It’s barely eight and already she has dropped the mop, causing a serious bang and scaring me half to death. Now she is hiding in the bathroom eating an entire can of sardines. I hear her pull back the tin lid to get to the last one. It sends a shiver through the house. Something is bothering the maid. The refrigerator’s hum because of her is off. All the vegetables are dead. The milk, like a ghost, is turning. By noon she will ask me (as she now asks me everyday) if I love her. Why does the maid ask me this? Isn’t it obvious? And then half past the same hour she will ask me what moon I am. Waxing or waning? How do I know what moon? She has lost her sense of precision. Her technique is off. If she ever had a plot her plot is long gone. She has forgotten to bring Mother Mother, who is dying in the livingroom, her pills. She has abandoned a pink sponge on the stovetop. The maid is not herself. It has been a lousy winter. The maid has begun to smell a lot like ash. Frankly, she has begun to smell like an entire house burnt to the ground. She has neglected Bye Bye Françoise, the family parakeet, whose cage is in shambles. And now Bye Bye Françoise is not herself, though Bye Bye Françoise is more herself than the maid is herself given the maid is less and less herself as each hour passes. She has replaced the grocery list with #1 a prelude to nothing #2 a war poem, leaving me with no idea of what we need. Bread? Eggs? Sparkling water? It’s anybody’s guess. Who does the maid think she is? Herself or not herself?
The maid and I once were best friends. I called her Lydia, and she called me Lydia though our names were nowhere near Lydia. We knew how to be everything: rubber, dirt, glass, wire. We even knew how to be children. We even knew how to be happy. Now the maid stands at the kitchen sink, still as stone. And I stand beside her waiting for the dirty, dirty dishes to be washed and dried. “Lydia, are you there? Lydia?” No answer.
I cannot stop thinking about the maid. Mother Mother, who is dying in the livingroom, urges me to rest. “But the maid is not herself.” “Of course the maid is not herself,” says Mother Mother. “How could the maid possibly be herself?” I lie beside Mother Mother’s quietly dying soft, brown body, and fall asleep and dream I am walking up and down the aisles of a supermarket. In my cart is an old orange. It costs seven thousand dollars, and when I open my purse all I have is an ocean. “We do not accept,” says the cashier who is really the maid who is not herself, “an ocean.” The waves crash, which embarrasses me.
I wake up against an area of Mother Mother that has been designed to rot. No doctor can explain why.
It is possible the maid is a Jew, which could explain why the maid is not herself, though I have never asked her whether or not she is a Jew. Mother Mother is a Jew and I am a Jew and Father Father (who is missing) is a Jew. I read somewhere that some Jews escaped Poland by hiding in coffins. We are more or less ourselves, given our history, but the maid (Jew or not a Jew) seems more not herself than necessary. Around her head, she has begun wearing a silk scarf printed all over with tiny hatchets. Hatchets she will never bury.
The maid and I go outside. I say something and she disagrees. Snowflakes begin falling on her head, but not on mine. The maid points to a swimming pool in the far distance. “You see that swimming pool?” “Barely,” I say. “As a child, I swam in that swimming pool. I didn’t drown once.” The maid and I hold hands and walk eleven blocks before we run into Sweetie Pie, my maid before my maid who is not herself. Sweetie Pie is pink and fat. She shakes my maid hard until a small snail falls out. Sweetie Pie picks up the snail, cleans its shell carefully on her flowery dress, and hands it to me. “Did you know,” says Sweetie Pie, “that snail shells and the inner ear follow the same spiral?” “No,” I say. “That is how we know the snails are listening.” “Oh, I say.” I look at Sweetie Pie. I miss her so much, but not as much as I miss the maid who is not herself. I give the maid back her snail. She pops it into her mouth and sucks on it like it’s hard candy. “I am sorry,” I say to Sweetie Pie. “I know so little about snails, and now the maid who is not herself and I need to go home.” Sweetie Pie looks at the maid hard. “How is she with floors?” she asks. “Left to right or right to left?” “Nowhere,” I answer.
In the morning, I look in the mirror until my reflection thins enough for me to see Mother Mother staring back at me and then it thins again and there’s the maid.
I scrub the house. I check on Bye Bye Françoise. I clean her cage. I wipe her perch. Bye Bye Françoise is not herself. Her eyes are black and still. I gently pet her small blue feathery head, but she turns her head away. I dust the sills. I beat the rugs. I polish the banisters. I wash and dry the stacks and stacks of dirty dishes. I change Mother Mother’s sheets. I brush her hair. I apply rose-scented gloss to her lips. I empty her darkening bags of fluid. I give her the pills.
My work doesn’t matter. There is always dirt. There are always things where they should never be. The minute I look away, what wasn’t a mess will become a mess and the mess will be a holy one.
“Are you fed?” asks Mother Mother. “No,” I say, “I’m fine.” “There are wonder cakes,” says Mother Mother. She touches her lips with her thumb. “I left them for you somewhere. Long ago and far away.” I take Mother Mother’s hand. “Go eat them,” she says. “I will,” I say. “Go eat them forever.”
I leave Mother Mother to go looking for wonder cakes. I find a trail of wrappers leading me straight to the maid who is hunched in the pantry. “Lydia?” Lydia doesn’t turn her head. “Remember when you wiped all my countertops until they glistened? Remember when you swept up all the dust? Remember the broom?” She slowly turns, then smiles at me for the first time in months. White and yellow wonder cake crumbs fall gently, like snow, from her mouth.
I bring Mother Mother a glass of water with a pink straw. She takes a sip, but the water doesn’t reach her lips. It rises slowly, stops, gives up, and falls. “This is what the end looks like,” says Mother Mother. “How about that?” “How about what?” I ask, though I know. “That,” says Mother Mother. For a second she drifts off, but the bony sunshine snaps her awake. “Your skull once grew inside me,” says Mother Mother. “I know,” I say. “I know you know,” says Mother Mother. “And now there are these falling children. Make it stop.” I do something with my hands, like untying a pretend knot. “Thank you,” says Mother Mother. “They have stopped,” says Mother Mother. “Except for one. One is still falling, but she is quiet and I don’t mind.” She takes my hand. “She looks,” says Mother Mother squinting up at the air, “just like you.”
It is impossible to describe how much I miss the maid. I write her a note.
Dear Lydia,
It is so obvious you got into my collection. My Apple Snail, my Great Pond Snail, and my Trumpet Snail are missing. I still have my Red Spotted Snail, the Crown Snail, and all my Mystery Snails (four). I didn’t want to say anything to Sweetie Pie about my vast knowledge of snails. I didn’t want to give it away. I was protecting you, Lydia, like you once protected me. I want to shake you like Sweetie Pie shook you until all the snails fall out. I want to jump into the swimming pool you never drowned in as a child. I want you to clean my whole entire house again. It is so dank.
Forever Yours,
Lydia
I fold the note seven times. I find the maid curled up on the disheveled bath rug. She is sound asleep. From her beauty, my heart just mildews. I don’t think she will ever clean my house again. I open her gigantic white hand, then close it around my letter.
I follow a long, thin blur of dirt back to Mother Mother. “You should’ve drawn a line,” says Mother Mother, “between you and the maid.” “I did,” I say, “but it was shaped like an arrow pointing in the direction of my heart.” There is so much grime in the air it coats my skin and makes it sticky. “Did you know,” says Mother Mother, “that an assembly of snails is called a rout?” Mother Mother’s legs seem to be completely disappearing beneath the crumpled sheets. “What’s a rout?” I ask. “A disorderly retreat of defeated troops,” says Mother Mother. “That makes sense,” I say.
One week later, I look out the dirty window and see the maid standing in the yard. As if waiting for a trumpet to sound, her body has turned skyward. I leave her alone. I go to Bye Bye Françoise’s cage. Bye Bye Françoise is not there. In her place is a Milk Snail. I’ve always wanted a Milk Snail. I peel it off Bye Bye Françoise’s perch. It waves its tentacles, sleepily. I bring it into the livingroom, where Mother Mother is no longer dying. I put the Milk Snail in her bed, and climb in beside it. The bed sheets are so sour. I call for the rest of my collection to join us. The whole rout. They will come. I am certain of it. I just need to be patient. They are snails. And it will, as everything does, take forever.
ARE YOU MY MOTHER?
Francine Prose, who is my mother, calls to inform me there has been an error, and now she is fairly certain she is not my mother, but someone else’s mother. She speaks for a long time, at first nervously, then gradually with great eloquence. After a few hours, she begins to break up. The only thing I can make out is something about “Mary’s gorgeous hair.” I don’t know this Mary, although I wish I did. I pick at my nail polish, “Lucky Lucky Lavender.” “Mom,” I say. “No,” she says. “Call me Fran,” she says. And hangs up.
I call my cleaning lady, Hillary Clinton. She doesn’t seem to know who I am, though she cleaned my kitchen no more than three days ago. The stove is still glistening. “Are you my mother?” I ask. Silence. I ask again. “Hillary Clinton?” “Yes,” she says. “Are you my mother?” More silence. I stare out the window, sunk by Hillary Clinton’s remoteness. I decide I will clean my own house from now on. After what feels like days, Hillary Clinton asks me what I’m afraid of. Her attention excites me. I answer swiftly. “Mice, old watering cans, political realities, vibrant colors, hooks, Thursday, wounded things, Shep, sacred music …” “Who’s Shep?” asks Hillary Clinton. “My grandfather,” I say. Silence. Then a heavier silence. I look around my living room. All my upholstery is frayed. “Hillary Clinton?” “Yes?” “All my upholstery is frayed.” Silence. I wish I’d never called. It’s so obvious Hillary Clinton isn’t my mother. She doesn’t care about me or my upholstery or my deepest fears at all. If she ever came into my room to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, I would turn my face away.
I send a letter to Jorie Graham because if Francine Prose is not my mother and Hillary Clinton, my cleaning lady, is not my mother, there is a good chance Jorie Graham is my mother. The letter is very beautiful and describes what happened with Francine Prose and Hillary Clinton and my upholstery and all my hopes and dreams.
Two weeks later I get a letter back. Jorie Graham writes, “Sounds like a case of overwatering. Same thing happens with my plants. Why is everything so goddammed difficult?” At the very bottom in very small writing she writes, “How can I be your mother when I am Jorie Graham. I am not your mother. Have you tried Diana Ross?”
I have, in fact, tried Diana Ross.
If Francine Prose is not my mother, and Hillary Clinton is not my mother, and Jorie Graham is not my mother, and Diana Ross is not my mother, maybe John Berryman is my mother. I go to John Berryman’s house and knock on his door. He is dead, but he opens anyway. He is wearing a salmon-colored sweater. “Are you my mother?” I ask. “I am not your mother,” says John Berryman. He opens the door wider. “But I could become your mother.” Shep, my grandfather, is there. He is wearing an identical salmon-colored sweater. I step inside. It smells like waffles and liver. “Touch my sweater!” yells Shep. I do not want to touch his sweater. “Touch it!” he roars. I reach my hand out, close my eyes, and touch it. It’s incredibly soft. “Like god himself!” he thunders. “Touch John Berryman’s sweater!” John Berryman blushes and moves very close to me. I quickly touch John Berryman’s sweater. It’s as soft as Shep’s sweater, maybe even softer. “You know who gave us these sweaters?” “Who?” I ask. “Your mother,” says Shep. “Francine Prose?” I ask. “Francine Prose is not your mother,” says Shep. “Then who?” I ask. “Your mother!” yells Shep. I look over at John Berryman. “John Berryman?” I ask. Shep laughs. “John Berryman is not your mother.” “But I can become your mother,” adds John Berryman. Shep tells me to hold on a minute, disappears into another room, and comes back with a third salmon-colored sweater. “Your mother left this for you,” says Shep. “Put it on.” I put it on. It is beautiful. It is so beautiful John Berryman begins to cry. I put my arms around him and we are like one enormous salmon-colored sweater. “Don’t cry,” I say. “There, there,” I say. “What?” asks John Berryman. “There, there,” I say again. He sniffs and looks at me quizzically. “It’s an expression,” I say. “It means it’ll be okay.” “But it won’t be okay,” says John Berryman. “It will only get worse.” “A lot worse,” adds Shep. “How much?” I ask. “A ton,” says Shep. “A ton worse,” adds John Berryman. “Does my mother know?” I ask. “Of course your mother knows,” says Shep. “Will she make it better?” I ask. “She will not make it better,” says Shep. “Will she at least try?” I ask. “She will not,” says Shep. “Can John Berryman make it better?” I am desperate. “He cannot make it better,” says Shep. “He is only your pretend mother.” “Why won’t my mother make it better?” I ask. Shep looks at John Berryman. John Berryman looks at Shep. “Is the salmon-colored sweater not enough for you?” asks Shep. He looks more disappointed than angry. It is a very beautiful sweater. Soft and warm, and probably very expensive. “Because if it is not enough,” says Shep, “give it back.” I am feeling brave, and sad, and defiant. I take off the salmon-colored sweater and give it back to Shep. John Berryman begins to cry again. He is not a good mother. I put my arms around him. Without the salmon-colored sweater, I feel very small. Also, I am cold. I shiver. I climb under John Berryman’s salmon-colored sweater where it is warm. He is sobbing now, heavily. It is like I am in an ocean and the waves are crashing. I close my eyes.
THE STEPMOTHER
“You smell like Florida. We hate you.” The Stepmother knows from the crushed handwriting this note is from The Stepchildren. At the bottom of the note is a drawing of a mouse. The Stepmother wants to know what does the mouse mean. The mouse seems lonely and afraid. Its eyes are too big. The Stepmother peels a hard-boiled egg, eats it very quietly, and thinks about the mouse, and Florida, and smelling like Florida. No one wants to smell like Florida. If The Stepmother had any guts she would go to the yard this instant and paint all the trees white, but The Stepmother has no guts. If The Stepmother had any guts her husband who is the father of The Stepchildren who believe she smells like Florida would come home and see the trees and say what in god’s name have you done? Do you think we’re living in a goddamn fairy tale here? The Stepmother would stand there with her large bucket of paint, and her guts, and tell her husband the trees are now white because she is not a real Mother, she will never be a real Mother, and also she is thinking of running away with the mouse. She would sob and say something strange and dramatic like how she feels as though she’s three plagues short of an exodus even though she doesn’t really have any plagues except for smelling like Florida. But none of this will happen because The Stepmother has no guts, and this is America not a fairy tale. This is a state in America that is not Florida even though The Stepmother is reeking of it. The Stepmother wants to know what does the mouse mean. It is a beautiful mouse. The Stepmother has no guts but she does have some scissors which she uses to cut the mouse out. No one wants to be lonely, and afraid, and live in a note about smelling like Florida. Once The Stepmother cuts the mouse out the mouse shivers. It is a very sad shiver. Sadder than all The Stepmother’s sadnesses, and somehow this comforts her. The Stepmother isn’t certain whether the shiver is from coldness or relief, but she cuts off a strand of her hair and wraps it around the mouse’s shoulders anyway. The mouse falls asleep in the palm of The Stepmother’s hand, and dreams of guts, and white trees, and the kindness of The Stepmother. The mouse is what the mouse means. It’s The Stepchildren who mean something else. It’s The Stepchildren who mean something far, far away, l
ike a Mother. When The Stepchildren come home The Stepmother will hug and kiss them and wipe their dirty little hands until their hearts break in two.
THE STICK FIGURE FAMILY
“Something, something is not right,” says Mrs. Stick. One of her arms disappears off the page. She uses her other to hold her Stick Babies. Mr. Stick wears a hat. “Honey, I’m home.” He enters stiffly. “Something, something is not right,” says Mrs. Stick. Mr. Stick takes the babies who are crying sticks and feeds them sticks. Original dread. The Stick Babies are flowering pink. The afternoon is thinning. It is a struggle to be a line. When I go over there, they touch my sweater. They touch my hair. Outside the clouds hang loose like nobody’s skin. This family is not mine, though they stare at me like they once were. Mrs. Stick presses her cold, weathered mouth against my cheek and whispers something that sounds like “love, love,” though I can’t be sure. For too long she stays against me. Evening comes. Mr. Stick covers the Stick Babies with sticks and prays they sleep and never dream of rocks. “What have I done?” he asks. “Who are these people we once never were?” Mrs. Stick calls out for Mr. Stick. He thickens, frowns, and goes to her. I watch the Stick Babies sleep. Their legs and arms, crossed and thin, make a shadow of cobwebs. I pick the tiny pink flowers off their limbs. They hardly breathe. There are so many flowers. Out of them, I will make a bouquet I will hold to my chest when I walk down the aisle and marry you.
FATHER
“The larger of two carts for moving things,” read the message, “is missing from room 255. If you have it please return asap. It is needed.” Had the message never appeared in our inboxes, we would’ve gone on believing Father. But the message appeared, as did Father with the cart.
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