Free Objects of My Affection by Jill Smolinski Page A

coming from the laundry room.I head over with Will to see that there’s a woman in there, stuffing clothes into the washing machine—which means she had to have spent at least ten minutes moving boxes to get to it. “Finally, the housekeeper!” I say to Will. “I haven’t had a chance to meet her yet.” Although she comes by every day to deliver Marva’s meals, she’s in with the food and out with the previous day’s containers before I show up in the mornings.
    â€œShe cleans Tuesdays,” Will says, thumbing through a stack of mail on the countertop. “Name’s Mei-Hua. Been with the family forever.”
    Mei-Hua glances up and nods in our direction. She can’t be more than four feet seven, and while I can tell she’s older than me, she could be anywhere between fifty and ninety. The massive 1970s-era headphones and oversize glasses she’s wearing make her look more like a giant bug than a tiny lady.
    â€œHi!” I call out, giving a wave. “I’m Lucy! Nice to meet you! I’ve been hired to clear out the house, so I guess you and I will need to chat! So we can coordinate on what needs to be cleaned once it’s emptied!”
    She shakes her head and points at the headphones, so as to indicate she can’t hear me.
    Oh, for crying out loud. Are they nailed to her head? She can’t take them off for a second? I’m obviously talking here! It’s bad enough my own son ignores me—still no call, no letter—and now I don’t even qualify for common courtesy from the housekeeper?
    Will chuckles, clearly amused by my being snubbed, although he doesn’t glance up from the mail.
    â€œI’ll discuss it with her later,” I say with great authority in my voice. “I don’t want to disrupt her work.”
    â€œGood idea. Seems you’ve got enough work of your own to worry about.”
    Jerk.
    Over the next several days, Marva and I establish a routine. She goes where she wants and does what she wants. I follow her aroundlike a spurned lover begging for attention. It’s chipping at what little dignity I have left, but I don’t have any better ideas.
    It seems to be working at least. By Thursday afternoon, I feel I’ve done enough to bring Niko in.
    â€œThat’s great!” he says when I call him. I’m in the bungalow, taking a break to catch up on calls and eat the sandwich and Fritos I packed for lunch—which I’d been looking forward to until I saw the shepherd’s pie Marva was warming up for hers.
    â€œNot your whole crew,” I say. “You and one other guy with a truck. A small truck.”
    â€œI knew you could do it.” He’s so excited for me, I allow myself to feel a tinge of pride, and, hmm, perhaps even the vague stirrings of a crush. It’s rather refreshing to have a man seem to think I’m doing everything right.
    Before I make my next call, I have to take a few deep breaths. I chug a glass of water. I use the bathroom. I freshen my lipstick, brush my hair, and clean out my purse. Then I hurriedly press the number stored on my phone before I can come up with any other ways to stall.
    When the receptionist answers, I ask for Dr. Paul. “Hold on while I transfer you,” she says. There’s no soothing music while I wait. Just an occasional beep, beep, beep that informs me I’m still on the line.
    â€œDr. Paul,” he answers, his voice, as always, slightly raspy. I’ve never met him in person, but I read his profile on the Willows’ website. He’s quite young. Nonetheless, I picture Sigmund Freud when I’m talking to him.
    â€œHi, this is Lucy Bloom. Ash’s mom? I’m calling to see how Ash is doing. And if he got my letter? Since he hasn’t responded, maybe he never got it?”
    â€œAh, yes, the letter.” He hesitates. I imagine him thoughtfully stroking his beard. “I gave it to him