“I hope you have a lovely time,” Mom said, turning back to the pile of photos, the saga of the lost scissors temporarily forgotten. I said nothing, but shut the door just a little more forcefully than was necessary as I left, hopefully dislodging a pile or two to give her something to do for the night.
Now, as I stood in front of my bedroom door the next morning, I wondered if she’d ever found those stupid scissors. I pushed it open and stepped inside, leaving the rest of the house behind me. Compared to everywhere else in this place, my room was like paradise, with surfaces that weren’t covered with bags of useless garbage, and with a bed you could actually sleep in.
The first time I’d really cleaned my room a couple of years ago, she’d totally freaked. I’d been babysitting at the Callans’ when I got the idea to clean my room. I wanted my bedroom to look the same as the ones their kids had—carpet on the floor you could see and a desk you could reach without having to wade through drifts of crap. A room that could be dusted on occasion because there wasn’t so much clutter, with a bed that didn’t have to be cleared to be slept in. It’s not like anyone else would see it, but still it would be nice. I’d started one morning when Mom was at work, and by the time she got home you could really see the difference. Despite my better judgment, I thought she might be happy about it, might be glad that for once I’d done some work around here. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The whole neighborhood could hear her ranting out by the garbage cans as she dug through them for the dirty stuffed animals, clothes that were too small, games with missing pieces, and everything else I had thrown out. I got the usual lecture about starving people in Africa who didn’t have anything nice at all as she marched the garbage bags back into my room. Not that I could ever figure out what a starving African child would do with a one-eyed Care Bear. After she’d fallen asleep in the recliner, I’d taken the bags back out of my room and shoved them deep into the dining room where they quickly got absorbed into the mess and disappeared. From then on, I cleaned my room by relocating the junk to other parts of the house.
Soon after that first time, she made Phil take my door off the hinges and put it in the garage so she could keep an eye on me. At least that’s what she said. Phil never said anything, but I could tell he felt bad about it. He was a senior in high school by then and did whatever it took to get by—just marking time until he could move out and be on his own like Sara had done years before.
You’d think a person would get used to being completely exposed, but I never did. I always slept facing the wall, but it still felt like someone was watching me. It took almost a year of careful negotiation to get the door put back on, minus the lock and doorknob so it didn’t actually close all the way, but I wasn’t about to complain. Apparently, nobody as sneaky and selfish as me deserved any privacy—you never knew what I might get up to in here if I had an actual door that locked. I might go crazy and vacuum the carpet or, worse, wash the windows. Anytime I cleaned something, she took it as a personal attack, like I was saying she wasn’t good enough to do it herself. Which, in reality, she wasn’t.
I reached into my jacket pocket for the ticket stub from the movies last night and smiled to myself. Smoothing over the corner that had gotten bent, I could almost feel the weight of Josh’s arm around my shoulders. I put the stub carefully in my vintage Partridge Family lunchbox. A calm feeling came over me as I sifted through the tickets I kept there—movies, the baseball game with Dad when I went out to see him that one summer, Disney on Ice when I was seven, and the circus from before Mom decided it was cruelty toward animals and we stopped going.
My room was freezing, so I reached down and clicked on the ancient space heater. One hard smack to the side got it running again, the orange glow from the coil inside making me feel warmer even before the heat actually kicked in.
I wasn’t sure when the furnace had broken completely, but it hadn’t worked right since last year. I’d have to call Phil and have him come try to fix it again. He hated having to come home from college to deal with the house, but we didn’t really have a choice. The last repairman didn’t get past the front hallway before realizing the place was too full of crap to even get near the hot water heater. He threatened to report Mom to Child Protective Services if she didn’t clean it up. He must not have, because CPS never showed up. Neither did another repairman. Mom said a lot of people in the old days had no hot water or indoor heat, and it didn’t hurt them any.
Because she had an early dentist appointment, I hadn’t had time to take a shower at Kaylie’s this morning. I took inventory in my bathroom mirror to see how bad things were getting. Cutting my hair short had been a great idea, because it made showerless days not as noticeable. I could probably hit the gym for a shower later today so I’d look as good as possible for tonight—the mere thought of Josh sent an electric thrill through my entire body. Maybe I’d even manage to get a workout in this time, and justify Dad paying for the membership. Although from the looks of my hamper, a trip to the laundromat this afternoon was probably more important.
I was heating up some water in my microwave to wash my face when the doorbell rang. I froze like we always did, hoping whoever was out there wouldn’t hear anyone moving around inside. The doorbell rang again a few seconds later, and I could hear distant knocking. Unless she knew who it was, Mom wouldn’t get it, either, so we’d both just wait until they got tired and went away. Except whoever it was wasn’t going away. After it rang insistently a third time, I quietly opened my door and tiptoed down the hall.
There was a spot in the dining room where you could look out the window without anyone seeing. Just as I reached it, I heard a car pull away from the front of the house and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Having someone at the front door always tied my stomach up in knots.
As I walked back to my room, I wondered why Mom didn’t open her door even a crack. Usually she at least listened to see if she could figure out who it was. She must be sick or something if she didn’t bother to come out at all. Her room was so full of stuff that she hardly ever slept in there anymore, but she occasionally shoved everything off the bed if she really needed to use it.
Feeling like I should at least make sure she was okay, I headed toward her room. The National Geographics blocked a good six feet of the hallway, and I’d slowly started to pick my way over the mountain of fallen magazines when I saw it. One of Mom’s slippers sticking out from under the pile.
“Mom?” I bent down and threw some of the magazines off until I had uncovered her leg. I shook it. “Mom?” It didn’t jiggle like it normally would; it just felt solid and heavy. “Mom!”
Because the paths we’d carved through all the garbage over the years were only wide enough to accommodate one relatively skinny person, I had to kneel down by her foot and stretch out on my hands so I could reach her face. I frantically tossed magazines to the side until her head was completely uncovered. Her eyes were closed and her mouth had a purplish tinge around the edges. I followed her outstretched arm and saw her inhaler just out of reach on the ground. She must have been having an asthma attack when she fell, pulling a decade’s worth of magazines with her as she went.
“Mom!” I reached up to shake her shoulder, but only felt the heaviness of her body as it refused to move. “Mom!” I yelled a little louder. “Come on!” This was not happening. This was not happening right now. My heart was pounding so loud it sounded like the ocean in my ears.