A man calls in the night saying his daughter haemorrhaged and asks if I can clean the blood from the floors. He says he’ll pay cash.
Baking soda concoction for the hardwood with a soak of hydrogen peroxide. Repair the finish. An enzyme cleaner for the bedroom carpet. They had the sense to soak up the worst of it with towels I’ve thrown out. Disinfectant, more hydrogen peroxide. A full day’s work.
I walk to a bar when I’m finished. The smell on me is all chemicals, and it’s chapped hands that reach for the rum and coke. There’s a woman at the end of the bar who looks in a bad way, and I recognise her as Sam, the mother of the young woman whose blood I was just pulling from the floors.
Sam had been at her daughter’s house that morning when Sam’s husband let me in. Sam didn’t say anything, only stood off in the corner looking like she’d rather it was her own blood making the mess. Her son-in-law had the newborn with him while his parents were minding the two toddlers. Sam’s husband told me these things when I got to the house, and I listened even though the smell was violent and the stains were setting because, well, that was his girl’s blood on the floor and he was the one paying.
I chase the rum and coke with another rum and coke and turn to Sam who is alone and nursing what I think is a whiskey and ginger ale. Her face is pale, and it looks like she’s picking the skin off her hands. She does this a lot. The first time I noticed her at a meeting she stood up to speak, but whatever she said was lost on me because I couldn’t get past that hand thing. After she spoke, her eyes were wet and her hands were red, and she took a seat near mine in the back of the church basement. We sat apart from the group huddled together near the front, the proper addicts who’ve been here a long time, sponsors and pairs waiting to get coffee when the meeting ends. I’m just there because the court says I have to be, but I’ve gotten some business out of it so that’s good. A woman whose dog killed her other dog. A man who had an accident in his woodshop outside of town. A miscarriage. This haemorrhage. No crimes, except maybe the dogs, but still gory messes that needed cleaning.
I used to work for a company that does this, but now I operate independently. I’m not perfect, but I’m cheaper. The addicts know this because I’ve mentioned my job in the meetings, and I always introduce myself as Danny. Sam must have found me online, passed along my number to her husband since he was the one who called.
Sam sees me at the bar. Danny, she says, and even though she knows my name it sounds like a question. I turn and lift my hand, a small wave. Sam gets off her stool and walks down to take the empty one next to mine.
So you’re finished, she asks.
I tell her I am.
The bartender comes by, and I order a beer.
Sam asks how the cleaning went. I phoned her husband when the job was done, but I guess she hasn’t spoken with him yet. So I tell her about the bit of carpet in the bedroom that wouldn’t let go of the stain. You can pull it or replace it or live with it, I say, but if it were me, I’d rip it up. There’s decent hardwood underneath.
When I worked for the cleaning company, we weren’t supposed to speak with clients. I was on a team, and we were meant to be in and out, and when one of us took a job on the side, it was all the less you know the better. Now I’m here with Sam who is telling me about her daughter’s placenta scab that peeled off and caused the bleed. The doctors stopped the bleeding with a balloon-something, and now they’re monitoring her for infection or, God forbid, re-bleeding. I recommend a guy for the carpet.
I’m done with my beer when Sam asks, Hey would you want to get out of here? I could use some fresh air. I glance at her drink, and it looks like she hasn’t taken a sip this whole time. There’s a thin lime wedge floating on top of the mostly melted ice, unsqueezed.
Sure, I say. Yeah, all right.
It’s January in Chicago, but the evening’s not as bad as it could be. The sky is bruised, and the wind’s rough because we’re near the lake, but Sam heads towards the water instead of away from it. We walk to the park that’s a couple of blocks away and across the busy intersection, and I keep putting one foot in front of the other alongside this woman who looks just raw, there’s no other word for it. Sam has spoken about her daughter, Isla, in meetings before, and because of this I know Sam used to have two daughters, or was it a daughter and a son, but the other child died, and now Sam only has Isla.
In the parking lot along the park green, a man is selling empanadas out of a large insulated cooler. Sam buys one. She doesn’t eat it, but she hands it to me because I guess where she looks raw I look hungry. I don’t want the empanada. I want another beer in the warm bar, and I still don’t know why I followed this woman out into the cold. What she needs is maybe a meeting, not me, but considering how we found each other I don’t offer the suggestion. Sam watches the people on the street getting back into their cars or on their bikes and I eat the empanada.
The park green opens onto a concrete walkway with steps leading to the frozen sand on the lakeshore. No one is here except us. I’m glad for the drinks because I’d be numb without them now that the sun’s gone. Sam doesn’t seem to mind the cold.
Thank you, she says, only loud enough to be heard over the wind and the water. I just didn’t want to be by myself right now. I tell her it’s no bother. We stand there for a while, what feels like a while, long enough for the alcohol blanket to start drying up, so all I’m left with is the cold. I tell her that I’m sure her daughter is going to pull through, because isn’t that what you say? I never know and usually end up saying the wrong thing. Sam sniffs and turns away from a gust of wind before speaking again.
My husband’s at the hospital with Isla, she says. I was with them this afternoon, but I offered to run to Isla’s and pack her an overnight bag and somehow ended up in that bar instead. I told myself one drink and then I’d leave, but when I got my drink, I froze. I kept waiting to unfreeze, to get up and go, to leave the drink or swallow it, but I couldn’t move. Then you showed up, and you are someone who knows all of my secrets, isn’t that funny? Honestly even more than my husband. Even if you don’t listen, I’ve said things in front of you I thought— well, anyway. And you’ve got this nice way about you, of making people feel left alone but not lonely. Has anyone ever told you that? I shake my head. Well, it’s nice, she says, turning back to the water.
I’m getting that feeling down my arms that I get at meetings, when someone stands up and starts speaking and I’d rather not listen thank you, their words hurt, not because of what they say but because it’s like they’re trying to put their lives inside of mine and it’s not right, it doesn’t fit.
This is probably all kinds of wrong, Sam says, and I’m sorry for putting you out like this, but thank you. And thank you for taking the job today. Sam’s crying now, and she rubs a gloved hand across her eyes and under her nose. I shove my fists deeper in my pockets. If I’d just gone home after the job, I would be in my chair by the fire with a beer or maybe a vodka sounds good and the television on and not here listening to this woman I don’t know spill her guts to me. Sam wipes her tears, and I wish I had a tissue. The fact that I don’t makes me feel worse, makes me feel like shit, makes me confused which makes me frustrated, and here we are again, back wanting the fire and the vodka and the TV, and I wish I had a tissue.
I’ll go, Sam says. I swear I’ll go back, but just another minute, is that okay? I’m burning from the cold, but I say yes and nod my head in case she can’t hear me over the wind. I don’t have a tissue, but this I can do. I can stand here. It’s not so bad. There’s not even fresh snow.
Sam stares out at the lake. The water is silvery black. She’s been looking at the water more than she’s been looking at me, as if this has been a conversation between the three of us. Ten minutes go by. I don’t think I can stand any more. Aren’t you cold, I ask. Sam blinks and turns to me. Oh God you must be freezing, she says. Sure, I’m fine, I say, but it’s getting late. Sam nods. Right, she says, sorry. Nothing to be sorry for, I tell her.
We leave the park, cross the intersection, and walk down the streets until we’re back at the bar. My van’s parked around the block. I’m not supposed to be driving, but I needed to haul the equipment. Sam stands in front of me on the sidewalk. I ask if she’d like a ride to the hospital. She smiles, but it’s a small one. No, that’s okay, she says, and she thanks me again. We say our goodbyes, and I tell her that I’ll see her at the next meeting.
When I get home, I lock the van in the garage. It’s dead cold now, and my boots crunch the frosty grass as I walk across the garden. It’s quiet. I push the back door open, and inside, the place is empty and dark. With the lights still off, I open the fridge. There are a couple of beers left. I take one, kick off my boots and turn on the gas fire. I’m too tired to shower, but I wash my face and hands under scalding water. Then I go to my chair by the fire and turn on the television. But I think about Sam, about her telling me those things and not really needing me but maybe just wanting me and that feels okay. I think of her as she stared out at the water, then again as she disappeared around the corner from the bar, and I hope she made it okay to the hospital.
After that night, I take to sitting up straighter during meetings. I don’t see Sam. I listen as people speak, and I keep wanting Sam to show up but she never does.
A couple months later it’s March, and I finish my mandated meetings. It feels like an occasion. There’s cake. The winter got worse before it got better, but it’s not so cold today. I take the train after the cake and then the bus and find myself back at the bar near the daughter’s house. I sit for about an hour with a rum and coke in a booth by the door. I walk around the neighborhood, past the daughter’s house, before ending up at the lake again. There are so many people out today. The first whiff of spring in Chicago is like stepping on an ant hill. I get a sandwich and find a bench on the concrete walkway and feed the geese scraps of bread even though you’re not supposed to. A woman walks by, and I lean forward on the bench, but it’s not her. I stay on the bench and wait until the sun starts to set and the air gets cooler, and I wait, but I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.
