Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs Page B

again.”
    She was incredibly positive, I thought.
    Next, she fingered the caulking between the tiles on the wall near the sink. “Mold,” she said sharply. Her eyes narrowed, and she suddenly looked angry. “I hate mold.” She leaned in even closer so she could get a really good look. Then she looked up at me, while her head was over the sink. “People can get very sick from mold. If they’re allergic, mold can even kill a person.”
    Here, she frightened me. Her eyes seemed to display a sort of madness, but I thought perhaps it was because I was looking down at her, and she was at such an unusual angle, with her head over the sink and her neck craned so she could face up at me.
    Then she straightened and I saw her smile had been replaced with a clean, straight line. She shook her head, as though to clear an ugly thought. “Anyway, let’s see where you sleep.”
    I thought it was odd that she said “where you sleep” instead of the more common phrase “bed.”
    Checking to make sure her ponytail was still secured under her shirt, she bent forward and checked under the bed. “Can’t see much,” she said, rising back up. “But I have a pretty good idea,” she added, looking at me with something akin to disapproval.
    She’d become chilly. On the phone and for the first few minutes, she was very friendly, perky, and optimistic even. But now she seemed darker and almost angry, as though my sloppiness was a personal affront.
    She opened my closet door and asked if there were “any offlimits areas in the apartment: a box of porn, toys, anything you don’t want me to stumble across.”
    I was almost unable to recover from hearing the tiny, young grandmother say the words “porn” and “toys,” but I was able to mumble, “No, you can look anywhere.”
    She continued, as though reciting from a memorized list. “Any pets? Cats? Dogs? Birds?”
    “No, not even a plant,” I said.
    She scratched above her ear, then examined her hand, like she was looking for fleas or some sort of debris. Seeing nothing, she freed her ponytail. “Well, this is a very manageable apartment, I’d say. I would estimate that we’re talking six hours. Plus, an initial cleaning that would probably last for about twelve hours. So that’s ninety dollars a week plus one-eighty for the first week.”
    I was surprised by the price because I somehow had expected it to be less. Forty dollars? Fifty? Ninety seemed very close to a hundred, and a hundred seemed extravagant. Plus, six hourseach week seemed like a lot. I could understand a big, up-front cleaning, but after that, couldn’t she clean my little studio in half that time?
    But she was a
little person
, so I felt tall-person guilt. Plus, her moods scared me, and now she was staring up at me, waiting for my answer, wondering what was taking me so long to agree. And I needed a cleaning lady, so I said, “That’s fine.”
    “Terrific, sweetie. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. Her mood had warmed once again, and she was smiling.
    Mood changes and passive-aggressive behavior—hallmarks of my own character. I couldn’t let her win at these mind games. I had to play, too. And win. I adopted a sunny, positive, and confident attitude. “Great, Debby! So Sunday will be our day. Can’t wait.”
    “Yes. It’ll be great,” she said. Then added, “And before tomorrow, I’ll need you to get a few things. I have a list here. I’ll need everything on it. If you forget something, I’ll have to go out and buy it myself, and then you’ll be charged for my time in addition to the price of the item.”
    She passed me a photocopied list. At the top was a title: “Debby’s Requirements.” I slipped the list into my shirt pocket and followed her to the door. “Well, Brad said you’re great, and I’m really happy you have time to fit me in,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
    She said, “Not a problem.” And then she trudged down the stairs.
    After she was gone, I couldn’t shake the