Inez was so caring and sweet to her baby sister. But then, it’s easy to be nice to cute babies.
Mom and Doc said I was a big help, and that made me feel proud too. I knock myself out at home to get fantastic grades and all Dad ever does is complain if I take too long doing my chores. It feels so good just to be appreciated.
And to see my mom in a new environment is exciting, too. She seems to glow when she’s working, and she’s so efficient and competent. Of course she’s efficient at home, too, but she just doesn’t seem to be alive when she’s, say, cutting up a chicken for dinner.
I can’t wait to come back next week. Dad said this will make a great essay subject for college applications, so he seems to be warming up to the idea.
Wally asked me out for this weekend so we’re going to a movie.
I chuckled as Mary finished reading, comparing Aunt Margaret to a Mexican migrant laborer named Inez. From what I heard of their growing-up years, it wouldn’t have been hard to be nicer than Margaret was to our mother. They made up as they got older, but when they were kids . . . Mom said Margaret cut her braids off once and she had to go to school looking like a boy for weeks until it grew out.
For our part, we remembered Aunt Margaret as being pleasant enough but never warm to us, a condition that extended to our cousins, who tolerated us but didn’t seem to care if we were there or not. We seldom visited.
“So much enthusiasm,” Mary said, closing the diary. “I don’t remember Mom ever getting that worked up about anything.”
“Except a garage sale.”
“Yeah, except that.”
Mary folded her arms and put her head down. “I didn’t think I’d get so emotional about an old teenage diary.”
“It’s like having a little bit of Mom back. And yet, it’s not really her. Not the Mom we knew.”
Mary turned her head on her arms, so she was facing me. She looked very tired, and older than she should. “You know, I’ve been doing some reading. And watching those hoarding shows this week.”
“Hmmm.” I was not looking forward to hearing her next thing, her armchair diagnosis based on some stupid television show.
“And it seems like in every history of every case, there was some traumatic event.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mary, please. It’s a TV show. They make sure there’s a traumatic event. It’s a formula.”
“But all the events were traumatic. One woman actually shot somebody in self-defense, another one was raped. In one case, it was 9/11 . . .”
I rose from the table, wishing Seth would come back because maybe Mary would shut the hell up. “What’s your point?”
“What happened to Mom?”
She didn’t ask what happened to me. Maybe she assumed I was just playing out our childhood again. Yep, that’s good old Trish, doomed by her upbringing. If she only knew. If Mary had only bothered to ask.
“You’re quite the expert now, after watching a few tacky documentaries.”
“I’m just wondering.”
“Well, wonder yourself into the kitchen and find some garbage bags. We’ll clean my fridge that you find so disgusting.”
“Why are you so angry all of a sudden?”
“Because you’re so annoying all of a sudden.”
“I’ll never understand you.”
“What’s to understand? I’m a bitch and a crazy hoarder. I should get T-shirts made.”
“I didn’t . . . Who called you a bitch?”
“Mary, just get the garbage bags. Better yet, go get your boyfriend out there. Let him know it’s safe to reenter my lair.”
“He’s not!” A pause where I looked at her with my good grief face. “Oh. Real funny.”
Mary sighed and walked back out to fetch Seth. I leaned in to sniff my refrigerator. Crowded, yes, but it seemed fine to me. It smelled like a refrigerator. Maybe my nose isn’t so refined as theirs. La-di-frickin’-da.
Chapter 28
I tried so hard to avoid using the face mask. I knew it would set Trish off, and how could it not? I’d be offended too, if someone had to cover her face to keep from throwing up at the smell of my kitchen.
But that refrigerator! Once we’d sequestered her few fresh things in a cooler with some ice from the ice maker—even though the ice itself smelled funny, too—the smell of what was left just about knocked me down.
Seth was better at hiding his reaction. I bet that’s because of his job; he probably has to hear shocking things all day long and not react. There must be a cost to that, though, all that stuffing down of your own feelings.
Seth managed not to gag or choke or turn green, but I couldn’t do it. When we came upon a jar of applesauce with a fuzzy layer of green crawling up the sides, I audibly choked.
Trish turned pink at the tips of her ears, and her whole face tightened up. I was so relieved to have Seth there with us so she’d make the effort not to tear into me in front of him.
I dashed outside with my hand over my face, breathing shallow, as if I were actually inhaling the filth into my body and wanted to keep as much of it out as possible.
In the cool outside I braced myself with my hands on my knees and forced myself to breathe enough not to pass out or throw up on the driveway. Stars speckled the fringes of my vision, and anxiety in my chest struck up a jangly, dissonant tune. I’d gotten so good at my old childhood habit of pretending not to see the clutter—to acknowledge it would have been panic on a scale I couldn’t even imagine—that I’d been taken aback by the refrigerator.
I tore through the bags until I found the masks Trish had bought two weeks ago. When I came back in, Trish was slamming the food into the trash bag held by Seth as hard as she could, muttering to herself.
“What was that?” I asked.
She slammed a container of yogurt into the trash in such a way that it exploded. Even Seth flinched.
“I said I’m fucking furious that I have to do this with you here.”
I blinked, reared back. “You asked us to stay. Didn’t you? Don’t you need the help?”
“I mean, it should be Ron. My husband should be helping me. Not my kid sister and some strange bald guy. No offense. But Ron’s off on spring break with my little boy and his new girlfriend having a grand old time while I sit here in our house surrounded by garbage, all alone.”
I blinked again, as if that would make me understand her, if I just stood there and blinked enough times. “You just said . . . I mean you were just complaining you were not alone. That we’re here.”
Even Trish flinched at whatever she discovered in the distant back of the refrigerator. She picked up another garbage bag and wrapped it around her hand, glovelike. “I’m just pissed. I’m completely pissed about everything. I’m pissed when I’m alone, and I’m pissed when you’re here. I’m pissed that I inherited this stupid fucking . . . thing.”
“Why are you mad at us?”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you taking it out on us?”
“Stop personalizing everything. I’m taking it out on the refrigerator.”
Seth shook the bag he’d been holding for Trish, so the contents settled deeper, making more room. “You’re taking it out on yourself, too, a bit.”
Trish whipped her head toward him. She raked bits of her loose hair off her face and squinted at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I spoke out of turn.”
Trish turned to me in irritated disbelief, a look of can you believe this guy? She snatched the nearly full trash bag from where Seth had been holding it open for her and knotted the top roughly, so much so her ring snagged in the top of the bag and nearly spilled the whole reeking mess onto her kitchen floor.
I dared peek into the refrigerator. A yellow film seemed to cover everything. There were tiny flies buzzing inside
. I hadn’t realized fruit flies could live in that kind of cold, though I suppose in the center of the mess it probably wasn’t that cold at all, but somewhat insulated, even. Various brown spills smeared the glass shelves.
An itchy sensation crept over my hands. It wasn’t a topical itch, nothing I could treat with Benadryl or cortisone. It was the way I felt when Drew showed up at my town house and dropped a clod of dirt on my carpet. I’d never felt it in someone else’s home before. I wondered at myself, as I stormed around to find the cleaning supplies she’d bought a couple weeks ago, now in search of gloves and Soft Scrub and Brillo pads. I wondered if I’d been in Trish’s home long enough to have some proprietary feelings over it, and that’s why I had this now powerful urge to clean the refrigerator.
I shoved my head inside and squirted lemony, bleachy Soft Scrub all over everything I could see.
“Mary?” I heard Seth say, but he sounded distant because of the cavelike effect of the fridge.
I answered him with cleaning. The shelves rattled with the force of my scrubbing. With each stroke of the sponge, each erasure of a bit of filth, I felt less crazy, less itchy, less frantic.
I heard Trish calling my name, and I ignored that, too, working on a stubborn bit of sticky brown that might have once been honey or perhaps maple syrup. Finally I tired of hearing my name called and yanked my head out, banging it on a shelf. “What?” I barked, and they both drew back.
Trish gave me a look I had rarely seen. She looked wary and shocked. Seth was studying me, I could tell. “What?” I repeated, feeling anxious again with the job half done. “What’s the problem? I’m cleaning it out.”
“You just seem,” Trish began, proceeding with uncharacteristic caution in her speech. “A little . . . crazed.”
“We’re in a hurry, yes? So I’m hurrying.”
“Well, it’s not a race or anything. And we’ve made pretty good progress, really.” Trish swiped her hand through the air, indicating expansive progress.
I glanced around. The dining table was clear, and the living room had gone from “crazy hoarder” to looking like someone just moved in and still had boxes all over, so yes, that was progress of a sort. We’d managed Jack’s room, though Trish admitted he hadn’t yet started sleeping in it.
But Trish’s own room, Drew’s old room, the cluttered master bath, and the mysterious spare room had not been touched. That didn’t count her basement, which I hated to even consider, or the enclosed back porch, the garage.
I sat back on my heels and asked Trish, “How do you think we’re going to get this all done? If we meander along?”
“Just don’t, like, brain damage yourself with the fumes, OK?”
I debated telling her I rather liked the smell of Soft Scrub, but my role as the less-crazy sister suited me just fine and I did not intend to give it up.
Chapter 29
Monday raced by like one of those fast movies they used to show in science class of flowers blooming and snow melting. My kitchen counters were clearing, and the tarps in the driveway and garage were filling up. At one point a Dumpster arrived, after Ayana had called to report she’d rented it for me. This monstrosity loomed in my driveway like a sleeping beast and I thought we’d never fill that whole thing. How much junk did she really think I had?
I’d struggled to sound grateful, and I grimaced when she’d said, “See you soon.”
Rural neighbors tended to mind their own business, but I did notice a few cars slow down as they drove past my house, and Alvin from next door looked like he wanted to talk to me when I bumped into him at the mailbox, but I scurried away and pretended not to notice.
Progress came at a price, and that price was spectacle.
Besides the giant Dumpster, we had the camper. It was parked along the garage, and Mary stayed there last night, with the generator running for heat. We also had the garage floor lined with objects, and although we planned to close the garage at night, it was open all day like a gaping hole for anyone to gawk into. We couldn’t bring all the other things lining the driveway itself, so we just planned to drape them with tarps to keep off the dew, or frost.
I figured it was only a matter of time before neighbors got curious enough to send someone over to ask what the blazes was going on.
As we cleaned, we fell into a habit of reading Mother’s journal when we’d cleared some definable area, like the kitchen counter. Seth would always find something to do in another part of the house, or he’d step out to make a call.
So we read along as teenage Frannie dated a young man named Wally—chapped lips, bad breath, and all—and continued helping out at the migrant camps. She struck up a friendship with Inez. Because she spoke English, Inez had been appointed as a sort of representative of the mothers at the workers’ camps, and she’d bring the sick children and then take them back and translate the doctor’s instructions.
Frannie wrote about how she’d been teaching Inez some American expressions, like what “driving me batty” meant, or “the whole nine yards.” Inez was teaching Frannie basic Spanish, and when her mother wasn’t paying attention, some dirty words, too.
I imagined the writer of these letters as “Frannie” as opposed to “Mom.” She seemed so remote from the mom we knew, anyway. I lapsed into thinking of Inez and Doc as characters in a book. I’d look forward to the next installment of their adventures, and then there’d be some reference to reality as I knew it—to Aunt Margaret, or their white house in Holland—and it would snap me back to life: these people were all real. Likely Inez was out there somewhere with a family of her own. Those little babies cured by the doctor were our age, having babies and taking them to doctors themselves now. I wondered if those babies were picking blueberries, or if they’d escaped that life, as their parents must have hoped.
As the day drew to a close my body was aching like I’d been pelted with stones. I doubted Mary was faring much better. She kept kneading her arms, sore from lifting and no doubt from scrubbing. No sooner did we uncover a surface than she leaped into action with the rubber gloves. Seth was stoic, but none of us was twenty-two anymore. I’m sure he felt it same as we all did.
I’d ache and I’d watch them ache and think, They’re doing this for me. I needed to remember this, even in my angry times, or I might drive them all away.
I was basking in this gratitude and trying to brush my hair out of my face when I heard a distant rumble, something like a truck. Only there were no truck routes out this way, and the Dumpster was already here.
“Shit,” I said. “A storm!”
We all ran to the sliding glass door, now accessible since we’d cleared most of the dining room. A flash made the trees seem to come alive for an instant, and then it was merely dusk again. Immediately the roll of thunder boomed, and we all realized how close the storm was.
I cursed myself for not paying better attention to the weather, especially in a Michigan spring when it could snow on Monday and be sixty on Friday.
We hustled out the front door to pull tarps over the driveway items. Wind had kicked up, as if to clear a path for the storm, blowing dead leaves and papers out of the way. The three of us struggled with the tarps, trying to hold them down with our feet long enough to grab a rock out of the garden or a hammer from the garage. We weren’t speaking, any of us, just rushing and panting or with the occasional grunted command.
Rain began to pelt us in thick, heavy drops. It spotted the driveway before my eyes, and before long, the spots all melded and we three plus the driveway and the tarps were thoroughly wet.
We didn’t have enough heavy things to weigh down the plastic. The last two tarps kept whipping up in the wind.
I held my hands up to Mary, helplessly. She shrugged back, looking all around the darkening yard for something else, anything. Seth was pointing back toward the house. Thunder made me jump with its closeness. It was the kind that started like a
bone snapping and rolled into a roar. I could feel it in my chest.
Bouncing headlights illuminated the tarps, and I recognized the pickup truck of my neighbor, Alvin. Without saying anything, he leaped down from his cab with more speed than you’d think possible for a man nearing seventy. He pulled more tarps from his cab and pointed to the back. There were cinderblocks in there, and sandbags. We jumped into the truck bed, pulled them out, and started weighing down the corners of the other tarps.
Just as suddenly as he’d shown up in my driveway, he climbed back in the cab. “Go on inside, now!” he shouted over the rain, which was now coming down so hard it had a noise of its very own, hissing static. “Not safe with all these trees!”
And before I could even thank him, he slammed the truck door, backed down the driveway, and retreated to his own house.
Seth, Mary, and I scurried back inside and stood dripping in my living room, blinking at one another.
“Who was that?” Mary asked, wiping water off her face, trying to twist it out of her hair.
“My neighbor. He lives across the way.” I was so wet I couldn’t even conceive of getting dry. We were all soaking my wretched living room carpet. “I better find some clothes for you.”
“I have some,” Mary said, and I reminded her they were in the trailer, and she’d have to go outside to get them. I offered to get her something and told Seth I was sure I could find something of Ron’s if he gave me a few minutes. “It’ll take some time, though. I have to do some digging.”
My heart pounded in my ears, and I wondered why I felt so queasy and shaky. Disaster had been averted.
But it hadn’t, not really. As I moved across the living room, leaving a trail of rain behind me, I remembered the last few minutes and saw the rain blasting down on my things, the record albums I’d bought as a teenager, their covers now soaked. There had been at least a few boxes of books, some scrapbooking supplies, and yarn.
Keepsake Page 19
