat. My hand slid down my face.

Dolores was standing at the bottom of the stairs next to my mother. She was wearing a pink T-shirt and a pair of white bunny ears. She held a bulging plastic grocery bag with one hand and waved with the other hand as if she were a contestant on
American Idol
.

I hung on to the railing and tried to process what was happening. I was relieved, then confused, then ultimately horrified, all within seconds.

Mom had a mischievous look on her face that was frankly too cute for a woman her age to pull off. “Betsee. Why didn't you tell me to get you up earlier? I didn't know a thing about your cleaning job until Dolores mentioned it this very minute!”

Dolores's face crinkled up like
you're kidding!

Mom raised a finger and said, “I'll just throw a slice of bread in the toaster for you. Get your shoes on and I'll drop the two of you off on the way to work.”

I waited until she'd disappeared into the kitchen, then I lunged down the stairs at Dolores.

“What's this all about?” I didn't say it so much as exhale it in her face.

Dolores lifted her eyebrows. “What's what all about?” She looked around the foyer and whistled. “Didn't realize
how rich you were. Whoa. What do you think a house like this is worth, anyway?”

I wasn't going to let her put me off. I gritted my teeth and said, “The cleaning job.” I knew I had morning breath but I didn't care. “Who said anything about us working together?”

Dolores rubbed the wooden knob at the bottom of the railing like it was the belly of a Buddha statue. “I thought we'd agreed.”

“No. We did not. And even if we had, you should have called me before setting something up.”

That offended her—or at least she wanted to make me think it did. “I tried! You don't go on Facebook. I didn't have your cell phone number. There were no Wickwires listed on Oakland Road …”

“How did you even know I live on Oakland Road?”

“Easy. My cousin Hannah had this thing with Rob Jardine who played hockey with Carly's brother and …”

I put my hand up to stop her. “Forget it. Fine.” I didn't need any more of the creepy backstory.

I could hear Mom finishing up with the toast and knew it was hopeless. My mother/Dolores. Frying pan/fire. I was outmanoeuvred.

“Where's this job?” I said.

“On Churchill Street. A lady named Tish Latimer. She sounds nice.” Dolores smiled as if it was all settled, then. I shoved my feet into my sneakers. There had to be
a way out of this. I took a long time tying the laces and thought it through. Mom could drop us off on Churchill Street as per the plan and I'd just ditch Dolores there. Mom didn't need to find out. I'd come up with an excuse later to explain why we weren't cleaning houses any more.

“I made two pieces for you … Sure you don't want any, Dolores? It's no trouble.” Mom was smiling wildly. It was the way she used to smile whenever Nick walked in the room. She had no right to be that pleased about anything—then or now.

“Okay. Let's go!” I said, all fake and eager. “Don't want to be late.”

Don't want to
be
, period.

“Wait. Gotta put this on first.” Dolores handed me a pink T-shirt, just like the one she was wearing.

“Isn't that adorable?” Mom actually clapped her hands in delight. “Did you make it yourself?”

Dolores went for a humble shrug.

Mom read: “Lapins de … Poussière?”

“That's ‘dust bunnies' in French. Adds a little touch of faux class, I thought.”

Mom clamped her teeth over her bottom lip and shook her head at the charming cleverness of it all. “‘We'll work our tails off for you!' Won't people get a kick out of that! … C'mon, Betsy. Put it on. Put it on!”

I just had to go to another place in my head. There was
no other option. I had to smile in as real a way as possible so that Mom didn't take me aside later for the attitude lecture again. I had to put on the T-shirt. I had to put on the ears. I had to —yes —Velcro on the big white fluffy tail that Dolores pulled out of her shopping bag. Then I just had to make it as far as Churchill Street.

It was like exam time or suicide sprints or eating something you hate when you're having dinner at someone else's place. You don't think you're going to be able to survive but you do and then it's over and you forget about it.

Dolores sat in the front seat of the car and chatted away happily about “our” cleaning service. Mom responded like the gung-ho Public Relations executive she was.

“Betsy! You didn't tell me it was your idea!”

“You built your own website for it, Dolores? I'm very impressed.”

“That many calls? Really? In just a week? No wonder. It's very hard to find a cleaning lady these days.”

“You're not giving yourself enough credit, Dolores. Very few young people show this kind of initiative. Keep it up and you'll go far!”

Not far enough, I thought. What had I done to deserve this? In my heart I knew I was somehow to blame. I watched as the houses whipped past and thought about Nick and Carly in the kitchen at Jitters. It almost seemed like the good old days. At least
that
sort of made sense.

The car pulled over and we got out. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Wickwire,” Dolores said. “Oh, my pleasure! And please—call me Kristi.” I waited until the car disappeared around the corner before I turned to Dolores. “I'm not doing this.” “What are you talking about?” “I'm not cleaning houses with you.”

Dolores threw her arms back and stuck her neck out. Classic angry goose pose. “What? You can't desert me like this. I've got appointments set up. People are expecting us.”

“Well, you should have called me before, then.” At that moment, I understood the simple joy teachers must feel refusing late assignments.

“I told you! I couldn't! It's just lucky I even remembered where you lived, otherwise …”

A door opened up the street. “Yoo-hoo! Hello? Are you the cleaners?”

A tall grey-haired woman dressed in skinny black jeans and a black T-shirt was waving from the front steps of a small red house. I could hear the tinkle of her bracelets from the sidewalk.

Dolores waved back. “Yup. That's us.”

Us
.

A second ago, I'd foolishly believed I had the upper hand. Dolores grabbed me by the arm and started walking toward the house.

“Sorry,” the lady said. “Forgot to mention our street numbers had fallen off. Hope you didn't have any trouble finding us … Love the outfits, by the way. Come on in.”

There was really nothing else I could do. I went in.

We took off our sneakers and left them in the pile of shoes already littering the hallway. The lady led us into the living room and laughed apologetically. The place was bright and cheery but crazy messy. Books, newspapers, dishes, clothes, miscellaneous junk was everywhere. No worse than my own bedroom, of course, but I was still a little taken aback. Mom always tidied up before
our
cleaning woman came.

“Look,” the lady said, “I know it's a disaster. Just do your best. Focus on the bathrooms—there's one at the end of the hall, one at the top of the stairs. I'd love it if you could do the floors and give the kitchen a bit of a wipe too, but there's only so much you can do in a couple of hours. Don't even bother with the bedrooms. The kids are still asleep anyway. I doubt they'll be up before you leave.”

She checked her watch. “Eek. My meeting's in twenty minutes. Gotta run.” She pointed. “Cleaning supplies under sink. Broom and mop in closet. Money on counter.”

She kicked the shoes aside and headed out the door.
“Bon courage
, girls!”

I stood in the hall until she left. Dolores went to the
cupboard and took out bottles of Windex, Javex, Tilex and Vim. “This should do it,” she said, as if we'd never even had our little conversation on the sidewalk.

“Oh, and I got you these too.” She dug in her plastic bag and pulled out a pair of pink rubber gloves with wispy fake fur around the wrists.

“I told you. I'm not doing this,” I said. “You set this up. It's your problem.”

Dolores let her jaw kind of dangle for a couple of seconds. “You expect
me
to clean
all
this? By myself? Seriously?”

“Yup. Seriously. See ya.”

I headed for the door—and freedom—but Dolores beetled around and blocked my way.

She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Please. You're right. I shouldn't have organized anything without talking to you first, but I did and that was stupid. I'm sorry. But you've got to understand—if I screw up with these people they won't call me back and I really need the money. Just help me today, then I'll figure something else out for the rest of my appointments. I promise. Seriously. I promise.”

I stared at her with my nostrils wide open and my lips shut tight. I was doing my best to look like I meant it but, inside, I could feel myself starting to cave. The ocean known as Dolores was sucking the sand out from under my feet.

I couldn't believe it. Was I actually feeling sorry for her? Or did I just not like the way saying no made me feel about myself? I always tried to be nice. No one, with the possible exception of Hank, had ever needed to plead with me for anything before.

Dolores stuck out her chin and made her eyes go really round. “It's only two hours and you'll get forty bucks …”

Until she said that, money had been the last thing on my mind—but then I turned and saw the pile of twenties sitting on the counter. It was like seeing a big fudge brownie and suddenly realizing how hungry you are. I wanted it.

I told myself this didn't have to be about helping Dolores or feeling sorry for her, or giving in to her, or losing. I could just be doing it for the money. That seemed okay.

I didn't say anything for a long time. I let Dolores suffer for a while, then went, “All right. But this is a onetime-only deal. Understand?”

She nodded and looked so pathetic that I felt obliged to make it clear I wasn't going to fall for her crap any more. “And I'm not wearing these stupid things either.” I took off the bunny ears and semi-threw them at her.

“You think they're stupid?” She studied the ears as if they had some defect she hadn't noticed before. “I thought they were a pretty strong branding element. I mean, can't you just see people thinking: ‘I need a cleaner.
What cleaner should I get? Those ones with the rabbit ears, what were they called? Oh, I know—Lapins de Poussière.'”

I said, “We don't need branding. I'm only doing it today. Remember? Now where should I start?”

“Tish wanted us to focus on the bathrooms.” Yes, of course. Dolores
would
call her Tish. “Why don't you do the upstairs and I'll do down?”

She handed me the gloves and a couple bottles of cleanser, then rummaged around in her bag for something else. She took out a bunny-shaped sponge and a pink toothbrush. “More useless branding.” She said it as if it was some little private joke we had. “But the toothbrush might be helpful getting the scum off the shower.”

Scum.

Toothbrush.

My own toothbrush covered in scum. I got the pre-barf jelly knees, but I did my best to ignore them. I just had to concentrate on the sixty bucks.
Forty bucks
.

Maybe someday I'd have the strength to get out of town and then I'd need it. I took my cleaning supplies and went upstairs.

I
pushed open the bathroom door. Toilet and tub to the left. Sink straight ahead. Shower stall to the right. All crawling with germs.

I closed my eyes and took a moment to compose myself. Visualize. That's what the sports psychologist told our basketball team to do if we wanted to win.

I pictured myself down on my knees, scrubbing sticky yellow pee syrup off the rim of some stranger's toilet and realized visualizing was a bad idea. I said “Betsy” in a stern quiet voice, took a deep breath and snapped on my gloves. This was not that big a deal. Forget the toilet. Start with something else.

I held on to the towel rack with one hand, stuck out my neck and looked into the sink. I couldn't see anything microbial lurking there but it was, at least, hair-free. I inhaled through my nose. I centred myself. I could do this.

I found some paper towel under the sink, spritzed the mirror with Windex, then began to rub away at the little splatters of soap, shaving cream, toothpaste and spittle.

I closed my eyes and kept rubbing. Why did my brain insist on torturing me like this?

Spittle
.

Spittle. Spittle. Spittle. Spit. Ill
.

Sick. Throw up. Puke. Barf
.

“Stop,” I said. “Think of something else.”

Toothpaste
.

Crest Midnight Mint
.

Nick's half-open mouth
.

Carly
.

I was losing my mind.

I wasn't going to let that happen. I blasted my reflection in the face with Windex, then wiped, squeaking and squeaking until the mirror was spotless. I squeezed Vim into the sink and scrubbed it with the sponge. I polished the handle. I used the toothbrush to clean the tiny wire mesh that covered the tap. I washed down the cupboard. Then I stood back, sweaty and panting.

The sink, the mirror, the whole vanity was gleaming. I felt weirdly proud—and a little ashamed at being proud too. Some accomplishment. Betsy Wickwire: first-draft
choice for the Halifax Junior A Janitors. Woo-hoo.

I glanced at the toilet but couldn't trust myself yet. Shower first.

I didn't have a clue how to clean a shower. Our cleaning lady always did that. (I didn't let myself stop to consider what that said about the direction my life was headed.)

The shower was tiled. I looked at the various bottles Dolores had given me. One was called Tilex. I read the label.
Spray on. Wipe off. Blah-blah-blah. Watch the eyes
. Whatever. I'd use that. I took all the shampoo and conditioner out of the stall so I'd have room to clean. Someone here obviously suffered from “problem dandruff.”

Dandruff
. I could feel it starting again.
Hair
.

Dandruff. Hair. Soap scum
.

The words kind of warbled in the back of my head like ghosts in an old horror movie. “Forty bucks.” I said it out loud this time. I visualized the money. It worked a lot better than visualizing the pee syrup.

I sprayed the walls and floor of the shower with Tilex, then climbed into the shower stall, got out the toothbrush and started scrubbing. After a while, I wiped the wall with the bunny sponge and took a look at what I'd done. Up to that point I'd thought the tiles were ivory, but I realized now they'd just been grubby. Clean them up and you could see they were actually white. They looked like before-and-after shots in a tooth-bleaching commercial.

I imagined a whole row of gleaming shower tiles and, just like that, something changed. Life, for that one moment at least, seemed simple. I knew that clean white tiles were better than dirty ivory ones and I had the power to make that happen. I started scrubbing with a vengeance.

And suddenly I was me again. Wanting something. Going for it. Knowing I could get it. I didn't care that the brush was splattering me with Tilex and water and miscellaneous other gross and possibly toxic stuff. I was a dog and this was my bone. I threw off my gloves so my hands wouldn't get so sweaty and started on another tile. The shower door creaked shut but I didn't bother propping it back open. I was totally focused. I was in charge.

I was just about to sponge down the fifth tile when the hairs on the back of my neck sprang up like hundreds of miniature dog ears.

I stopped scrubbing. My face flash-froze. I realized I wasn't alone. Someone was in the room with me.

Peeing.

My mind went as blank as the five spotless tiles I was staring at.

There was nothing I wanted more than to turn around and see Dolores sitting there with her underwear pooled around her ankles —but I knew I wouldn't. It's easy to tell from the sound whether someone is sitting or standing.

This wasn't a girly little tinkle. This was a manly gush. The toilet flushed.

I heard the tap turn on and then the slushy sound of lathering soap.

I was a foot away from the sink, a glass door away. How could he not see me?

Could he
please
not see me?

I heard the medicine cabinet click open, a pause, more water, then the brushing of teeth. The sunlight kind of winked each time the shadow moved its big grey arm.

I heard spitting, then the water turning off.

I hoped the next thing I'd hear would be the sound of footsteps disappearing down the hall, but it wasn't.

I heard the puff of something soft hitting the floor, the squeal of the shower door, then a very loud scream.