When Claire consents to clean a reclusive woman’s abandoned home, she anticipates dirt and disorder but not the unsettling sensation of a house frozen in time. Sorting through the stacked-up chaos, she discovers a bundle of birthday cards that prompts a tragic discovery.
While I loaded my cleaning caddy, my phone buzzed. One more day, one more house requiring cleaning.
“Clean Slate Services, this is Claire,” I replied, checking my stock of microfiber cloths and jamming the phone between my ear and shoulder.
Hello? The voice seemed old and hesitant. I am Margaret. Your contact was recommended by my daughter. She claimed you upload videos online about assisting others tidy their houses? She claimed you upload videos online on assisting individuals tidy their houses?
Thinking of the before-and-after films that had gained unexpected appeal, I grinned.
Though my little cleaning company wasn’t lighting the world on fire, wiping suburbia floors and dusting little workplaces had more value. Those employment let me provide needy individuals free cleaning services.
I told Margaret, “That’s me.” How can I assist? How can I assist?
“It’s not for me,” she said, her voice falling to almost a whisper. Eleanor, my neighbour. She requires assistance. She won’t request it, but she requires it.
Her tone suggested something that made me pause what I was doing.
I had heard this sort of dread before—the anxiety that results from seeing someone else gradually vanish.
Sitting on a nearby stool, I remarked, “Tell me about Eleanor.”
Margaret let out a sigh. Her yard is totally overgrown now. She never brings in newspapers piling up on her porch. I attempted to see her last week; she hardly opened the door, but when she did… ” Margaret hesitated. There was an unpleasant odor. And what I could see behind her… it wasn’t good.
I felt a tightening in my tummy. I understood what that signified.
Margaret went on, “It wasn’t always like this.” She used to be out in her garden all the time. Her county fair awards went to her roses. Then, one day… she simply ceased. Claire is a nice lady. I simply… something is really wrong.
I paused for just a second. Though that was typical for crises, these calls were never at convenient times.
I said, “I’ll be there in an hour.” The address is? Where’s the address?
I emailed my husband and business partner Ryan: Emergency clean-up after we hung up. Not sure how bad at now. Might require backup.
His answer was right away: On standby. Tell me.
I took my “first assessment” kit—a change of clothes, basic cleaning materials, mask, gloves, and a change of clothes. Experience had taught me to always be ready for the worst.
Eleanor’s home was a simple one-story with worn blue siding. Dead flowers hung in neglected window pots and the grass had turned to a meadow. Stuffed with letters, the mailbox leaned to one side.
I knocked and sat tight. Not a thing. I pounded once more, this time more forcefully.
At last, I heard shuffling feet. The door opened only an inch to show a sliver of a woman’s face.
Her hair was messy, her eyes weary and bulging at the sight of my company polo, and she was white.
She grumbled, already beginning to shut the door, “I don’t need a cleaning service.”
Keeping my voice soft, I said fast, “I’m not here to sell anything.” Margaret invited me. She is concerned about you. She believed you could need assistance.
Eleanor’s jaw clenched. I can manage it on my own.
I breathed slowly. I knew this tone. This sort of opposition was humiliation, not pride. It was the same way my mother used to respond when worried teachers or neighbors inquired about the mountain of boxes cluttering our home.
My mother used to say the same. ‘I can manage it.’ But occasionally, managing it calls for allowing others assistance. Eleanor, I understand how it all accumulates. I launched my cleaning company for that reason; it would allow me to clean houses without charge for those requiring a fresh start.
“A fresh start…”
Her gaze first lifts to match my own. There was something flickering there—perhaps hope. Or just weariness. I could nearly see her considering her alternatives during a protracted pause. Then her face fell.
She said, “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“You don’t have to,” I told her. I am here for that. While I work, perhaps you might spend the day with Margaret? That might make things simpler.
Eleanor chewed on her bottom lip and hesitated. At last, she agreed. “Let me grab my purse.”
She vanished for a while behind the door. When she came out, she was holding a battered leather purse and wearing a cardigan that had seen better days. I saw how she avoided gazing at her front yard by keeping her eyes down.
We strolled side by side to Margaret’s next-door home. Like every step needed computation, Eleanor moved carefully. Her shoulders huddled forward somewhat, as though she were carrying something weighty.
Margaret opened her door in astonishment that soon turned to delight.
Eleanor! It’s so wonderful to see you out, Eleanor! Come in, come in. I just brewed a fresh pot of tea.
As she walked in, Eleanor could only smile slightly. Margaret, thank you.
Margaret caught my look over Eleanor’s shoulder and mouthed a little “thank you.” Already pulling out my phone, I nodded and returned to Eleanor’s house.
Ryan? Bring the industrial trash bags, please, Ryan. Perhaps a respirator as well.
Thirty minutes later, Ryan came with a box of our heavy-duty cleaning products. One glance inside the house caused him to exhale forcefully.
Living like this has she? ” he said, his voice muffled by the mask he had already donned.
I agreed. I would guess for years.
The house wasn’t crammed floor to ceiling with rubbish, but it was stifling. In the sink, dishes with dried food caked on them created dangerous stacks. The baseboards were covered in mold.
Stale and thick with the scent of neglect, the air hung still.
I put on my mask and gloves. Please concentrate on bagging up the clear rubbish in the living room and kitchen: empty boxes, bottles, rotting takeaway containers. The bedrooms will be my starting point.
Ryan agreed and was already opening a garbage bag. Understood. I’ll let you handle the sorting.
I walked slowly across the living room, observing the dust coating the television screen.
The main bedroom was equally chaotic. Clothes stacked on chairs and a bed unmade in what seemed like months contributed to the master bedroom’s similar chaos. Among the clutter on the nightstand lay prescription bottles for sleep aids and anti-depressants.
Every label belonged to Eleanor. Anti-depressants Sleep helpers. Another well-known indicator.
The second bedroom, however, really caught me off guard.
I opened the door and instantly felt as though I had entered another home.
Dust hung in the air, caught in the angle of light from one filthy, streaked window. Everywhere hung cobwebs like draperies. The absence of rubbish in here made it feel deserted in a manner that sent shivers down my back.
Dust covered a twin bed on one wall. Hanging from the ceiling was a model solar system, similarly brown with dust; the planets were tilted at unusual angles from years of quiet.
Against the far wall stood a dresser. Inside, I discovered neatly arranged kids’ clothing. T-shirts tiny enough for a nine or ten-year-old. Pajamas for superheroes. Uniforms for schools.
I breathed out slowly. This chamber was not a storage area. It was a tribute.
I shut the drawer gently and departed the room precisely as I had discovered it. I would subsequently dust it, but for the time being, there were larger issues.
Cleaning the house revealed framed pictures on a dusty bookshelf. The camera was smirked at by a young child with dark locks. In still another, the same child sat on a man’s shoulders, both of them chuckling.
Finding additional images, however, something started to bother me. There were no images of the boy past the age of ten, or so. All the garments I had discovered before were for a kid roughly that age.
Tucked under a nightstand drawer in the master bedroom, I discovered a little pile of birthday cards written to “Michael.”
From his first to his 13th, there were cards for every birthday. Mostly unreadable handwriting, the 13th birthday card’s content was wobbly. …would have been 13 today.
Would have been? Putting the pieces together made me feel heavy in my heart. People always had a cause for losing control over the condition of their houses; I thought this kid fit Eleanor’s cause.
Ryan and I had made significant progress by early afternoon. We had erected a pile of garbage bags on the curb and cleared most of the floors.
The sink shone and the kitchen worktops were now apparent. The surfaces had been cleaned and dusted in the living room; vacuuming had been done.
Ryan remarked, pouring hot water and bleach into a bucket, “I’ll begin on the bathroom.”
I agreed. I will complete in here.
Opening a kitchen drawer in search of lost cutlery, I came across a folded newspaper with yellowed edges. I nearly tossed it aside, but then Eleanor attracted my attention.
The headline read: “Local Father Dies in High-Speed Crash En Route to Hospital,” which made my breath stop.
The story said James had been speeding to County General when he lost control of his car. Eleanor, his mother, and James’s wife, had brought his ten-year-old son Michael to the same hospital hours earlier.
James never got to see his son.
I shut my eyes and took in the gravity of it. He had gone after hurrying to see his ill son. Though the report said nothing about Michael, the birthday cards and second bedroom implied she had lost him as well.
No surprise it had all become too much for Eleanor.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and went to Margaret’s house. I had to talk to Eleanor.
Eleanor remained at Margaret’s kitchen table, hands wrapped around a now-cold cup of tea. Her gaze lifted as I came in, her eyes inquired.
Sitting opposite her, I set the folded newspaper on the table.
“I discovered this,” I remarked softly.
Eleanor remained still. Though her gaze was on the page, it eventually turned.
She murmured, “I should have thrown that away years ago.”
“But you didn’t,” I said softly. Just watching, not blaming.
There was quiet between us. By the sink, Margaret stood with her hands clasped.
“When he was four, Michael got really bad asthma,” Eleanor finally continued, her voice flat as though she had told this story so many times in her thoughts the words had lost their potency. “We managed it for years, but…” Her voice trembled.
Suddenly, Michael’s situation got worse. One day I had to dash him to the hospital. I called James; he was driving too quickly.
Her breath quivered.
He never arrived. A week later, Michael was gone, too.
A difficult lump formed in my throat. Losing both of them so near together…
Reaching across the table, I covered Eleanor’s hand with mine. The space. You maintained it precisely the same.
Eleanor nodded, tears rolling down her face. Initially, altering anything seemed inappropriate. Then, with time, it became inappropriate to even enter there. I simply shut the door thus.
What about the birthday cards? I inquired gently.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she said, wiping her eyes with her free hand. “I purchased my son a birthday card for three years following. I wrote him a note I hoped he could read. I believed I was only coping with my loss, but it become more excruciating rather than less. That was foolish.
“No,” Margaret responded emphatically, sitting next to Eleanor. It’s not ridiculous in the least. It’s love.
Eleanor then broke, her shoulders trembling with years of pent sorrow. Margaret drew her chair nearer and wrapped an arm around her.
Eleanor said between sobs, “It wasn’t only Michael and James.” I was as well. I died with them. I simply couldn’t keep up with it. The house, the yard… it all felt so useless, so tiring.
I murmured softly, “Grief can consume you whole.” After my father departed, “my mother experienced something comparable.” Not the same, but… stuff accumulated. I mean literally.
Eleanor gazed at me with red-rimmed eyes. “How did she get past it?” How did she get beyond it?
“Not really, no.” Not by herself. “I did what I could to assist, but we both required more than that.” In the end, she received treatment. Made some acquaintances in a support group. It was not a direct path to improvement.
Margaret caressed Eleanor’s back softly. You are no longer need to go through this alone.
Eleanor wiped her eyes once more. Is the house terrible? Is the house terrible?
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” I told her. I called in back up and we have made good progress. Do you wish to see? Would you want to see?
Eleanor agreed. Moments later, she stood uncertainly at the entrance of her house.
Ryan stood away, nervously half-smiling.
He said, “We’re not quite done.” “It’s getting there, but not quite yet.”
Eleanor entered slowly. The living room was changed—clutter gone, surfaces dusted, flooring scrubbed.
Touching items, checking their reality, she drifted through the area as though in a dream. She stopped at the second bedroom’s locked door.
I said fast, “We didn’t touch that room.” I wanted to inquire first.
Eleanor agreed but left the door closed.
She turned to look at us. “Thanks you both.”
Her eyes welled up once more, but these appeared different. Perhaps relief. Or the first indication of something resembling tranquility.
If that is acceptable, I said, “We’ll come back tomorrow to finish up.” The yard still has to be done and the bathroom needs further attention.
“Yes,” Eleanor answered, and for the first time, I noticed the ghost of a smile on her face. “That would be… yes.”
Eleanor was prepared the next morning when we came. She had combed her hair and donned a fresh blouse.
She said, “Margaret asked me over for breakfast.” Then we could consider a few garden plants. Is that acceptable? ”
“That sounds great,” I remarked.
I completed the laundry room and bathroom while Ryan used our garden tools to attack the overgrown yard. The house had changed by mid-afternoon. Not ideal, but tolerable. Neat. New.
When Eleanor came back, Margaret was with her, holding a little tray of potted herbs.
Margaret said, “For the kitchen window.”
Eleanor looked over her house, her yard, her life—all suddenly visible, everything once more accessible.
Your help is beyond my ability to express.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
Ryan and I were packing our stuff when I saw Eleanor and Margaret sipping coffee at the kitchen table. Something in Eleanor had changed, as though a door had opened allowing light in.
I considered my mother and how difficult it had been for her to accept assistance as her mental health began to decline. Nobody would have to suffer the same manner since she was the cause I had begun performing these free cleans.
Ryan smiled and attracted my attention. Another successful clean slate? Another successful clean slate?
As we made our way to our van, I watched the two elderly ladies through the window and nodded. The most spotless.
