Faded by Maggie Nerz Iribarne
Clio listened to the filthy rich old woman breathe, awaiting her call for the commode. The woman’s late husband had owned a production company of some sort. At one time, Clio would have attempted to work a connection. She used to say, “It’s all who you know out here,” but that was in the beginning. Now she just needed the rent.
The agency told her absolutely under no circumstances was she to fall asleep, so Clio walked the length of the house. This place, though extremely opulent, reminded her of Grandma Southwell’s house back in Indiana. Old people, she thought, no matter what level of wealth, all seemed the same – the stuffy air, the mushy vegetables, the pervasive feeling of loss. In the hall mirror, she smoothed out her long brown hair, tucked one side behind an ear, recalling the washing of Laura and Ada’s hair as children, drying and styling it. The old woman’s voice croaked from the bedroom. Clio froze, listened, took one more look at her still flawless skin and wide eyes, all stuck above a lumpy body. She could never return home like this, so defeated, she thought. Silence pervaded again.
Next, she would go to the room with the safe and look at the money.
She did this every night.
***
She had a second, morning job at her apartment building, cleaning the entrance area, watering plants, bringing out the garbage. Arriving after her night shift at the old woman’s, she went straight to work, despite the heaviness of her legs, the need to shower and rest. Larry in 1B, stuck his head out the door.
“Bout time you got here,” he said.
His hand poked out, dropping a leaky grocery bag on the floor. Clio waited for his footsteps to disappear before heading to remove it. Shame pummeled her like a tidal wave.
Her sister, Laura’s, voice in her ear.
You can’t even pass algebra, how could you learn to act, become a star?
Clio retrieved the broom, swept vigorously, imagined dust blowing from her memory.
“You’re leaving. It broke Dad’s heart, you know. Good thing I stayed,” Laura had said.
Clio wiped out the window skill, went for the vacuum.
Her phone rang. Speak of the devil. She let it go to voicemail.
“I don’t know if you’re available,” Laura said coldly. “But-uh- Ada is at the end.”
The punch in the gut pushed Clio down into the stained orange chair beside the elevator.
***
She slept the rest of the day in dirty clothes, without brushing her teeth or a shower. She dreamt of Ada, curling her hair with the hot iron, her little face glowing more with each springy tendril.
Clio woke with a thick taste in her mouth. She watched the ceiling fan’s slow turn. How does a 30 year old woman die of cancer? she wondered. Her mind went blank.
Ada, the saint. Ada, the worker, the one who loved to rake leaves, wash dishes, collect clothes for the homeless.
“Why don’t you just become a nun?” Clio had once said.
Then, after Clio moved out west, the cards with cash.
“I just want to know you’re eating something out there,” Ada had written.
Clio spent the money on drinks, manicures, never writing to say thanks.
In the shower, she spent a long time lathering and shaving her legs. Her father’s voice repeated in her head, “My beautiful daughters. My beautiful daughters.” Clio did not feel beautiful. She took out her hair cutting scissors and carefully snipped at her bangs, a habit she swore daily to quit, but couldn’t. They were much too short.
***
At 3 AM, she stood before the old woman’s safe. What a strange thing, to have this here, always unlocked, full of cash and jewelry, all this unused wealth just ripe for the taking. She reached in and picked up a large stack of bills. No one would notice if she took some. With this, she could buy a good outfit, even a fancy suitcase, things that would make her look successful. Maybe she could pay for the funeral. She remembered Ada’s hatred of wealth. The thing that divided them. Ada had been too kind to say.
“You go, Clio, you’ll be great. I bet I’ll see ya on TV someday,” she’d said.
Clio returned most of the money to the safe, kept just enough for a one-way plane ticket, slid it into her pocket.
“Commode!” the old woman called.
Clio entered the dark bedroom, pulled back the blanket, lifted the woman’s splotchy stick legs, guided her feet to the floor, positioned the walker, sat her down.
“I’m so-so lonely,” she whispered, her bony shoulders hunched.
Clio nodded, pulled up the paper brief.
***
On the bus ride home the next morning she thought of lies. She would tell her family she was in between gigs, or that she had a secretarial job at a big TV show that was canceled. She’d arrive in Indiana, watch her sister’s last breaths, attend the funeral, and then what? Return here, to this? She scanned the faces on the bus, a storm of emotion engulfing her as she sucked in, held back. The bus stopped, the doors sucked open. An old man with tattered clothes and a white beard struggled on. One of Ada’s people. Clio stood and offered him her seat.
***
The plane raced down the runway, rose up over Los Angeles, above the clouds. Windowless, wedged in the last seat beside the bathroom, Clio rested her head against the shuddering plastic wall. She closed her eyes, thought about the morning before when she cleaned the apartment building for the last time. She’d ignored Larry’s garbage tossed out beside his door. She bought her plane ticket with her never-touched credit card. On the bus to the airport, she abandoned the stolen wad of cash, leaving it on her seat before exiting. Something Ada would have done, she thought.
About the Author
Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 53, living her writing dream in a yellow house in Syracuse, New York. She writes about teenagers, witches, the very old, bats, cats, priests/nuns, cleaning ladies, runaways, struggling teachers, and neighborhood ghosts, among many other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.
