Chapter Seven #2
The table was set with place mats, plates, and silverware. A white cloth runner ran down the center with bowls of chips and pretzels beside covered trays of chunked fruits and sliced veggies. Cameron raised the lid on the grill and flipped shrimp and chicken kebabs.
“We should eat before the boys get back,” Cam said. “Then it’s every man and woman for themselves.”
I laughed.
Tonight, we feast, I thought. Because I have no idea what tomorrow holds.
Hopefully not a famine.
I tossed and turned through the night in Mom’s trailer. The space was cramped and smelled faintly of something unpleasant I couldn’t name. I was thankful for that last part. Strange scent aside, camping in the backyard felt unsafe, making my move into the house a priority.
At six thirty a.m., I dressed in leggings and a T-shirt with sneakers, then pulled my hair into a ponytail and drove to the nearest drive-through for iced coffee, mentally thanking Alicia for the gift card. I returned feeling awake and resolved.
The work ahead of me would be unpleasant, and dirty, so I’d planned ahead. I had purchased extra cleaning supplies with my grocery orders for weeks, then packed them with my things for the move. Alicia had set the boxes out for me before leaving after dinner.
Now I had to face the consequences of my actions and turn Mom’s cluttered house into my new home.
I cued up some Taylor Swift and strode across the lawn driven by caffeine, adrenaline, and purpose. “Let the transformation begin.”
I opened the windows and doors to circulate the cool morning air.
Then I dragged things I didn’t want, or couldn’t use, onto the patio to deal with later.
Unopened boxes of dishes, small appliances, and upright vacuums in triplicate.
Plastic totes of VHS tapes and music CDs.
Cases of unopened wine and canned goods.
Organizing the overflow as I went helped me track my progress, but I had to stop frequently to adjust the piles.
I’d designated one side of the patio for items destined for charities, food banks, and shelters.
Those organizations would properly distribute and put the items to good use.
Everything on the other side was essentially trash.
Items stacked on top of the table in the middle didn’t fit into either category, so they stayed, temporarily, in limbo.
I scrubbed the dining room and kitchen floors on my hands and knees with a combination of hot water, dish detergent, baking soda, and white vinegar. My tried-and-true cleanser removed grease, buildup, and stains like nothing store bought could. The work tired my limbs and quieted my mind.
Sweat pooled between my breasts and shoulder blades as I continued to purge and scrub the walls, trim, and windows, whitening every stubborn grout line and bead of caulk.
Slowly the dining room and kitchen, two rooms I’d cleaned as best I could before Mom returned from the hospital, looked like home again.
When I was sure I couldn’t go on without food or a ten-hour nap, I steam cleaned the drapes and scoured her appliances inside and out.
Then I opened the cupboards and groaned.
Black magic was clearly at work there. How else could eighty-year-old cabinets remain on the walls while carrying such a load?
Hundreds of plates, cups, bowls, and mugs filled the top shelves. Bakeware, cookware, and small appliances filled the lower units. Every drawer was either stuck shut from excessive contents or impossible to close for the same reason.
Dirt, paint chips, and rust fell to the clean floors as I emptied and sorted.
“Goodness, Mom,” I complained. “How did you live like this? Why?”
Why didn’t I realize how bad things had gotten sooner? For her and her home.
I pushed the thought aside, knowing the answers. I hadn’t looked too deeply because I didn’t want to get caught up in her misery. I was already drowning in my own.
At least the floor was clean enough to sit on as I determined which items to return to the cupboards—right after I scrubbed and disinfected them as well.
I leaned my back against the stove and pulled a pile of mismatched dishes between parted legs.
A strange sort of nostalgia stilled my mind.
The bowl on top was part of a set I ate cereal from before school in the mornings as a child.
Mom had a mug with the same maroon toile pattern.
We bought the set from an estate sale on the edge of uptown during one of our few mother-daughter outings.
She and Dad had broken our other dishes during an especially bad fight that week.
I ran my fingertip over the pattern, then across the chip on the bowl’s scalloped edge.
She appeared in my mind’s eye, sipping coffee as I ate breakfast before school.
Every morning she woke me, then Dad, already jazzed up on caffeine and ready to tackle her day.
I watched her wash dishes, fill a slow cooker with meat, and iron clothes on a board beside the sink, all while giving me a verbal rundown of things to remember.
Picture day Thursday. History test tomorrow.
Stay late to help with the bake sale. Clean your room before you ask to run around with your friends.
How had I forgotten the way she carried our mental load? She kept every appointment, commitment, and responsibility on her internal calendar. She sent cookies and cakes to the office with Dad when his boss, a coworker, or secretary had a birthday.
A knock at the open back door returned me to the present, and I dragged my body upright.
“Anyone home?” Ilona called. She poked her head inside as I dusted my hands against my pant legs. “You certainly got an early start. Just like your mother.”
“Hi.” I smiled at her familiar face. “It’s a big job. I figured it was best to dive in.”
She looked me over, then turned in a slow circle, whistling the sound of a falling missile. “Based on the amount of stuff already outside, I half expected the place to be empty. These are the same two rooms you cleaned before—”
“Yeah,” I said. “But last time I just tidied enough to set up the hospital bed and make the nurses comfortable. I was on a tight timeline.”
She pulled a canvas tote bag from her shoulder and set it on the stove. “Well, I came to help. I’ve got trash bags, rubber gloves, and some cleaning supplies in case you run out.”
A few hours prior, I would’ve told her I had plenty of everything I’d need for a while. But after the work I’d done so far, I was grateful for the company and the extra supplies. “Thank you.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Here.” She pulled a small container from the bag and handed it to me. “Strawberry cream cheese Danish. Your favorite, if I recall.”
My stomach growled at the sight of the pastry. “I love your Danishes,” I said. “I would hug you, but I’m disgusting.”
We moved to the table while I ate, and she unearthed two bottles of water, passing one to me.
“How are other things looking by light of day?” Ilona asked.
I knew, from her tone, she didn’t mean the cluttered home. I shrugged. “I couldn’t stay with him any longer,” I said. “I blamed Mom for staying with my dad.” The words came out before I thought better of them, and I looked away.
“She knew,” Ilona said. “She carried a lot of guilt for the choices she made. She was trying to outrun her ghosts from the day I met her, but we can’t hide from things we won’t put down.”
I wasn’t sure which things she meant, but the sadness in her voice broke my heart. I set a hand on Ilona’s arm and gave a gentle squeeze before I let her go. “She loved you, you know,” I said. “I think you were her only friend for most of my adult life.”
“She pushed people away,” Ilona said. “I wasn’t interested in leaving, and I live fifty feet away, so she was stuck with me. Plus, I’ve made my share of mistakes. I don’t judge.”
I turned my attention to the Danish and sank my teeth into the flaky crust. The soft, savory center melted against my tongue. “Amazing.”
“It’s your mom’s recipe.”
I licked crumbs from my lips as another memory of my mother resurfaced.
“She loved to bake.” She taught me to knead dough and how to proof it.
We made everything from scratch, and she played music on the radio while we worked.
“We danced in the kitchen,” I whispered, only partially sure that was true.
“She cherished those memories,” Ilona said, “even while complaining about your visits and calling you a stuck-up bitch.”
“She never called me a stuck-up bitch,” I said.
Ilona cringed. “Maybe not to your face.”
A snort of shock turned to laughter, and I let it linger instead of cutting it off.
“There were two of us she couldn’t push away,” Ilona said.
I nodded. “I guess there were.”