The Cleaning Lady

My mother was a cleaning lady. There's nothing glamorous about what she did and there was certainly nothing glamorous about what income it gave her. But, we had no other options. Every day after school I was forced to join her to her different jobs. We couldn't afford my own car, nor the gas to drive me home and her back into the city. Monday was when she cleaned out an office space for a startup tech company. Tuesday was Mrs. Johnson's. Today was Wednesday. Today was the day of the "Center for Acceptance and Healing", a funeral home.

Even with the tacky paintings of flowering meadows and the forever-in-the-air stench of sanitizer, the funeral home was the best place to have to wait on my mom. There was a set of leather armchairs in the back room where the pastors would wait in to address the funeral goers. It wasn't much in terms of entertainment, but it was completely comfortable.

My many hours of service occupying those chairs led me to be well aquatinted with the room they occupied. There was a large picture of Jesus Christ hugging someone at the gates of heaven across from the chairs and a rectangular table underneath said painting. On the table there were pamphlets with different bible verses and advertising for caskets, all neatly stacked once my mother got ahold of them. On my left was a door that would lead into a long hall with pews where funerals were held. On the right there was a medal door. Through the door a staircase flowed down into the depths of the building. Down there was where the bodies would be beautified before the funeral. My only experience with the staircase came from when my mother would quickly open the door and plummet down into the abyss. I knew she hated going down there. Every trip she was forced to make I could see her eyes flutter at the painting of Christ before descending. If she could get other clients, my mother would have never have been near this stale place.

Eventually hours passed by and my patience was wearing thin. At that point, I was content with closing my eyes and trying to nap. After a few minutes I could hear a scrapping in my right ear that grew louder every moment. It sounded vaguely like a dog walking on a hardwood floor. Eventually the clattering began to crescendo. The clawing seemed to crawl up my neck and raise every hair. Some childish part of my brain could feel the panting of its breath and the hunger dripping from its jaws. I opened my eyes and looked at the metal door. I could hear footsteps coming up. My mind stuttered trying to process the sound. The metal door would easily block the sounds of my mom's weak step. She was clearly stomping on each step. It was a practice she sometimes committed at home when she was furious. Instinctively I wanted to get out of the way of the tornado. I went to sit back in the chair and ignore her when the knob began to rattle sharply. After a few seconds of the soft sound the door echoed a pounding with the ferocity of a hyena trapped in a cage. I stood immediately and looked at the door with a trembling heart. Slowly, I placed my hand on the handle and turned it, anxious to free my mother from whatever he'll she was in.

From the back of my consciousness, I could hear a voice behind me.

"Why in the hell are you pounding on the door?"

It was my mother from the other room.