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I shake my head. "That's not—"
She arches an eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot. I know when someone's on the run. Ex-husband?"
I almost laugh at that. If only she knew the truth. "No, and I really don't want to talk about it."
She raises both hands in a gesture of peace. "I get it. But these shelters are nationwide. And they don’t share their records with anyone."
"I really appreciate it, but I couldn’t use that kind of resource when I don’t need it. At least not yet,” I say. It’s surprising how honest I’m being with this woman, but she really does seem trustworthy. Like a fireman or lifeguard or something. A person that I can tell is really just looking out for me without any reason. In fact, she probably has a reason all her own on why she can spot a person on the run so easily. It’s another in a long line of evidence that reminds me, everyone has their own demons. Some more serious than others, but the kinship in trauma can be universal. That, above all else, makes me trust her.
"All right, I'll stop pressing."
I let out a breath and close my eyes briefly. “Honestly, just trying to get a new start. I should probably get on the road.”
The staring is back. God, can this woman see right through me? “You know, if you’re strapped for cash, how about moonlighting as a ghost maid?”
It takes me a split second to realize what it is she’s offering. Again, how she knows that I’m low on money is beyond me, but it must show somehow.
“You need help with the rooms?”
She nods. “Oh, yeah. One of our regular girls vanished, possibly in room 237.” She laughs like it's some sort of joke, but it's lost on me. With a touch on my arm, she shakes her head. “Sorry, bad joke. Someone called out with a nasty hangover. Which happens like three times a week. Interested?”
She must see that I’m considering it and makes the decision for me. "The maid cart is in the hall." She hands me a key. As I reach for it, she grabs my hand to shake first. "My name's Jemma, and just so you know, we don't charge your card until the end of the week. If you have enough cash by then, we won't charge it at all." Coming over to the coffee pot, she refills a huge stainless steel mug. As she's pouring, she asks nonchalantly, "Anything else you need…" She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. God, this woman is too nice. Is this because she's never been taken advantage of or because she has?
I won't be the one to take advantage, but I know she will keep asking if I don't give her something to help with. Looking down at my outfit, I muster the courage to ask, "Erm, Jemma? Do you have a lost and found?"
Her entire body lights up and it's impossible not to enjoy the sight. This person, she actually enjoys helping. That's so foreign to me that I take a step back from her like she's spitting acid.
She smirks, "You don't ask for help often, do you?" I shrug one shoulder, but the question does put me at ease. "Relax, honey." She chuckles while shaking her head. "We do have a lost and found, and some of it's even clean." Both of us sipping our drinks, I follow Jemma to the back office where a giant box overflows with clothes. Inside, I score a blouse and jeans still with its tag. Huh, it’s my size too. Must be my lucky day. It’s not often that the fashion gods smile down on me. My beautiful best friend is taller and wider than me, even when she’s not pregnant. But that's not the sole reason I swim in her clothes. Sam is conservative, opting for flowy t-shirts and shorts where I prefer something that shows the junk in my trunk. In the bathroom, I change into the new outfit, ripping off the tags.
When I step back out, Jemma scans me up and down. "Is that your natural hair color?"
I nod, and Jemma, reaching for her bag, instructs, "I'll be back. Just start at the far corner of rooms and work your way back. Empty the trash, clean the toilets, change the sheets, and vacuum. It's not rocket science. If you do get confused, ask the other maid."
She's halfway out the door by the time she finishes speaking. Calling after her, I say, "Uh, thank you!" She cast a quick smile over her shoulder, but doesn't say anything else.
Grabbing the maid cart, I almost feel excited to get to work. I’m not a neat person by nature, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to clean. Wipe shit off the toilet, wipe shit off the counter, etc. It’s pretty simple and I easily find a routine once I get started. Empty the trashcans, bleach the bathroom, change the sheets, and vacuum. See? I can do manual labor. Just call me Miss Blue Collar.
A few hours later, Jemma finds me cleaning the third room with an indie punk music station blaring through the TV.
"Hey!" she enters, her arms full of bags.
"Hi, what's all that?" I ask.
She picks up the remote, turning down the volume. "Well," she singsongs, "like I said, I help run a women's shelter, and this is all from there." I’m about to protest when she scans me up and down. "You're a size six?" I nod, already eyeing the loot spread on the bed, touching the different fabrics, overwhelmed by her kindness.
"Jemma, this is too much."
"It's not. All this stuff just sits in donation boxes. But there's more."
She digs into her purse and pulls out a cheap smartphone. "Take it. It's pay-as-you-go, under the shelter's name, and paid up for the next six months."
Holding the phone, I realize how much I've missed having one. I've felt so alone over the last few days and this woman, this stranger is content to fix that.
"And one more thing." I look up. Jemma holds a box of dye and scissors.
Shaking my head, I protest, "No way. My hair is untouchable."
"Yes, and whoever you're running from knows that. Trust me, cutting and dyeing your hair can keep you hidden much longer." I roll my eyes. I've never dyed my hair, proud of its beautiful silky black color. As a self-proclaimed surfer chick among a sea of blondes, my long dark locks always made me stand out.
