The Housekeeper

by Natalie Barelli

  “Well, no. It’s a figure of speech. But that day, when she moved all those things around again, I went to get my favorite mug—”

  “Ah, the famous mug from Canada.”

  “Exactly. It had a picture of a maple leaf, very tacky, and the words I heart Canada, and your ass too plastered all over it. It was a silly thing, but it was a going-away present from my friend Lucy. And I was standing there, looking for it, and I said to her, do you know where it is? And she said no. No idea. I looked for it everywhere. In every cupboard, everywhere. I was getting more and more frantic, and she was watching me like I was unstable. Which I probably was. I found it, in the end. You know where?”

  “Where?”

  “In the trash. Broken in pieces.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She said she didn’t know. I didn’t believe her, I said, we’re done here. I think you should go. I don’t think we’re a good fit, you and me. I even said, ‘Maybe you should talk to Serena and see if she has a position for you. I think you’ll be a lot happier.’”

  “I thought Serena lived in London now,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

  She colors a little, unexpectedly. “She does, I was just making a point. I was just sick of hearing about fucking Serena. Even Harvey—” She stops abruptly.

  “Even Harvey what?” I ask. Even Harvey still adores Serena? Just like his mother? And his housekeeper?

  She shrugs. “When I moved in, there were still lots of her things around the place that she hadn’t bothered to pack.”

  “Like what?”

  “Photos of the two of them dotted around the place. Some clothes of hers in the laundry. Some of her jewelry, even. I asked Harvey about it. Is she ever going to get her things shipped? Or am I supposed to live with them? I was a little offended, you know? In the end he had to do it himself and he wasn’t very happy about it. But at least I don’t have to see beautiful Serena’s face anymore.”

  I think back to what she said about the divorce being amicable, and now I wonder. Leaving these traces behind for the new wife seems kind of insensitive. Could Serena have done that on purpose?

  “Anyway,” she sighs. “I guess I’m just trying to justify why I got so angry with Diane. I told her to go, that we’d give her a month’s pay in lieu of notice. And that was that! Next thing I know, I heard the door slam, and she was gone.”

  “What did Mr. Carter say?”

  “At first I thought he’d be angry that I’d let Diane go, but he was good about it.” Her face relaxes. “He was about to pour me a glass of red wine when I told him. He froze, the bottle in the air. He couldn’t believe it. I told him she was creeping me out. That there was something not right about that woman. I mean, who does that? Throws your employer’s things away? Constantly comparing me to your first wife? He winced at that, which I didn’t mind one bit. I swear, she made me feel like what’s-her-name in Rebecca. With Diane in the role of Mrs. Danvers, waiting for the right moment to push me out the window.”

  “Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again…” I muse before I can stop myself.

  “That’s the one,” she says. As if there’s nothing strange about a twenty-four-year-old housekeeper knowing her classics.

  “Then he said, ‘I have a secret to tell you,’ and I was like, what now? I’m not the second Mrs. Carter, I’m the third? The first one is buried in the cellar? Or holed up in the attic? You know what he said?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I broke the mug from Canada.’”

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  “And then,” she resumes, “he said he never liked Diane, and that she used to creep him out, too, so he was glad she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. I thought she was some kind of family heirloom. That she came welded to this house, no matter who moved in. So there you go.”

  She takes a swig of wine, then she leans in, and I do the same, so that we’re very close to each other. Her eyes are glassy, and it dawns on me how drunk she is.

  “Then Harvey went upstairs to his office, and I was gazing out the window without looking at anything in particular. It was raining, really hard. And there was a shape across the street, completely still and exposed without an umbrella, and it was Diane. She saw me looking at her, and she looked right into my eyes, and it was like she hated me. Pure hatred.”

  She sits back and finishes her drink. “It made me drop my wine. There was glass everywhere on the floor. And you know what? Harvey didn’t believe me, that she was outside, standing across the street. He said I was dreaming, that I was confused because I’d drank too much.”

  “Well, good riddance.”

  “Cheers to that,” she says, and we clink.

  “But I still don’t think she had anything to do with the Instagram post. Sorry. Call it a gut feeling. Just watch your back with Eryn. Like I said before. Arm’s length. Cool the friendship for a while and see what happens.”

  If she thinks this is rather forward advice for a housekeeper, she doesn’t say. She just gazes out the window and sighs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That night, Harvey takes her out for dinner. A kind of peace offering, I suspect. While they’re out, I take another look at her journal. I go over some of the older entries. There’s one immediately after Diane has gone, before I started working here.

  * * *

  It doesn’t help that I’m on my own, and to say I’m not coping would be merely pointing out the bleeding obvious. My husband comes home late, he’s tired, he expects a meal and I can hardly blame him.

  I found a recipe online for clam chowder, which I know Harvey loves. I managed to shop for all the ingredients, familiarizing myself with the local food stores, enjoying everyone cooing over my baby in the stroller. I had the potatoes boiling on the stove when Mia started wailing. I rushed upstairs and by the time she was changed and soothed, the kitchen had been engulfed in smoke. I was so frazzled I couldn’t even figure out where to order takeout from, or even what Harvey might like. I racked my brain, trying to remember those early weeks in our relationship. There was no cook or housekeeper, although we did go out a lot. What did we eat? What was his favorite food? I remember laughing over a seafood paella at the Spanish restaurant around the corner we frequented so often. The Mexican bar where we’d get chicken wings and knock back margaritas. The Italian restaurant where he showed me how to eat pasta with a spoon and fork, which I never mastered, not without streaking tomato sauce over the walls in a pattern that would have made a forensic investigator rub her hands together with glee.

  In the end I ordered pizza online.

  Then the last two nights Harvey has come home with Chinese in white cartons, just like the movies, but without the cheerful banter. “Diane called again,” I said. He mumbled something about having the number changed, but he won’t do it because he doesn’t think it’s Diane. I don’t know if he even believes me anymore. We’re more like the couple who has been married going on fifty-seven years and has well and truly run out of things to say. I tried to imagine this scene if Serena were here instead of me. I bet they’d be eating out of elegant hand-made gold-leafed pottery or something. Which is when I remembered the gorgeous Asian dining set in the pantry on the top shelf, and I had to resist the urge to face-palm. I saw it the other day, still in its box—white with blue swirls of feathers, and delightful little squares of porcelain for the chopsticks so they don’t stain the linen. The whole set is exquisite, and I kicked myself for not remembering it before. I bet Serena would have remembered. I bet she would have laid it out beautifully on a white linen damask tablecloth. They would have eaten in the dining room, of course, with a multitude of dipping sauces in pretty lacquered dishes and fragrant jasmine tea in small round cups.

  I peered at him over my chop suey and tried to read his face. How long before he realizes this is hopeless? Before he turns around and tells me that he was on the rebound when he met me and selected the person who looks and acts least like Serena?
Someone plump instead of slim, dark-haired instead of golden blond, dim-witted instead of intelligent and educated? All so that he wouldn’t be reminded of her every minute of the day, except that it’s not working at all, and he’s terribly sorry but we’re going to have to call it quits.

  It doesn’t help that I barely sleep, especially after the other night. I’m so tired that I’m afraid of going to sleep in case Mia needs me and I don’t wake up. The house is a mess because I just don’t have the energy to do anything about it. When I woke up this morning, I told myself that no matter what, I would burst this bubble of resentment wide open. I got so mad at myself I started to shake. And then, we were having breakfast, sitting at the same table, both of us poking at our fried eggs with the tips of our fork. Then without warning my inner voice said, Is it because of Serena? which would be all right, normally, since I have wondered that. Except that this time, my inner voice said it out loud. Harvey looked up with a look that I’m becoming depressingly familiar with. A look somewhere between puzzlement and irritation.

  “Why are you so obsessed with Serena?”

  Because she is everything I am not. Because you loved her more than you love me.

  I don’t say that out loud. But I’m glad she’s gone. I’m glad I did what I did.

  “I want you to be happy,” I said softly. “I’m frightened, I guess. That I’m going—”

  “Honey, you need to go and see Dr. Malone again, please. Do it for me, okay?”

  I didn’t get to finish the sentence. I was going to say ‘crazy.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hannah is up early for once. I’m pretend-cleaning her bathroom so I can grab a Xanax when I hear her out there calling me.

  “Ah. There you are.” She puts one hand against the doorjamb. “I’m feeling better today. And I was talking to Harvey this morning—he thinks we should start Mia on solid foods.”

  I’m on my knees, elbow deep in the bathtub. I sit back on my heels and push a strand of hair out of my eyes.

  “What?”

  “I know, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He says I’m babying her too much.”

  “Are you serious? Harvey said that? She’s four months old, Hannah. She is a baby.”

  She flinches. “I know. But what can I say? Come on. It will be fun! We can experiment with flavors, textures … do you think we should make pureed vegetables from scratch? Although the prepared ones might be better, the ones in little glass jars—do they still exist? They have added vitamins, that’s good, right? We could always try both, see what Mia thinks. We could do a tasting, put little portions in little spoons, we could line them up on the table, and give it to her one by one, then come up with a rating system. Like minus one point for a nose twitch, plus five for a smile, plus ten for a giggle, minus one hundred if she cries, although it has to be real tears.”

  “You okay, Hannah?” I ask when she finally stops talking.

  “Sure, I feel great, why?”

  “You’re talking really fast.”

  “Am I?” She cocks her head at me. “I just want to start Mia on solids today, okay? Harvey said so.” I wonder if she’s on drugs. She’s smiling, but it’s a frozen smile. A pretend smile.

  “Come on, let’s go to the grocery store. I’ll meet you downstairs.” And just like that she’s out of the room.

  I get up and immediately reach for the Xanax, but it’s not there.

  * * *

  I thought we’d settled on mass-market baby food, but when I tell Hannah I’ll quickly pop by Morton Williams and pick something up, she says, “Come on! This is the very first time she’ll eat something other than formula. Surely her first experience should be wholesome, rather than processed?” So now we’re going to the organic grocery store on Third Avenue. I told her once that’s where I like to shop, because it’s organic. I never shop there. It goes without saying.

  The store is packed, mostly with young women in Lululemon and young men with full beards and no socks. We’re standing in front of a box of yellow zucchini, next to two women who look like they’ve just returned from playing tennis. They both wear matching short white pleated skirts with a thin blue band on the side, and white polo shirts.

  “I’m so pleased this is where you shop. We’re really supporting the local economy,” Hannah says, as if we were United Nations delegates in an emerging country on a visit to a local market. I have to look at her to see if she’s joking or not, and I still can’t tell. “I guess they know you here, huh? You’re so lucky to have a connection to this neighborhood.”

  I smile with tight lips and leave her to check the ripeness of the avocados. I slide past the checkout line of people staring at their phones and right up to the woman at the register. “Hi, I shop here all the time,” I whisper. “What’s your name again?”

  “Oh hi,” she says, then narrows her eyes at me, like she’s trying to place me. I half expect her to say, “Mmm, no, you don’t,” but maybe because she’s very busy, she whispers back, “I’m Mel. Sorry, I forgot your name!”

  “Louise. Like I said, I shop here all the time.” Then I add, “But I’ve been busy, so I haven’t been here in ages.” Thereby contradicting myself. “You know how it is.”

  She gives me a quick confused nod, clearly wanting me to get to the point. I just smile at her warmly. “You’re busy, I’ll leave you to it.” Then I join Hannah by the potatoes. On the way I pop some carrots and kale into a basket, to show I’ve been doing something.

  “Ready?”

  When we come to pay, I greet Mel brightly. “Hi, Mel! Nice earrings!”

  “Thanks, Louise!” she chirps, and Hannah gives me a bright toothy smile that makes her eyes squint, like she’s proud of me.

  We’re outside now, and because I’m on a winning streak, I tell her what a nice place this is to shop, and that Mel is lovely and always tells me what the freshest vegetables are.

  Hannah frowns. “Aren’t they all fresh?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean some are fresher than others, at any given time—” And then I stop speaking, midsentence, because I just heard my name. My real name.

  “Claire?”

  It’s behind us—not too close, maybe thirty feet away. It’s April. I smile at Hannah tightly and hurry my pace. But Hannah is pushing the stroller, and it’s a nice sunny early autumn day, and we’re having such a nice time, and she’s in no hurry, so I have to slow down again to stay level with her.

  “Claire!”

  Go away, April. But she won’t go away, will she? Because this is April, and she’s not the type to give up. I’m sweating. I am rambling about nothing, about the trees, about the squeak from the wheel on the stroller and how I’ll put some oil on it when we get back. Then I hear her again, “Claire!” More insistent this time, and it’s all I can do not to turn around and yell at her. Go. Away.

  Of course Hannah has turned around and now she’s frowning at me and I don’t know if it’s because I’m being weird or because she can tell it’s me April is after—although she doesn’t know it’s April, obviously—and I can see she’s puzzled that I pretend there’s nothing to see here. We’re about to cross East Sixty-Third when the red hand signal comes up, but there’s no way I can stop now. I take hold of Hannah’s elbow and keep walking, and the traffic light turns green when we’re only halfway through and a taxi honks angrily. It’s not a good look, considering we’re pushing a stroller with a four-month-old baby in it. By the time we step on the sidewalk, cars are zipping past behind us and a woman makes a tsk sound at us.

  “Jeez, Louise, what’s the rush?” Hannah says.

  I try to smile. “Sorry, force of habit. I’m always in a rush.” But we’re at the house now, and Hannah fiddles with something on the back of the stroller, so I quickly unclip the straps and pick up Mia.

  “I’ll take her,” she says, extending her arms. I can’t believe it’s taking so long to get inside. But I fold the stroller in one quick gesture and risk a sideways glance. I can�
��t see April, and when I close the door after me, I lean against it in relief.

  In the end, we don’t puree kale and carrots and put them in teaspoons and rank Mia’s favorite according to some weird rating system. Hannah decides she’s tired after all and goes to lie down. I put the food in the fridge and then change my mind and boil some carrots.

  When Harvey comes home that night, I mention to him that I’ve prepared some pureed vegetables for Mia and that I’ll give it a go tomorrow. That’s nice, he says distractedly.

  “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Mr. Carter? That I should put Mia on solid foods?” and the way he looks at me, I may as well have been speaking Swahili. He has no idea what I’m talking about.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’m like a drug addict. All I can think about is getting back to that notebook. I wait until they’re having dinner downstairs and slip into her closet for my fix. As soon as I open the notebook I see there’s a new entry, and this one is dated. It’s from yesterday. It begins with the usual, I’m tired, I can’t bear it anymore, I don’t know what’s wrong with me… blah-blah-blah, but then she writes:

  * * *

  Every day I scour Instagram for something else. I log in with my fingernails in my mouth, my pulse racing, but there’s been nothing. I told Eryn that Louise suspects her to be behind the post, and she got really angry. She swore on her mother’s grave that she had nothing to do with it. Same with the phone calls. She wanted to come over and give Louise a piece of her mind, accusing her like that, and I had to beg her to leave it alone. I don’t want this drama in my house. I said I’d talk to Louise about it myself. But the truth is, I don’t know how I feel about Louise, and not just because the house is getting more and more untidy. The other day Harvey pointed out the baseboards in the main sitting room. “When’s the last time Louise vacuumed up here? And have you seen the carpet on the stairwell? She needs to up her game or we’ll have to get someone else, I mean that. This place is starting to look filthy.”