That she is in charge. Because even though Virginia is ten years younger than me, she is white.

I exhale, the same way I tell my imminent mothers to exhale, and—like them—with that breath, I let the frustration go. I put a gentle hand on Mrs. Braunstein’s knee, and offer her a professional smile. “Let’s just get this baby out,” I suggest.

—

MY MAMA STILL works for Mina Hallowell in her Upper West Side brownstone. Ever since Mr. Sam passed, it’s Ms. Mina that my mom is supposed to be helping. Her daughter, Christina, lives nearby, but has her own life. Her son, Louis, lives in London with his husband, a director in the West End. Apparently I’m the only person who finds it ironic that Mama is three years older than the woman she’s supposed to be assisting. Every time I’ve talked to my mama about retiring, though, she shrugs me off and says the Hallowells need her. I’d venture that my mama needs the Hallowells just as much, if only to feel like she still has a purpose.

My mother only has off on Sundays, and since I usually am asleep that day after a long Saturday-night shift, when I visit her it has to be at the brownstone instead. I don’t visit very often, though. I tell myself it’s because I have work or Edison or a thousand other reasons that take precedence, but in reality, it’s because a little piece of me dies every time I walk inside and see my mama in that shapeless blue uniform, with a white apron wrapped around her hips. You’d think that after all this time, Ms. Mina would just tell Mama to dress the way she likes, but no. Maybe this is the reason why, when I do visit, I make a point of using the front entrance, with the doorman, instead of the servants’ elevator in the back of the building. There is just some perverse part of me that likes knowing I will be announced like any other guest. That the name of the maid’s daughter will be written down in a log.

Today when my mother lets me inside, she gives me a big hug. “Ruth! If this isn’t the best surprise! I just knew today was going to be a good one.”

“Really?” I say. “Why?”

“Well, I put on my heavy coat because the weather’s turning, and wouldn’t you know I found a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket left behind from last fall when I wore it. And I said to myself, Lou, this is either a good omen, or else it’s the start of Alzheimer’s.” She grins. “I chose the former.”

I love the way her wrinkles have weathered her smile. I love seeing how age will look on my face, one day.

“Is my grandbaby here too?” she asks, looking behind me in the hall. “Did you bring him for another one of those college visits?”

“No, Mama, he’s in classes now. You’re gonna have to make do with just me.”

“Just you,” she teases. “As if that was never enough.” She closes the door behind her as I unbutton my coat. She holds out her hand for it, but I reach into the closet instead for a hanger. The last thing I’m going to do is make my mama wait on me, too. I put my coat next to hers, and just for old times’ sake, run my hand down the soft underbelly of Mama’s lucky scarf before closing the closet door.

“Where’s Ms. Mina?” I ask.

“Shopping, downtown, with Christina and the baby,” she says.

“I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re busy —”

“For you, baby, I always have time. Come into the dining room. I’m just doing a little cleaning.” She starts down the hallway, and I follow, carefully noticing the way she’s favoring her right knee because of the bursitis in her left.

On the dining room table a white sheet is spread, and the strings of crystal that form the massive chandelier overhead are laying on it like trails of tears. A pungent bowl of ammonia solution sits in the center. My mother sits down and resumes her task of dipping each strand, then letting it air dry.

“How did you get those down?” I ask, eyeing the chandelier.

“Carefully,” my mama replies.

I think about her balancing on the table, or a chair. “It’s too dangerous for you to do that kind of stuff anymore—”

She waves me away. “I been doing this for fifty years,” my mama says. “I could clean crystal in a coma.”

“Well, keep climbing up to get them down from the chandelier and you might get your wish.” I frown. “Did you go to the orthopedist whose name I gave you?”