Classic Post-Fire Malaise
It was the worst of times: four days after the fire; after I biffed everything good in my life.
I’m holed up in what would be considered my old bedroom, although the only thing recognizable about it from my tenure here
is the pink carpet filled with old snags that seem to press into me when I walk the ground, cruel in their unpredictability,
and the single bed with the terrible mattress.
Since I’ve left, this room has become stuffed with dusty exercise equipment, a box of my mom’s weird-ass wigs that she thinks
are “fancy” for some reason (even though every occasion she wears them, someone is deeply unsettled), some holiday decorations,
and a whole-ass porcelain sink from when my mom had the basement salon working.
The clutter doesn’t matter, since I’ve been spending most of my time in bed looking at my phone. Alice sits on the late ’90s
bedside table. After I called my mom to ask if I could stay awhile, I did in fact remember Alice existed and asked a firefighter
to rescue her. She loved the fanfare of being carried out in a burly firefighter’s arms, so we’ve agreed not to talk about
the moment when I forgot about her.
When I first returned to this home that holds so many of my old wounds, I drafted several texts to Jane and Sami but deleted them all before hitting send. Now, I’ve unfortunately found my way to some earwax removal TikToks and it’s been sucking up a good part of my waking hours.
“Mona!” My mom doesn’t knock as she clicks open my door. She’s in a horrible leopard-print blouse and her perfume has a strong
musky bite to it. “You’re still lying in bed? What is this type of loser life?” Her brow angles at me in disapproval. “You
should come out with me.”
If I could have gone anywhere else, I would have. But I have no real friends anymore, nothing left that I can call my own.
I had no choice but to return to the childhood I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to outrun.
And to deal with this lady as my roommate.
“I’m just a little tired,” I reply. Ever since I got here, I’ve been so exhausted. It’s like all my years of running on a
treadmill have finally caught up with me.
“Well, you need to get more healthy in life.” She tuts. “Come with me and Aunty to get a burger.”
“That is . . . not what I expected you to say,” I mutter, rolling over to bury my cheek in the pillow. “But I’m good. I’ll
have some Cup Noodles when it feels right.”
She claps her hands together so hard, it’s probably fairer to call it a slap. “No, Mona! You need to go outside. Come on,
do your hair up and get up now.”
I inhale long and hard, the dust from the BowFlex mixing with her perfume. “Mom, I just want to relax my last few days before
work. Besides, I have nothing to wear.”
When I first got here, I ventured to Supershops for a package of underwear, some sweats, and toiletries, but mostly I’ve been
borrowing my mom’s clothes. And if I didn’t want to leave the house already, the thought of someone seeing me in my mom’s
neon sweaters and bedazzled jeans is enough to keep me tied to the bed.
“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”
“If you’re asking, I’m not sure how to answer.” Currently I’m sporting her red leggings that feature rhinestones up the sides. “I really would rather stay in. I have to go back to work next week, and that’s going to be a lot.”
The truth is, I’m not sure how in only four days I’m going to walk back into my office and do my job again. Part of it is
my former friends—I’m going to be siloed from the office culture, constantly having to watch my back from now on. But also,
it’s the job itself. Going back to doing something that’s sometimes hard to rationalize; I have to convince myself I care
deeply about a product, no matter what it is, so I can convince others to care about it too.
And I can’t bring myself to care about anything anymore. All these years trying to get promoted feel like I was chasing a carrot on a stick. I didn’t really care about the
work itself, so what was it I wanted? To be successful, admired, for people like Olivia to tell me I’m worthy? I don’t need
witnesses to validate my life anymore.
My mom stares at me, contemplating my pitiful pose curled up on the mattress. “Okay, then. That was a long vacation, after
all.”
Right, I never even told my mom the technical truth. She tilts her head, assessing. “You will probably be very busy when you
get back.”
I’m so tired of holding up this facade.
Just as she turns toward the door, and before I realize what I’m doing, I call back, “Mom, I need to tell you something.”
She halts mid-step and twists to face me. “Yes?”
I take a deep breath, briefly closing my eyes. “This wasn’t really a vacation.”
Curiosity twists her brow. “What was it then?”
“It was sort of a . . . disciplinary leave.”
“Discipline?” Her forehead creases. “What did you do for such a thing?”
I’d always imagined that telling my mom I’d failed would be the worst feeling ever, but instead I’m strangely hollow.
“I was rude to a big client. He said something that reminded me of . . . Dad, and I just . . .” I inhale as she drags her eyes slowly up to lock with mine.
“Mom, when Dad died, I tried to shut that chapter away. But I’ve really been struggling with it.
” The words feel sluggish as they make their way out, even as my heart begins to pick up speed.
I had to keep my pain from her because I knew she couldn’t carry it—not when she was drowning in her own grief. The few times
I tried, she always found a way to sidestep it. But now, I’ve left her no room to look away. And as I wait for her response,
I realize I’m barely breathing.
Her eyes drop to the floor. She doesn’t say a word.
Disappointment tears through me, but I force myself to press on.
“Growing up with him, with his disease, I just never felt like I was . . . like things were stable or that I could relax.”
She’s gone completely still. “That’s why I got out as soon as I could.”
She nods slowly, but still doesn’t speak.
“I worked and I struggled, and I was so determined to have a different life.”
She suddenly blinks, as if coming out of a spell. Her eyes go wide. Finally, she whispers, “We were so proud of you. Everything
you did we couldn’t believe.”
What he did never felt like pride. “At my graduation, why couldn’t he just show up for me sober? Why did he have to ruin everything
I worked for?”
She presses her pink frosted fingernails to her temples, massaging them in slow circles, like these memories are physically
hurting her mind. “He was so proud of you those times. He felt like you had done so much with such a hard time getting there . . .
but he felt very guilty too.”
My mom is stiller than I’ve ever seen her, her body taut with tension. Yet in the corners of her eyes, tears begin to shimmer.
She takes a tiny step closer to my bed and lets out a small breath.
“Your dad was a very difficult man. I used to wish I never loved him.” Now the shimmer in her eyes lets loose.
A big, fat tear falls heavy as she sits on the bed.
I sit up automatically to put my hand on her shoulder.
“I sometimes wish I had given up, but I always believed he would get better. It was always so difficult.” She leans into me as soft sobs escape her, each one trembling against my shoulder.
I try to take a breath as the threat of a sob presses my own throat. “I stopped believing in him, Mom. I didn’t want to be
near him; I wanted space. And now I keep replaying his final hours—his final years—wondering what I missed. But more than that . . . what he missed too. And I just . . .” I pause, the weight of it catching in my chest. “It hurts.”
It’s like all the pain shatters all at once, and the sobs come rushing out in a sudden burst. I wipe at my eyes, overwhelmed
and breathless.
“Mona,” my mom coos, pressing closer into me. “He loved you. He was so happy you were happy and he understood. When he died,
he—”
“But I wasn’t happy, Mom.” I inhale. “That’s the thing. It’s been exhausting, always feeling like I had to be perfect. Like if I wasn’t,
I’d somehow prove I was just like him . . . or worse, that it was who I really was deep down. I tried so hard to be different
from the way I grew up. I chased success, control, anything that might finally make me feel worthy of respect. But I don’t
want to be that person anymore.”
Another sob breaks loose from somewhere deep inside me, raw and uncontainable.
Mom rubs my back and whispers, “It’s okay.”
I wipe my eyes and look at her. “I don’t want to be that way anymore. I don’t feel like myself anymore.” I stare at my socks,
the plain white ones I picked up from Supershops. “And I don’t want it to be the same with us. I want to talk to you and not
feel like it’s so stressful all the time.”
“I ask you too much,” she whispers.
Every fiber of my being wants to resist putting blame on my mom, for burdening her when she’s so fragile. But I can’t bear
getting this far and not emptying myself completely.
“You’re always . . . you call me all the time arguing with someone or asking for help that I can’t give. But I can’t tell
you about my problems. It’s like my lifeboat is sinking.”
Her sobs pour out in raw waves. When they finally subside, she nods slowly, gasping for breath like she’s just surfaced from
deep underwater. “Mona, I’m so sorry. Parents should help their kids. Not the other way around.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you. But when you argue with strangers or blow all your money on something ridiculous,
it feels like you . . .” I pause, trying to find the words. “I know you’re sad about Dad, but your anger with the world. Your
grief. I think it would help if we both started talking about that more.”
“Okay.” She drags her hand across her red, swollen cheek. “I think so too.” She nods like she’s confirming something to herself.
“Do you want to hear about the last few weeks with him?”
No, the part of my brain that’s been in charge these last few years screams at me. It’s how I’ve managed to keep myself going
all this time—to shove away the things that hurt, focus on what I could control. But the smaller, wounded child in the back
of my mind finally finds the voice to say, “I would.”
Instead of going out with my aunt, Mom and I share an unexpectedly amazing burger together. I’m still stuck in those awful
leggings and instantly regret it the moment we step into the restaurant. But with every juicy bite and fries dipped in mayo,
the world around us fades away.
We trade stories, weaving memories back and forth, filling in the blanks that somehow connect and deepen what we know about each other. The hard memories surface, but so do the laughter-filled ones. The ones she clings to most, and the ones I wish I could erase.
As the last fries disappear, a comfortable silence settles between us, a quiet understanding passing without words. For the
first time in a long while, it feels like we’re really seeing each other again.
And when it’s time to leave, she pulls me in for a hug.
This time, I lean on her shoulders.
The next morning, post-shower and pre-coffee, my phone that’s been lifeless these past few days suddenly springs to action—the
sight of an incoming call jolts me with surprise.
My stomach lurches when I check the caller ID. I hit accept. “Irene?”
“Mona, so delightful to hear your kind and caring voice.” The sarcasm is unmatched.
I wince, knowing I deserve it. “Irene, how are you?”
“Oh, you know. Just peachy. The place I’ve called home my whole life has burned, and now it looks like my insurance company
isn’t as nice as I’d always believed they’d be based on their brochures.”
“What’s happening? Are they not willing to pay out?”
“We’ll see.” Her voice tuts. “They’re really trying to find a way to pass the buck, it seems.”
“Yeah.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “That sounds about right. Man, I’m sorry you have to deal with this on top of
everything.” The idea that a big company, probably run by some clone of Bob Wolch, is treating Irene this way infuriates me.
“Well, in any case,” Irene sighs, “it does look like the building is going to be out of commission awhile longer, with all
the damage.”
“That’s too bad.” Thoughts of all the tenants and what that means for them bounce around in my head. “What are you . . . I mean, are you still going through with the sale?”
“The sale!” Irene hoots. “That’s the funny part. Even though the buyer planned to tear it down anyway, now that the property
isn’t in the same condition as when they made their offer, they’ve found a loophole. They want to lowball me, and they know
I may have to take whatever I can get if insurance keeps up their good work.”
Fuck. That sounds exactly like the kind of move a big corporate fuck like Bob would pull. God, I can’t believe how much I
hate so many of the people I’m supposed to work for. “Irene, that’s just awful. You don’t deserve this.”
“Mmm. Yeah, it’s going to be a real pain in the caboose. Almost like that water shutoff last month wasn’t such a big deal
in retrospect.” It’s the cheeky twang in her voice. All those weeks ago when I wrote on the board, she must have known. I’ve
given this lady a lot less credit than she was owed. A habit of mine lately.
“Irene, I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault. Well, not this time.”
I close my eyes and rock back on my heels. “I meant I’m sorry for it all. I shouldn’t have helped Lana without talking to
you first.”
She harrumphs. “That’s right. You shouldn’t have. But it is what it is, and I hear you had your selfish reasons.”
A familiar pang of guilt swirls through me. “Irene, I mean it, though. It was wrong of me and I—”
She cuts in, her voice hard. “Honey, this is boring, and I was stuck alone with a cast for weeks.” She feigns a yawn. “I’m
calling because the fire department has allotted a time for everyone to gather their things without the building collapsing
and causing you to die a horribly painful death, or whatever the fire marshal said. All residents can come by tomorrow evening
anytime between five and eight.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “All of us come at the same time?”
“That’s right. That’s when the guy can walk you through safely.”
A strong cocktail of conflicting emotions swirls in my chest at the thought of seeing everyone again.
“Yeah, I imagine most will be there at five. I just wanted to know if you’ll be able to come, or if you need to schedule a
different time in case you have a conflict, or if your fear of the others doesn’t allow you to make it with the group.”
I lock eyes with Alice.
No matter how scared I am to face them, it’s better than not ever saying goodbye.
“I’ll see you then,” I croak.