This pleases me immensely because she’s quoting something I said in a recent maid training session. If we work to make things clean, we’ll make a lot of green. By green, I meant money—tips, bills. I thought that was quite clever, and I’m pleased she remembered.
“Big tips today and big tips in the future!” she says.
“Which is good for us all,” I say. “Shall we?”
And without further delay, we get behind our trolleys and push onward.
But just as we make it to the elevators, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The elevator doors open. “You two go ahead. I’ll take the next one up,” I say.
Off they go together, which gives me a moment to check my phone. It’s probably Juan Manuel. He often sends text messages throughout the day, little things to make me smile—a picture of us eating ice cream at the park, or an update about his family back home.
But it’s not Juan Manuel. It’s an email from my bank. Instantly, I feel my stomach sink. I can’t bear the thought of bad financial news. I open it and read the message:
SANDY CAYMAN has sent you $10,000 （U.S.） and the money has been automatically deposited into your account.
And under “Special message,” three words: Debt of Gratitude.
At first, I think it must be a mistake. But then it dawns on me. Sandy Cayman. Sandy beaches. The Cayman Islands.
Giselle.
Giselle sent me a gift. And that’s where she is—on her favorite island in the villa that she wanted so badly, a villa she asked Mr. Black to put in her name hours before his death. Mr. Black relented. He gave in. That was revealed in court by Rodney’s defense team. When he left the suite on the last day of his life, after throwing his wedding ring at Giselle, he had a change of heart. He grabbed the deed for the villa in the Caymans out of the safe. I happened to see it in his breast pocket when he nearly bowled me over in the hallway. Despite the argument with Giselle, he went directly to his lawyers and had them put the villa in Giselle’s name. That was the last bit of business he conducted before returning to the hotel. It explained a lot…
I imagined Giselle on a lounge chair in the sun, finally getting what she always wanted, just not the way she expected. Somehow, she had money now, too, even if it wasn’t Mr. Black’s—money to make amends.
She’d sent me a gift. An enormous, Fabergé-enhancing gift.
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 if the 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.