I own a small cleaning business, and when I clean people's homes it is because I have been hired in with guarded trust. The wonderment of the quality of my work sits a quick second behind curiosity of my morality. After a few visits an understanding has been established: My work is really good, and I won't steal anything.

Once I establish a routine in each house, I am able to see it less as a job and more as a home.

On the surface, each house is the same. There are bathrooms and kitchens and slight variations of the other standard rooms that come with a house. There is artwork on the walls mimicking the homeowners' personalities, miss-matching furniture, and clothing tossed on beds during the daily process of eliminating outfit choices. Every master bedroom has a bed with night stands on each side.

Friends have asked if I go through these night stands. Am I ever tempted to see what people hide by their bed, keep near their most private place in the house? I'm really not.

I probably already know what is in those intimate junk drawers: lotions, forgotten notes, books, maybe sex toys. I am more interested in the little things that make each house unique. I am fascinated by the small details that characterize a home and define a family.

I am in a unique position of silently observing the joys and sorrows in my clients' lives. It is not a position I take lightly.

I get to see photos of loved ones plastered onto refrigerators; I dust around 'high-five' awards strung onto yarn and lying on a child's dresser next to their rock collection and Lego creations. I notice wedding magazines that have surfaced, indicating a relationship has advanced from dating to engaged. I witness taped-up workout programs and pictures of a man successfully losing weight so he can feel better about himself and be healthier for his family.

A few months ago I noticed a bottle of pre-natal vitamins on a kitchen counter belonging to a young couple. I smiled to myself as I cleaned around it and felt like I was in on a secret: She was either pregnant or trying to become pregnant. I also thought how something as simple as a bottle of vitamins can be an indication of something so big and important.

During my next cleaning two weeks later, I noticed several baby books littered throughout the house, piled on the table and protruding off of book shelves. I also saw a small pair of baby UGGs. The ultrasound picture on the fridge confirmed my guess. She was several weeks pregnant and I was happy for them. I felt like a fan of the hometown team, cheering for them from the sideline and sharing in their victory.

I decided to leave an inquiry with my usual post-cleaning note. Based on all of the baby books, I asked if congratulations were in order. When I arrived two weeks later I excitedly searched for their pre-cleaning note. The only thing I found was a check and a small note that had 'thank you' written on it. I became nervous as I looked around the room and could not find any baby books. The boots were gone. The ultrasound picture was not on the refrigerator.

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Maybe the books were in the den. Maybe the boots were up in the spare bedroom, soon to be nursery. Maybe she had taken the picture to work. I felt more shitty than hopeful that my maybes were true.

I knew. I knew she had lost the baby. Though I also knew I was not responsible, I felt bad for having mentioned anything in my last note to them. It did not change the outcome, but it let them know I knew their secret, and I felt like I had intruded. My heart ached for them and when I cleaned their bedroom their bed seemed sacred. They would try again there. And they would hold each other there in love and comfort no matter what the outcome.

I didn't mention anything more than what I had accomplished that day in my note to them. Two weeks passed and I was in their home again. This time, she left a note for me and explained the miscarriage. She and her husband trusted me and appreciated all that I did for them and they wanted me to know.

I let them know I was rooting for them.

 

Amber Leventry lives in Vermont with her partner and their dog. Her writing has appeared in Out In The Mountains and aired on Vermont Public Radio.