Megan's Bath-- Chapter 5

(Start on October 13, 2009.)

Maria hunched over the toilet bowl, scouring furiously to make the old, stained porcelain look as good as it could. The Lysol fumes still made her eyes water, even after all these years, but they did the job and the owners would be able to tell that she had cleaned the bathroom. She finished up, flushed away the foam, and poured a tablespoon full of Lysol back into the bowl (an old housekeeping trick to ensure the 'clean' smell hung around). She struggled to her feet, her elderly knees popping as she did so, and stepped over to the shower.

As she bleached away the mildew, she pondered what she would do.

She had written the reply to Helen a hundred times in her head; she knew exactly what to say, and how to say it, and in what order so that her account made some kind of sense, particularly to a person like Helen, who no doubt would be a hostile reader.

But the letter, when it arrived, completely threw her for a loop. It had been from the girl herself.

My mother threw your note away

Maria's heart wavered when she read that. She hadn't spoken to Helen for years, and she knew that her daughter despised her, but it still stung to be reminded of it.

And what do you know?

That was the worst part; she knew what was wrong with Megan (or, at least, had a strong suspicion), but Helen's bitterness was so intense that she refused to hear it.

My mother threw your note away

How would she write her back? If Helen had thrown away the letter, surely she hadn't permitted Megan to have it, much less to respond to it. She wanted to help the child, but not at the risk of getting her into trouble. What about email? What was that called-- Facebook? She had heard of these things on TV, but had no idea how to use them. Perhaps the girl had email or Facebook; perhaps the young woman at the library would help her contact Megan?

There was something discomfiting about it, sneaking around to make contact with a child such that the child's parents wouldn't know.

She shook her head. Not my place.

She ran the shower and splashed the water over the mildew remover to rinse the tiles clean, then dropped her sponge into her supply bucket and dried her hands on her apron. Her hands felt rubbery from all the cleaners, and she was glad her shift was almost over. She wiped the mirror free of flecks of soap and toothpaste, refilled the toilet paper, and replaced the towels, then carried her bucket out of the last condominium unit for the day.

On her bus ride home she wrestled further with what she should do, resting her head against the smudged glass and watching the seafood restaurants and souvenir shops drift by.

And what do you know?

She realized that there was only one solution. It wasn't perfect, but the child was owed a reply, and Maria would provide it. It would be up to her parents to decide what to do with the information. Besides, she had written the letter in her head a hundred times, so putting it down on paper would be easy.

She pulled out several sheets of paper-- she hoped she would have enough-- and curled up on the sofa with a hardbacked book and Wheel of Fortune on in the background. She uncapped her pen and began to write:

Dear Helen--