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A gift I wouldn’t know how to give back even if I wanted to.
A gift that I intended to put to very good use.
Gran always said that the truth is subjective, which is something I failed to comprehend until my own life experience proved her wisdom. Now I understand. My truth is not the same as yours because we don’t experience life in the same way.
We are all the same in different ways.
This more flexible notion of truth is something I can live with—more than that, it’s something that gives me great comfort these days.
I am learning to be less literal, less absolute about most things. The world is a better place seen through a prism of colors rather than merely in black and white. In this new world, there is room for versions and variations, for shades of gray.
The version of the truth I told on the stand on my day in court is exactly that—a version of my experiences and memories on the day that I found Mr. Black dead in his bed. My truth highlights and prioritizes my lens on the world; it focuses on what I see best and obscures what I fail to understand—or what I choose not to examine too closely.
Justice is like truth—it, too, is subjective. So many of those who deserve to be punished never receive their just deserts, and in the meantime, good people, decent people, are charged with the wrong crimes. It’s a flawed system—justice—a dirty, messy, imperfect system. But ifthe good people accept personal responsibility for exacting justice, would we not have a better chance of cleaning the entire world, of holding the liars, the cheaters, the users, and the abusers to account?
I do not share my views on this subject widely. Who would care? After all, I’m just a maid.
On my day in court, I told those gathered about the day I found Mr.Black dead in his bed. I told it how I saw it, how I lived it, only I cut the story short. Yes, I did check Mr. Black’s neck for a pulse only to find none. I did call down to Reception asking for help. I did turn to the bedroom door and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Only then did I realize I was not alone in the room. There was in fact a figure standing in the corner. A dark shadow fell across the person’s face, but I could see their hands clearly, and a pillow, clutched close to their heart. This figure reminded me so much of myself, and of Gran. It was as if I was seeing myself reflected twice in the mirror. That’s when I fainted.
The story continues after that. Much like an episode ofColumbo: there’s always something more that wasn’t seen before.
It wasn’t a man, the figure in the corner.
When I awoke, I found myself on the floor beside the bed. Someone was fanning my face with hotel stationery. After a few deep breaths, my vision sharpened. It was a woman. She was middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair held back by the sunglasses propped on her head. Her hair was cut neatly into a bob, styled straight, much like my own. She was wearing a loose-fitting white blouse and dark pants. She was crouched over me, a worried look on her face. I didn’t recognize her face, not at first.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she stopped her fanning.
My first instinct was to reach for the phone again.
“Please,” she said. “You don’t need to do that.”
I brought myself to a seated position, pushing my back against the bedside table. She took two steps backward, giving me space, but she kept her eyes on me.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize there was another guest in the room. But I must—”
“You must nothing. Please. Hear me out before you touch the phone.”
She did not sound angry or even tense. She was merely offering a suggestion.
I did as I was told.
“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked. “And maybe something sweet?”
I wasn’t ready to stand. I didn’t trust my legs. “Yes,” I said. “That would be most kind.”
She nodded once and left the room. I could hear her rummaging around in the sitting room. Then I heard the rush of water from the bathroom tap.
A moment later, she was back in the bedroom, crouching in front of me. She passed me a glass of water, which I took in my shaky hands and drank greedily.
“Here,” she said once I’d finished, “I found this in your cleaning cart.”
It was a chocolate, for turn-down services. Strictly speaking, it was not mine to eat, but this was an extraordinary circumstance and she’d already opened the wrapper.
“You’ll feel better,” she said.
She passed me the square of chocolate, put it right into the palm of my hand.
“Thank you,” I replied. I placed the whole square on my tongue. It dissolved instantly, the sugar working its magic.
