Chapter 3 #6
I let out a tired, sad smile, close the door, and take the stairs two steps at a time, listening for the smallest sound in case they are awake.
The last thing I need is an encounter with one of my stepsisters laughing in my face over whatever new flaw they have found in me.
No, thank you. I would rather hide in my room for thirty more minutes before beginning my shift.
I mean, before helping Mara with her various tasks.
She usually wakes me up around seven, but I see no sign of her this morning.
Lucky me. I want to collapse back onto my bed so badly, but my clothes are damp, and I have this rule about never sitting on my clean covers in outside clothes.
So I take the time to remove them and hang them to dry over the back of the chair in the corner, then lie down in my cotton underwear–nothing like the silky pieces I wash by hand for my sisters- just for a minute, so that I can catch my breath after this unusual morning.
Closing my eyes, I hear my name on his lips.
Two syllables I had never heard in such a low, gravelly tone, rolling over my skin, rendering me vulnerable and yet somehow making me feel as if I were the only person existing in his world.
I replay it in my head a hundred times, fooling myself inside the fantasy.
I should already have started making their breakfast. Perhaps I really am as lazy as Mara likes to call me.
Lazy Birdy.
Somehow, I know Mom would disapprove of her calling me names.
I still remember her lectures about never judging others.
You never know what is happening in people’s lives, Ella, what battles they are fighting.
So I keep myself from doing so, searching instead for what might have happened to Mara that made her dislike me so much.
Maybe I should offer her more gratitude instead of resentment.
There is a roof over my head, so why should I care that much about love and acceptance?
My eyes turn glossy, and I shake the feeling away.
No. This is not a pity party. Today is a great day because I still have a job, a father I love, and the fond memory of the greatest mother of all time. I am okay. Everything will be okay.
The clock on my bedside table says I should start my chores soon, but perhaps I can steal a few minutes of reading first, since Mara has not appeared with her bell at my door.
I gather fresh, dry clothes, black leggings and a grey sweater, since I will be cleaning here all day on my own and might as well be comfortable.
I tie my hair into a ponytail and open the bag resting on my desk.
Yes, there is a hole in it, and the handle has indeed seen better days, but it still works.
My current reading is The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald, which I noted from the list of books second-year university literature students are expected to have read.
I still remember the lady at the front desk pitying me and agreeing to give me the reading list normally reserved for second-year students.
Twenty books. I have already found many of them at the library and the others in secondhand stores.
So far, I am seven books in, and I intend to finish them all as soon as I can.
Grabbing the tired spine and pulling it out, I hear a papery sound beneath it.
What is it? I peek inside, then drop the bag as if I have been burned.
There is a wad of hundred-dollar bills as thick as my hand sitting right there.
What? When? How did it get in there?
I’m positive it was not there yesterday. I would surely remember if I had ever carried that much money with me, money that could bring me so much closer to my goal.
Wait.
The vault. I had not looked at him while he opened it, judging it improper to stare at something so private.
I was not even surprised by its existence, since Mara has the same system behind the painting in her bedroom.
He is a businessman; of course, he has delicate items and sensitive paperwork that need to be stored in a secure place.
But why keep my bag in it? Especially after pointing out how crumbling it looked.
He must have added the money then. Why? Was it a test, a way to confirm me as an impostor, a thief, a person who looked at pictures of him instead of working, someone searching for a way to take money from him?
I gasp with nausea. He could not be further from the truth.
Was it pity? A rich man giving away what must be the equivalent of a handful of coins to a poor girl like me. Either way, it is unacceptable.
I will make my way out of my pit, spitting blood and clenching my teeth before I steal or accept money from a stranger.
My parents taught me better than that. Just because something is in my bag does not mean it belongs to me.
This was a mistake on his part, thinking I would accept it for whatever reason seemed acceptable to him.
Just because you have money does not mean everyone will take it.
There is a word called dignity, and at night, when tears pour down my face, and my wrists ache from scrubbing the living room’s floors, I hold on to it.
To the certainty that one way or another, I will make it out someday through my hard work, my patience, all those hours cleaning offices and holding my arms crossed over my bag on buses at night.
I do not want it. Pity is not a word I want associated with who I am.
I do not have much, but I will hold on to the crumbs of self I still have.
An unusual tremor passes through me, sizzling in my blood, and I zip the bag shut.
No one will ever dig into it anyway. Valeria and Emily call it trash, so it is safe to say they will not look inside.
“Ella!” A loud knock shakes my bones and resonates through the door.
“In the kitchen, now!” I hear before her footsteps disappear down the stairs.
I wonder what has put Mara in such a mood when it is not even nine.
I let out an exhale, the bandage on my hand still hiding the fresh scar I earned last night.
I will wear gloves; they won’t even notice.
Turning off the light and closing the door of my little room, I dread each step I take through this big house I should be calling home.
The farther down I go, the more color decorates the walls, with pictures of Mara and the girls, Dad and Mara at their wedding, the girls’ birthdays, graduations, Christmas mornings.
Beautiful clothes, always. Perfectly done hair, fake tan and makeup, lots of makeup.
They look like a family from a Christmas movie.
Bursting in laughter, close to one another.
I am nowhere to be found. Not even a shadow.
Just a maid who happens to carry the same family name as the people living in this house.
I grit my teeth and form an acceptable smile because it is polite to do so. Mom taught me that. And I want to be polite, kind, lovable. I want to be all those things because if I try hard enough, maybe one day, someone will love me.
“Please take your time,” Mara shouts as I enter the kitchen, her hands planted on her hips.
“It’s not like I’m in a hurry!” A cloth hits me right in the face.
“And clean the fridge. It’s disgusting.” She stomps out of the room while Valeria and Emily giggle at me with their perfectly curled blond hair and preppy clothes.
“Later, Cinderella,” Valeria grins with a white headband, flashy pink nails, and a feline sneer. Hitting my shoulder with hers as she passes, she mutters slut, but perhaps it was my imagination. My hand forms a fist against my body.
“I, uh, thanks for the dresses, by the way,” Emily says with a strange, apologetic smile, a muffin in her hand, her heatless curls perfect enough to film a commercial.
“And, um, have a great day, Ella.” I don’t respond, taken off guard.
I ironed twenty of her most recent dresses yesterday, which took me four hours given the intricacy of their designs.
I sweated so much I had to take two showers that day.
Why is she being so nice to me? I still remember when she had braces and pimples all over her face years ago.
Now it is all laser treatments and lactose-free food, prescribed by Mara after she watched a documentary on the subject.
Back then, we were almost like sisters, in the sense that she would not try to hurt me deliberately all the time.
We would even do our hair together, and although they would still leave me alone at the lunch table and laugh at me with their popular friends- at home, Emily would leave me alone and sometimes ask Valeria to do the same.
Everything shifted when Dad’s condition worsened, and Mara took more and more space in the decision-making of our household.
One evening, she had a talk with the girls.
One I only heard pieces of through the door as I tried to listen.
Change.
Drastic.
No signing.
From that day on, I remained excluded, ordered around, reduced to silence.
I drink a glass of water, clutching it so hard it might break.
Was there a time in my life I didn’t want to cry all the time?
What is wrong with me? Why does everything have to be so hard?
I begin my chores, grabbing the laundry basket, and this time, the tears really come.
All her dresses are inside, foaming with the familiar scent of their lavender soap.
Thrown in like I did not spend hours ironing them yesterday.
Rage descends on me like a river, and I stare at the ruined fabric, my breath shaking in my chest.
Lord, give me strength.