The Opposite Of Tidy

by Carrie Mac

  “That’s good!” Junie leaned forward, her mood suddenly brighter. “Look at how much she’s gotten rid of already!”

  Her father slowed in front of the house. When he stopped, Junie opened her door.

  “Junie, wait!” her father called after her. “I don’t want you involved in this!”

  But Junie ignored him and ran across the lawn to the front door. She found her mom in the dining room, surrounded by a fortress of file boxes, a tall, slender man beside her, a camera crew behind them, filming.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

  “Not if you want me to survive this. It was terrible. I might never go back.”

  “Well, we’ll talk about it later,” her mother said. “Missing one afternoon isn’t the end of the world.” She gestured at the man beside her. “This is Nigel. Nigel, this is my daughter, Juniper.”

  She didn’t need to introduce him. Anyone who’d watched The Kendra Show on a regular basis would know exactly who he was: the polished-for-TV psychiatrist Kendra brought in to deal with the worst cases. He was dressed in a smart-looking suit, with narrow pinstriped pants and a matching vest. No jacket. The sleeves of his pressed shirt were folded up in neat sections. He wore disposable gloves on what looked like quite small hands for a man of his height.

  “Nigel Carley, psychiatrist.” His posh British accent sounded very out of place, considering the squalor surrounding him.

  “Juniper Rawley, daughter. You can call me Junie.” “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you, I guess.”

  Junie scanned the room. Despite the loaded trucks outside, it didn’t look as though anything was happening inside. If anything, it looked worse. What had once been disorderly but compact stacks and piles were now all undone and in shambles as her mother sorted through them.

  “I’ll be working with your mother for the week. We’re going to be aggressively addressing her situation. Her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and hoarding in particular.”

  He was speaking for the camera, obviously.

  “Obsessive what?”

  “OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s a mental disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that result in severe anxiety, which leads the person to perform ritualized behaviours in order to reduce the anxiety.” He sounded as if he were reading from a textbook.

  Junie glanced at the cameras, wishing they would spontaneously combust. She placed a protective hand on her mother’s arm. “You’re saying my mom’s mental?”

  “It’s okay, Junie. He’s explained it all to me, too.”

  “Not ‘mental.’ Not at all in the way that you’re thinking.” Nigel smiled at her. It was a genuine smile, too, not fake or condescending, like when Evelyn St. Claire tried to do the same. “But she does—you do, Marla, suffer from OCD, and that is, in fact, a genuine mental disorder.”

  Before Junie could ask any more questions, her father showed up behind them.

  “What the hell is going on, Marla?”

  “It’s not really any of your business, now, is it?” Her mother turned to Nigel. “This is my ex-husband, Ron.”

  “Ron.” Nigel pulled off his glove and held out his hand. Junie’s father didn’t shake it, just glared at Nigel instead. “Pleased to meet you, Ron. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Not a question. An order. Get the cameras out of here.”

  “If that’s what needs to happen to make you feel comfortable, we can do that for now.” Nigel sent them out of the room with a wave. “There. Now what’s on your mind, Ron?”

  “I want everyone out of here, that’s what!” Junie’s dad took a step forward and tripped on a garden hose. “This is still my house, and I haven’t given anyone permission to be here. So out. Go, and clear everyone else out with you.”

  “Let’s take a minute to talk this out, Ron.” Nigel’s voice was smooth, but not too smooth. “Can I explain how this works?”

  “This? What is ‘this,’ exactly?”

  And so Nigel explained about how Junie’s mother had contacted them, and how the intervention was going to work. They’d be there a week, all expenses carried by the show. Junie’s mother would get help. The house would get in order.

  “That can only be a good thing,” Nigel finished. “Don’t you think?”

  “Please don’t ruin this for me, Ron.” Her mother’s voice was shaky. Junie looked at her. She held a plastic grocery bag full of old bills in each trembling hand. “This is going to make things better. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Better?” Ron swept his arm wide. “You think a week is going to fix this?” He turned to Nigel. “What you don’t know about my wife is that this is the product of years of dysfunction. Decades! You think you can fix her in a week when I couldn’t fix her in seventeen years?”

  “I do.”

  “You do? How can you—?”

  “The difference is that now she is ready.” Junie was rapt. She could listen to Nigel say pretty much anything and it would sound exquisitely right. “The difference is that we have endless resources available to us. The differences are vast, and should not be brushed aside.”

  Ron paused. Junie could see that he had been swayed, if only just enough. For better or for worse, she wasn’t sure.

  “I don’t have to be on the show, though.”

  “I think we can arrange for that.”

  “Because I don’t want to be on the show. Not even for a second. Not even in a background shot. Is that clear?”

  “As a bell.”

  Charlie strode into the room, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. “This is the ex?”

  “Charlie, this is Ron Rawley, Marla’s estranged husband and Junie’s father.”

  “Sign this.” She thrust the clipboard at him. Junie winced. Not a smart move.

  Her dad glanced at it before flinging it at her feet. “I’m not going to be on your salacious little talk show, so you can shove that release form right up your ass, lady.”

  “Ron!” Junie’s mother flung the bills down with a flourish. “Don’t talk to her that way.”

  “It’s all right, Marla,” Charlie said, her eyes on Junie’s dad. “Mr. Rawley makes his own decisions. We can do the show without him. From the sounds of it, he’s not been in the picture for quite some time now anyway.”

  “Let’s go, Dad.” Junie tugged on her father’s sleeve.

  He glared at Charlie. “Just what are you insinuating?”

  “You left your family.” Charlie shrugged. “You don’t have much say in what goes on here now.”

  “This is still my house.”

  “Meh, any reasonable judge would award it to the wife and child you left behind.” Charlie sounded even more New York, if that was possible. “Or should I say ex-wife. Whatever.”

  Before her dad could erupt again, Nigel stepped between him and Charlie, reaching a manicured hand toward each of them.

  “Let’s take a minute to collect our thoughts.”

  “No thank you,” Junie’s dad barked. He grabbed Junie’s hand. “We’re getting out of here. Junie can come back when it’s over.”

  “What?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “No way, she’s part of the show. Nigel,” she aimed a finger at him, “make him understand. The kid is a big hook. We need her. We can sacrifice the dad, but Kendra will flip if the daughter is out. She’ll totally pull the show. We already talked about it when the daughter was putting up her own fuss. Make this issue go away, Nigel. Do your magic.”

  Pull the show? Jargon or not, Junie could figure out what that meant easily enough. Cancel it. Stop the intervention. Leave.

  Her dad was physically dragging Junie toward the front door. “Come on, Junie. Enough of this crap. Let’s get out of here. And you vultures can talk to my lawyer if you have anything more to say to me. Good luck with your fifteen minutes of fame, Marla. The extraordinary squalidness of it particularly suits you.”

  “Ron! Come back!” J
unie’s mother yelled after them. Junie could hear Nigel murmuring to her. But her mother kept yelling. “You can’t take her! You can’t take her, Ron!”

  The camera crew was getting all of this, because while they’d left the dining room, they had only gone as far as the living room. They aimed their cameras on the scene now, and Junie’s father was too absorbed in his exit to notice.

  “Oh yeah?” he hollered over his shoulder. “If I don’t take her, then Social Services will. Because you are an unfit mother, Marla! A friggin’ mess! I’ve been nice enough until now, giving you time to get your life together. And you haven’t! So now it goes to the courts. And who do you think will win custody? Me! That’s who! Sole custody! Because you are a sick, filthy woman living in a sick, filthy house. And I won’t stand it any more. Our daughter deserves better!”

  “Mom!” Junie yanked free of her father and ran back to her mother. She gave her a hug, and her mom held onto her tight. “Don’t listen to him, Mom. You’re doing great. I’ll be home later. I promise. I’m doing this with you. Okay?”

  “He’s right. He’s right, he’s right, he’s right.” Her mother wiped at her tears. “I am a horrible mother.”

  “You’re not. You’re not.” Junie tossed a glare at her father, but he wasn’t having any of it. He held her look, his jaw clenched, face tight with anger. “He’s just mad. Everything will be okay.”

  “Junie,” her dad barked. “Now!”

  “I’m coming, Dad. Just wait.” She gave her mother another hug. “I love you, Mom. Do you hear me? I love you.”

  This started the tears again in earnest. “I love you too,” her mother choked out as the cameraman stepped closer.

  Turning on her father, Junie shoved him toward the door. He’d already made quite a scene for the camera crew.

  She just wanted to get him out of there before he created any more drama.

  He stormed toward his car, waited until Junie was buckled up and then stomped on the gas pedal, squealing his tires as he sped away. Junie looked behind them. The camera crew had followed them and was filming him racing off. If drama made good TV, then The Kendra Show was going to win awards for featuring Junie’s screwed-up family.

  NINETEEN

  Evelyn St. Claire’s loft was sleek and modern, the décor lifted right out of Home & Style magazine. Everything was staged, so that no matter where your gaze landed, you saw something that was most definitely meant to be there. Whether it was a throw angled over the edge of the white leather couch, or a carefully aligned stack of art books on the coffee table with a wrought-iron candelabra resting on top, Evelyn St. Claire had put a lot of thought into it all. Even the candles in the candelabra seemed to be artfully, stylishly melted.

  Junie kicked off her shoes and slumped on the couch, kicking the throw to the floor and pushing the books askew with her toe. She wondered if they’d had the candles lit for their stupid silent retreat. Who did that? What New Age weirdos did that?

  Her father brought her a glass of water with a slice of lemon floating on top. The same New Age weirdos who put lemon in their water. He was turning into a pretentious snob, just like Evelyn St. Claire.

  “Where’s Princess?” Junie didn’t know what else to talk about. The business back at the house, the whole Kendra thing, seemed overwhelming and dangerous.

  “With Evelyn.” Her father settled on the couch beside her, cupping his own glass of water with both hands. “She’s working with this eccentric old millionaire who has an art collection like you wouldn’t believe. She’s helping him create a gallery in his home, and then she’s cataloguing the rest that he hasn’t got room to show.”

  Junie didn’t care. She really didn’t care. “That’s interesting.”

  She and her father sat side by side, ignoring the hugeness between them until they couldn’t any longer.

  “I think it’s going to help,” Junie finally said.

  “Well, fine and great if it does. I don’t want you on that show.”

  “But I’m part of her life, Dad. A big part.” Junie was surprised at her reaction. She’d spent the whole day wishing the cameras away, but now that she’d gotten her wish, she wasn’t so sure she wanted it. “I’m part of the story too.” And so are you, she wanted to add. But she didn’t. He wasn’t really a part of her mother’s story now. Never mind the seventeen years they’d been married. He’d walked away. He was gone now. “You don’t really have a say any more,” Junie said gently. “You can’t have it both ways. You left. It’s me and Mom now. Not you, me and Mom.”

  Her father looked at her with steely, dark eyes. “I’m still your father.”

  “But I’m not six.” Junie set her glass down on the polished coffee table. Her father scooped it up and slipped a coaster underneath. This irked her more than it should have. She took a deep breath before she spoke again. “So you can’t really tell me what to do.”

  “You’re not an adult yet, either, so technically, I can.” When Junie didn’t reply, he shifted uncomfortably beside her, first placing his hands on his knees, and then crossing them across his chest. Finally, he got up and climbed the stairs to the loft bedroom.

  It had been a long time since her father had parented her. Even before he’d left the house he had already checked out emotionally, years before. He’d spent all his time sitting at a small desk in the corner of the master bedroom, surfing the Internet, chatting online, ignoring the mess around him. Junie had never really been parented, she realized. She’d been growing up with a mother and father, but hadn’t really experienced either. She’d been ripped off. She figured that she should be angry about the realization, but she wasn’t. She was tired, and sad. Nebulously, viciously sad.

  Junie folded her legs under her and gazed out the window at the tall orange cranes down on the docks, the stacked shipping containers and the harbour beyond. She wanted to talk to Wade. More than anything. She didn’t want to be there with her father. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to go find Wade. She wanted him to put his arm around her and pull her into him. She wanted to be tucked away, somewhere wonderful. And that was with Wade. Or had been, until she blew it.

  Junie looked at the time on the massive clock halfway up the exposed brick wall. Evelyn had bought it at an auction of items from a tiny train station way up north that had been decommissioned. Junie liked it, actually, but had never told her so. She wasn’t particularly interested in ever giving Evelyn St. Claire any reason to smile. It was after two o’clock now. Wade was probably on his way to Chilliwack. Without her. Junie closed her eyes. She was in the passenger seat in his van, staring out the window at the blue sky, the power lines zipping by. Patsy Cline on the stereo. She glanced over at Wade. He smiled at her. Winked.

  Junie opened her eyes. Not the van. No blue sky. No smile.

  What would it take for him to forgive her? She would ask him. As hard as it would be to make those words come out of her mouth, she would do it. She missed him. She tried his cell but he didn’t answer. She got his voice mail and left a message, her voice low so her father wouldn’t hear.

  “Wade? Talk to me? Please? Let me explain? I miss you.” Junie’s voice caught. “I really miss you. I screwed up and I just want to explain. I’m at my dad’s. Call me.” She hadn’t asked what it would take to forgive her. It didn’t seem like a question for voice mail. She didn’t think he would call. Not anytime soon, anyway. She wouldn’t have, if she’d been him. She clutched the phone and stared at it, wishing she could make the call over again. She’d sounded desperate. Nervous. Pathetic. No one she’d want to love.

  Her father came down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen. Junie heard the fridge open, the kitchen tap running, and then he returned to the living room with two shiny apples.

  “A peace offering.” He set one on the table in front of her, and took a bite from the other. He chewed, every crunch like road construction in Junie’s head. She stared at her apple, knowing that she had to pick it up at least, if not eat it. She sl
id her eye to the side, to catch a glimpse of her father without him knowing. He took another bite, his lips smacking, the apple glistening and wet. Junie’s stomach lurched. She picked up the apple, the phone still in her other hand.

  “Can I take this with me?” she asked him, meaning both the phone and the fruit.

  Her dad waited until he’d swallowed before asking, “Where are you going?”

  “To lie down for a bit. I don’t feel so good.” Junie put her other hand to her stomach. She wasn’t faking. Her stomach felt like so much hardening cement.

  “We should talk.”

  Sure, now he wanted to talk. Almost a year after he’d left with hardly two words to say about it, now he wanted to talk. Well, Junie didn’t. She wanted to lock herself in a cool, dark room and come out when everything went back to normal. Or ahead, to a better normal where her mom was better and Wade had forgiven her. Ahead to normal.

  “I just want to be alone for a bit. Okay?”

  “I don’t want you on that show, Junie. I’m going to be firm about that. It’s not healthy. It’s not sane.” Junie was too tired to argue any more. “Later, Dad. Please?”

  “All right.” His expression softened. “I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

  But Junie didn’t sleep. Her room at Evelyn St. Claire’s had actually been a walk-in closet before, just off the hall by the front door. So there was no window, and not much room for anything but the single mattress on a low platform and a small bedside table with a reading lamp on it. Her dad had drilled hooks into the back of the door so she could hang up her things, but other than that, there was nowhere to put anything. When he and Evelyn had first showed her the transformed closet, she’d been outwardly horrified and inwardly pleased. She’d told them it was cruel to keep a child in a closet, when, really, the small room was warm, inviting and ultimately cozy. It felt like a cocoon.

  Evelyn had painted it turquoise blue—Junie’s favourite colour—and had strung fairy lights along the edge of the ceiling, along with a big silver star lamp that hung down in one corner. She’d sewn throw pillows to match the comforter (also turquoise), and a few more in a light purple, which was the colour she’d painted the bedside table. It was delicious and private and all Junie’s, even if she’d never admit to loving it. Like the clock. Truth was, Junie could easily understand why her father loved living here. It was so deliciously unlike home. If only it hadn’t included Evelyn St. Claire, who was so not like Junie’s mother. That was why her father wanted her instead. Junie knew that. She might want it to be different, but she knew why it was the way it was. Evelyn was put together, beautiful, organized, interested in life and interesting. Her mother was . . . not.