to help me. But I wasn’t
As I looked around my bedroom at the clean surfaces and my neatly made bed, I could feel some energy return deep inside. I could do this. I didn’t help Mom last night, but I could help all of us now.
Taking one last look around my room, I gathered strength from the peaceful space. Mom was dead—there was nothing I could do about that. Local history would remember us either as that garbage-hoarding freak family on Collier Avenue, or as the nice oncology nurse with the lovely children.
It was up to me to decide which one was our truth.
chapter 4
11:00 a.m.
Our street was one of those that had ridden the roller coaster of good times and bad, and it showed in the little details, like fine wrinkles around an otherwise pretty face. You could tell it had once been a really nice neighborhood because the houses were set back from the street and most of them had big porches, but the old Toyota up on blocks in the Harveys’ driveway and the weeds that choked out any grass in the yard on the corner told a different story. The houses were old, but mostly in a good way, and each one had a big yard, which meant the neighbors weren’t so close that they were always peeking in your windows. Keeping nosy neighbors away was a good thing as far as I was concerned.
I shifted the bag of cleaning supplies to my left hand and unlocked the front door with my right. As the door swung open, bits of mail caught in the bottom and made a scratching sound along the tile floor. I kicked the mail to the side, where it joined the pile from yesterday.
Standing in the hallway, I stopped to listen. I wasn’t sure what I was listening for, but the whole house was silent. Dead silent. I knew Mom was lying in the back hallway, but just for one moment, I wanted to pretend I was coming through the door for the first time today. Mom was at work, I was coming home from Kaylie’s with the warmth of Josh’s arm still on my shoulders, and none of this was my problem. Yet.
Our entry hall was wide, with the living room on the right and the dining room on the left. Piles of belongings, newspapers, and green plastic bins draped with clothing started at the edges of each room and marched toward the center until the only way to maneuver through the stuff was to turn sideways and pray you would reach your destination unscathed.
On the other side of the living room was the fireplace mantle, which held a brown, spindly potted plant that had been dead for years and a couple of framed pictures. I stood on my tiptoes so I could see them better. The picture on the right was my school picture from fourth grade. I was wearing my sweatshirt jacket, and Mom had gotten mad at me because I forgot to take it off for picture day so my new shirt would show. I remember when Aunt Jean put the picture in the big gold frame and set it on the mantle. It was the last time she was in our house, before Mom banished her forever.
The house wasn’t nearly as crowded back then—the kitchen still worked, mostly, and both bathrooms were usable. The piles were just starting to accumulate, and most weren’t any taller than my head.
Even though I was only nine when it happened, I’d been able to figure out that the car accident was bad. Mom didn’t come home after work that first night, so Sara had come back to stay with us for a few days, not letting us forget she was doing us a favor. Phil was five years older than me, but Sara was almost ten years older— somewhere between a sister and something else, and she was always looking for an excuse to boss us around. She had already graduated from high school and had moved to San Francisco, so she couldn’t stay with Phil and me for very long without missing work. She left after a few days, and Aunt Jean came to stay with us until Mom got better.
I was helping Aunt Jean with her suitcase when she got her first look at the inside of our house.
“Oh my God,” she said. Her hand flew to her mouth as she surveyed the clutter that covered most horizontal surfaces and lined the edges of every room.
I put her suitcase down on the tile floor, thinking she’d seen a mouse or something. “What?” I looked around frantically.
Aunt Jean turned to look into the dining room. “This . . . this place,” she said. “Look at all this junk. My God, there’s crap everywhere.” She turned to me. “How long has it been like this?”
I looked around the living room and shrugged. There were some piles of clothes that had never been folded and put away, and Mom did like to save newspapers in case she missed an important article. The sink was clogged, so the dishes hadn’t been done for a while, but I really didn’t see the problem.
Aunt Jean ran her fingers through her hair as she rushed from room to room, looking at the piles of clothes on every bed, and the mildew that was starting to become a permanent fixture in the bathrooms. I finally caught up with her in Mom’s room as she sat in the one tiny clear spot on the bed with her head in her hands.
“Auntie Jean?” I said quietly.
She looked up at me, tears running down her face, and shook her head. “I had no idea . . . I should have known because of Mama that Joanna could get this bad. But I really had no idea.”
I stood there quietly waiting for her to say something else. Mom cried a lot like this after Dad left us, but other than that, I hadn’t seen many grown-ups freaking out before. Aunt Jean reached out and pulled me to her, grabbing me around the waist and holding me tight.
“I’m so sorry,” she said over and over. “I had no idea.”
As I stood there, wrapped in her arms, I decided maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe Mom was hurt worse than I’d thought, or maybe she was already dead. We were supposed to go and see her that afternoon, but now it was too late. I turned this thought over and over in my head until I believed it was true with all the conviction a nine- year-old can gather, and tears started spilling out of my eyes and down my face. Mom was gone. Mom was gone, and I was going to have to go live with someone else, away from my school and everything I knew. I didn’t want to go and live with Dad—Mom said that Daddy was the devil and that he never really loved any of us. If he did, he’d never have abandoned us like he did. Even worse, maybe he’d only let one of us live there, and I wouldn’t have anybody at all who cared about me. My tears turned from silent tracks into loud sobs that made my whole body shake.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Aunt Jean said. She held me away from her so she could see my face. She rubbed my tears away with the palm of her hand and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”
I tried to swallow the hiccups that had started in my chest so I could speak. “Are we going to have to live somewhere else?” I finally squeaked out between sobs.
