by Lila Savage
She soothed herself internally. No hurry, she thought, even as a nauseating sense of urgency thrummed through her. I’ll just tell him like it’s funny it’s taken me this long, I can just say, I don’t know why I haven’t told you, or it’s a hazard of the trade, it’s become habitual not to mention such things at work, or I’ve been meaning to tell you, Alix is a woman. She shifted uneasily in her seat. It’s no big deal! she all but shouted at herself. But the butterflies filled her stomach, rushed up into her throat, blocked the words from spilling out. She changed tactics, albeit only with herself. He doesn’t need to know, she thought. What business is it of his? He doesn’t want to know, probably. Doesn’t want the accompanying mental images of what I might do in bed, with whom. Might prefer we don’t acknowledge the whole bedroom thing.
Bryn wasn’t attracted to Ella, she felt safe in assuming, though at times he showed a hint of swagger around her, not sexual posturing, just a bearing that read as Don’t doubt that I am still a man, not yet an old codger. Ella’s (generally affirming) response to Bryn’s masculinity necessarily factored into her relationship with him, and prompted concern about how his knowledge of her queerness would shrink the dimensions of the already relatively narrow field in which they knew how to relate to each other. Not just because of the predictable gender roles—Bryn smiling his easy grin, advising her on home repairs—but because he assumed that she and Alix were more like he and Jill had been than they could ever truly be.
She felt that this was at the heart of her hesitation. She believed he took some comfort in imagining Alix and her as earlier versions of himself and Jill, a young couple in love, short on funds, building a life. All of which was technically true, while shielding from view the untidy vitality of their differences. Even for the sorts of gay folks who wanted access to a traditional union, family, home, there was the difference of seeking access versus the privilege of perceiving it, unquestionably, as birthright. Besides, Ella wasn’t that sort of gay anyway. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to have children. She didn’t want to own a house. She actually thought it smacked of the ordinary, her having fallen in love and paired off, but these weren’t the sorts of things she could see herself telling Bryn. It wouldn’t just come across as vaguely disappointing, but also, perhaps, like a critique of his values, which, in a way, it was. She did admire him, though. He was almost painfully admirable, in his dedicated caregiving, in his contained, unfathomable love and suffering. Lisa, Nick’s wife, had called him “a good man, too good,” and Ella, though brought up in the “We Are All Sinners” school of thought, felt inclined to agree. Why didn’t this thought move her more? Why didn’t she sigh over him like a housewife watching a Lifetime weepie? Then again, Ella had always been more moved by imperfect love.
Still. Ella didn’t worry that Alix would leave her for a man, one who would fuck her full of the babies she longed for, or that Alix would leave her for an impossibly chic sort of woman, irresistibly seductive. She seldom worried about Alix leaving her, period, though on the rare occasions when she did, this was the flavor of her worry: Alix would leave her for someone who was good. A better sort of person, one less greedy for attention, one who welcomed the blinders of faithfulness, rather than barely tolerating them, as Ella did. Someone lacking in the abhorrent, compulsive narcissism that drew Ella to mirrors and cameras and the admiring glances of strangers like a punishing enchantment. Ella was ashamed of how her own beauty comforted and seduced her; she visited it like a secret lover, she stroked it softly like a young boy watching television, one hand tucked into his pajama bottoms, fondling his small, flaccid treasure. She despised her excess weight with a bitterness that sometimes tipped into violence. As a teenager, she had tried to starve it off, tried to burn it off, running under the scorching heat of the noonday sun, as though only tremendous discomfort would prove to her body the seriousness of her intentions. Sometimes, she slapped it, left angry handprints on the shivering white curves of her belly, clawed red stripes into the dimpled flesh of her inner thighs.
Nothing worked, of course. She was always at least a little bit plump, and, in time, she came to feel almost grateful for it, aware of how narrowly she had missed a life where her vanity might have surged to meet the boundaries of her selfhood. Ella was a sensualist who fought vicious, doomed battles with her natural appetites, who yearned to become an ascetic; as Eleanor Roosevelt had reportedly longed to be beautiful, Ella longed to be good, and if a part of her wanted to distance itself from the bourgeois predictability of Bryn and Jill’s pre-accident life, another part of her was loath to dash Bryn’s illusions of wholesome, middling solidarity. Perhaps, for a bit longer, she could impersonate a daughter he might wish to have had, one perpetually modest, loyal, wise.
· 9 ·
“Jill’s cousin Tina is visiting from Iowa,” Bryn informed Ella as he let her into the house. “She’s at the store now, buying some vitamins she thinks Jill should be taking.” This was a cue that, for the moment, they could speak frankly.
“How’s all that going?” Ella asked, with a cautious hint of skepticism, for she heard the undertone of critique in Bryn’s voice, recognized it from some of their conversations about Nick. It didn’t occur to her that he might talk about her with Nick in this way, too (“Ella cut your mom’s toenails today, but of course I had to ask”), for she assumed that the murmuring of sympathy was her role and hers alone. With this invitation to grouse, he said, “Oh, well enough. She’s coming up with a new errand to run every ten minutes or so. It just kills her to sit with Jill for very long.”
Ella could see both sides of this, she’d seen it before, when other clients had relatives visit. It was jarring, the decline, and they felt guilty about how rarely they came, and also eager for it to be over. Presumably they were there to see the impaired loved one, but it was so difficult to know how to act, how to pass time with someone only partially aware, partially coherent. This would be harder than was typical with Jill, for there would be no semblance of conversation, most likely not even a sign that she recognized her cousin. Tina would feel compelled to demonstrate the usefulness of her visit; she wouldn’t understand that sitting with Jill would provide Bryn with tremendously welcome relief, and would also better fulfill the presumed purpose of coming to see her cousin. It likely didn’t occur to her that these errands could be read as a criticism of Bryn’s competence. Still, Bryn probably understood each of these variables, although it would be hard for him to bring Ella’s level of objectivity to the situation.
When Tina strode in, complaining about the pharmacy, Ella could see why he was disinclined to muster much empathy. Tina wasn’t insufferable, but she was annoying. She acted as though Jill were a baby and she an experienced mother, come to bestow her wisdom upon an incompetent father and babysitter, when, actually, she knew little of the situation, of the years that Bryn had handled these reins with deft assurance weighted with grief, of the months of meticulous observation Ella had clocked. She made bold observations of the obvious as though this proved something about her sensitivity. “She mutters,” she observed, as though this were really a keen insight, and “She’s lost weight.” “Yes,” Ella agreed. “She has,” Bryn confirmed. They didn’t need to exchange a glance, their shared rustle of irritation that bordered on amusement was fully synchronized, as if they sat side by side on the same beach, felt the same cold wave lap their bare feet.
It was a small, discreet pleasure, this silently united front, even though Ella was prepared to defend Tina later, to try to soften Bryn’s annoyance. That changed when Tina, getting ready to leave again, began to give Ella orders.
“All of the rooms could use vacuuming,” Tina said. “Also Jill’s teeth need brushing and her fingernails need trimming and the bed could use fresh sheets. And there’s quite a bit of laundry to wash, and the dishwasher needs to be unloaded. The kitchen sink needs scouring, and so does the stovetop. There should be plenty to keep you
occupied.”
Ella nodded but could scarcely believe how high-handed this was; she had never been in a situation quite like it. Bryn registered no surprise, but after Tina left, he said, gently, as if by way of apology, “You answer to me.” Still, with furious reluctance, Ella completed each task on the list. She wouldn’t give Tina any cause to complain about Bryn’s choice of caregiver or how he managed the help. Part of Ella’s fury was rooted in laziness, in her distaste for additional, unanticipated duties, although the more significant part of it sprung from a buried suspicion that she ought to be doing more, that Bryn would never ask her to do as much as she should, as much as he truly needed. Sometimes she would halfheartedly offer to wash the dishes, and he would tell her not to, but she knew the greater kindness would be to simply do them without giving him a chance to object.
Once she and Jill were alone, Ella tried to decide whether to tackle Jill’s grooming first or last. Jill was calm now and certainly wouldn’t remain so through the clipping of her nails or the attempt, likely futile, to brush her teeth. That could make focusing Ella’s attention on other tasks much more difficult afterward. On the other hand, it would be satisfying to have the jobs completed and Jill calm when Bryn and Tina returned, a much more likely possibility if Jill had hours to recover. Or maybe it would be better not to give the illusion that all of this had been accomplished too easily.
Ella started to get the vacuum and then thought the noise might upset Jill; better to group it with the other upsetting tasks. Jill was washing her baby doll in the bathroom sink now, so she might remain occupied for a while longer. Ella headed into the kitchen warily. She almost never left Jill alone longer than it took to use the bathroom and wasn’t sure what to expect, although surely Bryn did this all the time.
The afternoon sun poured in through the window over the dirty porcelain sink. On the windowsill a few avocado pits hung suspended by toothpicks over glass jam jars filled with water, their submerged roots branching like pale veins. A small cut-crystal orb dangling from fishing line hooked on the window clasp refracted sunlight spotted across the room, across Ella’s chest and belly, probably across her face, although she couldn’t see her reflection. She imagined she could feel points of warmth on her cheeks and forehead and lips, adorning her hair with haphazard brightness. She looked under the sink and found, with some digging, an old can of Bon Ami and a worn scrub brush. The mesh drain catcher was full of unrecognizable bits of food, which Ella emptied into the compost bucket, though its surface remained opaquely coated once she was done. She set the drain catcher on the counter and began to sprinkle the Bon Ami all over the sink. She knew that by the time she was done scrubbing, the belly of her shirt would be soaked, and she wondered if the cleaning powder would bleach it. Still, it wasn’t like it was a cherished garment. Belatedly she realized it would have been better to soak the components of the stove’s gas burners before cleaning the sink. Oh well, she would soak them in the dishpan—but then she would need to clean the dishpan without dirtying the newly scrubbed porcelain. Meanwhile, she strained to hear the bathroom sink, Jill’s jabbering and splashing. She thought she could make out the sound of the faucet, but that alone didn’t confirm Jill’s engagement with it. Ella wiped her angry-skinned hands on a dirty dish towel and went to investigate.
* * *
—
Eventually all of the tasks had been more or less completed except for vacuuming the rooms in Jill’s immediate vicinity and dealing with her teeth and nails. Jill was kneeling in the middle of the den, placing objects and towels in a laundry basket and removing them, an imitation of someone sorting. She didn’t seem to have been bothered by the muffled roar of the vacuum in the more distant rooms, but then Ella hadn’t been present to see if it had registered in Jill’s face or demeanor while it was actively occurring. Now Ella stood and considered her next step. Her impulse was to finish the vacuuming, logically complete one job before beginning the next, but brushing Jill’s teeth and trimming her nails required a degree of cooperation that vacuuming didn’t. Cooperation was unlikely anyway, although possibly slightly more likely if Jill wasn’t already rattled when they began—the element of surprise had proven useful in the past.
Ella was sweaty but not yet tired; she still had vestiges of adrenaline from the cleaning, which she would lose if she sat down for even a short break. In compromise she instead remained standing, turned to look out the window, felt the ceiling fan stir the damp curls on her neck beneath the messy knot of hair tied on the top of her head. The windows looked out over the backyard and its trees and their long late-afternoon shadows. Ella considered that she would rather be mowing that yard with the old push mower so she could turn totally inward, listen to poetry read aloud on her headphones, feel the sun on her skin and smell the cut grass. Of course that would be impossible when home alone with Jill.
Ella heard the front door open just as she approached Jill with the damp and foamy toothbrush Bryn had indicated was once hers; he didn’t bother to pretend tooth brushing occurred with any regularity, even with Tina listening. Ella paused to determine whether it was Bryn or Tina, for only Bryn would understand that the inevitable screaming and struggle wouldn’t be Ella’s fault. She decided it was Tina because Bryn would have hollered hello even if he had groceries to put away. Ella hesitated further. She didn’t want to sound or appear unoccupied with her work incomplete, but she had already resolved that she wouldn’t fight Jill with Tina present. She put the toothbrush back and went to plug in the vacuum.
The trouble was, Ella was unaccustomed to having a job that didn’t fill her with even a small dose of dread, that involved almost no objectionable tasks, and now that she’d found one, it was hard to give it up. Ella hated cleaning, she had wanted to transition into a purely companion role for many years, but most people, like Sharon, wanted a companion who was also a drudge. It was unusual in the Midwest for middle-class folks of Bryn’s generation to hire a housekeeper. It was unclear to Ella if this was entirely a financial consideration or the principle of cleaning one’s own messes in a culture that deeply valued humility. Either way, Ella was the only one professionally cleaning in any of the homes where she worked, and in the early years of her caregiving career she was almost impossibly conscientious. She never so much as left a water glass in the sink, and if her client took a nap, she sought some way to busy herself, looking longingly at the newspaper folded open to the crossword puzzle, succumbing only once everything was impeccably tidy. Now that her only clear tasks involved preventing Jill from leaving, destroying anything valuable, or hurting herself, as well as occasional help with dressing and grooming, Ella focused her attention on Bryn, when he was home, and passing the time when he wasn’t.
One day, Nick’s wife, Lisa, had come to drop off some paperwork for Bryn and found Ella alone with Jill, staring listlessly into space, watching the clock tick through the minutes. She had gone out to her car and come back with an old issue of Vanity Fair, as though Ella’s boredom were an unsafe working condition and OSHA required them to provide reading materials. Ella had been grateful for the gesture and, more especially, the precedent. She began to bring things to do: a bit of mending, a novel, a book of poems, a sketch pad, her journal. Getting ready for work became like packing for a long and uneventful journey, but Ella felt a need not to flaunt her amusements, not just because it suggested she could handle more responsibilities but, worse, because it suggested that the work was so absurdly easy anyone could do it. Was that true? Could anyone do it? It was certainly the best job Ella had ever had, initially because she was paid to talk to Bryn, who had become her friend, someone she would happily talk to anyway, and now with the incredible bonus that she could read and, also, write.
She drew Jill, and wrote poems about her. She drew the birch trees in the front yard, and the fir trees in the back, and the elegantly simple coffee table Bryn had designed and built, and she wished that she could draw Bryn’s dear, cr
aggy features. She wished she could draw his sadness, only that was far beyond her skill, it would look maudlin, cartoonish, whereas in real life, it was like a shadow that passed over his smile. Whenever she heard the front door, she tucked her things away, as though tidying up for company or preparing to leave, but really, she was embarrassed that this was how she earned her wages.
One day Nick came and stayed. “Our washer’s broken,” he explained, toting in a giant bag of laundry. He watched TV in between loads, passing Ella and Jill during each rotation. Ella wasn’t sure how to behave with him around, what did he think her role was? It seemed like needless self-punishment to sit unoccupied, and yet, would he frown upon her reading? Ella pulled out a section of the newspaper, determined not to make this into too big of a deal, but when his footsteps approached, she pretended to herself that she had lost interest, tucking the newspaper, defiantly still visible, between her bag and the sofa. It was the same the next time she heard his footsteps, and he paused before her and said, “You don’t have to hide it. I know you’ve got a newspaper. I don’t care if you read.” This made Ella angry, almost more angry than if he had forbidden her to read, for if he didn’t object, why did he need to humiliate her? To display his power to decide whether it was okay? It seemed cruel without any practical agenda. If Ella weren’t so embarrassed, she might have recognized this as the frankness she had admired in him when they’d first met, or even as a kindness, that she might read without interruption, but her cheeks still burned when she remembered it a month, two months later.