Dirty Secret (2 page)

My mother, on the other hand, appears as relaxed as I've ever seen her. She's smacking her gum and sipping her coffee as happily as if she's just found a treasure trove of misshapen wool sweaters or a bundle of dog-eared twenty-five-cent detective novels at her favorite thrift store, Savers. I know she likes the idea of not having to be responsible for herself anymore. Like the time she called me at my dad's when I was nine, demanding that I come up with the money to pay her outrageous water bill, since I was the one who must've left the hose on the last time I was there. I laughed, thinking she was joking, and she hung up on me. It turned out the bill was so high because my mother hadn't paid it in months. But what stayed with me afterward was the relief in her voice at having come up with a “solution” before she bothered to call the water company and work out the problem herself. It was the same relief I heard in her voice the following year, when I told her I didn't want to live with her every other week anymore and that from then on I'd be living with my dad and Sandy full-time.

The lawyer tells Sandy which papers to sign and explains that she should keep them in a safe if she has one.

And then it's my turn. In one sense, it might be good for me to have the house in my name—that way I could force my mom to finally sell it and move into a condo. But the idea of that house in my name is too repellant. My hands won't move toward the papers.

“I can't do it,” I say, and at that moment I recognize a way out. “David and I have low-income health insurance. With a house in my name we wouldn't qualify anymore.”

I have no idea if we'd actually be disqualified—I just know I don't want that house. I really, really, really do not want that house.

“You have to,” my mother whisper-orders, her hazel eyes opened wide.

“No I don't. I can't.”

The lawyer looks unfazed. Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones. “How about this,” she says and suggests we sign the papers and leave them in her office without filing them. We can file them later if it becomes necessary.

“Okay,” I say and sign them.

And just like that, my mother goes back to smacking her gum and sipping her coffee, a pleased half smile across her face.

After the lawyer's office, we go to a coffee shop to discuss my mother's postsurgery plans. For about the hundredth time in the last few years, I suggest that my mother sell her house and buy a condo. Partly it's for selfish reasons: The smaller the space, the easier it'll be for me to clean during visits. Plus, in a condo the yardwork and repairs would be taken care of.

“Helen, I think that's a great idea,” Sandy says. “I can help you find something.”

Sandy and my dad are Realtors, with their own company and a few agents who work for them; they occasionally buy a
house, fix it up, and try to sell it for a profit, with my dad doing all the carpenter-type duties.

“No,” my mom says. “I'm happy in the house. I'm staying.”

“That house is way too big for you,” I say. It's got four bedrooms and a large backyard that as far as I know hasn't encountered a lawn mower in years. Besides, the only bathroom is on the second floor and it's not clear if my mother will be able to climb stairs after the surgery.

“How much could I get for it?” my mother asks Sandy. As soon as she hears the answer she starts shaking her head. “I know it's worth more! A house two blocks away sold for twice that last week!”

“I know that house, Helen—it was sold by one of my agents. No offense, but your house just isn't in that kind of condition.”

“Should we go to Savers next?” my mom asks. “It's ninety-nine-cent day. Everything with a yellow tag.”

“Mom, are you listening? What are we going to do about your house?”

“Maybe I'll go look at the cakes,” my mom says. “I'm in the mood for something sweet.”

She scrambles to get out of the chair, her movements clumsy and deliberate. She has the gait of someone just released from an iron lung, someone with equilibrium problems. At sixty-three, she moves with the grace, agility, and speed of a ninety-three-year-old. Or, to be fair to ninety-three-year-olds, maybe a 103-year-old. Sandy and I watch her hobble up to the counter. She's wearing sneakers, as always, and her already giant feet (I've got them, too) have spread even wider after years of back-to-back nursing shifts. I try to take some deep breaths, but the frustration over my mom's reluctance to even consider selling her house roils inside me. Not to mention the dread I feel
about having to clean it. Again. I have to admit, though, there's another part of me that's excited—maybe this time it'll work. Maybe this time it'll stay clean.

“Are you okay?” Sandy asks me. “You must be worried about her.”

“I am.” I look down at my hands; I'm tearing my napkin into strips. “And I just wish I could get her to be serious for a second.”

Right then my mom returns to the table, empty-handed.

“Oh, Jessie,” she says, “I know what I'll do. I'll buy a van, one of those step vans!”

“What's a step van?” I ask.

“One of those vans that you step into! I'll buy one and I'll drive it to Florida.”

“And then?” I ask. My mother is a terrifyingly slow driver. I've walked a mile in a Minnesota winter rather than drive somewhere with her. And even in a normal car she requires two phone books to see over the dash. There's no way she can drive across the country in a van by herself.

“And then I'll live in the van,” she says.

“Mom, come on. I need to make sure you're going to be okay. You do have some kind of retirement fund, right?”

I've never been able to get a straight answer out of my mother regarding her money situation. For years my dad and I have speculated about her savings. Her expenses are so minimal—the house is paid off, she drives a used car, never takes vacations—that she must have something saved from all the years of overtime at the nursing home. She must, we say, have hundreds of thousands of dollars stashed away in a mattress. It was what her father did, after all.

Just before her cancer diagnosis she was fired from the nursing home for being too slow. It wasn't fair, she said, the people she worked with were so much younger, mostly in their twenties
and thirties; they could just fly down the hallways while she struggled, and often didn't succeed, to finish her duties before she had to punch out. So she began punching out and then continuing to work, hoping no one would notice. But they did notice. She was warned, more than once, that she had to finish her work
during
her shift. But she couldn't keep up.

It was only because she was unemployed that she had time for the checkup that led to the colonoscopy that revealed the colon cancer. And since I'm the one who insisted she get health insurance a few years back, she says I've saved her life. Assuming she survives the surgery, and I'm definitely assuming she's going to survive the surgery. So I need to know how she's planning to live. She won't qualify for social security for two more years.

“The house
is
my retirement,” she says now, taking a sip of her coffee. “Jessie, this is cold. Will you ask them to heat this up?”

“Just answer me. Do you have a 401k?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, don't worry.” She waves away my ridiculous concern. “I've got a plan.”

“Good. What's the plan, Helen?” Sandy says.

My mother leans forward, her eyes glistening with excitement. “Cat beds!”

I drop my head into my hands, groaning, as my mother continues.

“These beds are like wicker baskets with pillows in them . . . and then the cats lie down and sleep in them!”

“Mom, be serious! This is about your future.”

“These cat beds
are
my future. They're going to be so gorgeous, you just wouldn't believe!”

“Do you realize that beds for cats already exist?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I've never seen them anywhere.”

“Where did you get this idea, then?”

She leans back in her chair and is silent for a few seconds. “Okay. I do have another plan. I'm suing those motherfuckers who fired me! That was ageism and they can't get away with it.”

“But you've been getting complaints at work for years,” I say. “The work was too much.”

“I don't care. What they did was illegal and those motherfuckers are going to pay. Just wait!”

EARLY THE NEXT
morning my dad drives me to my mom's house on his way to check out one of Sandy's listings. Today is supposed to be the one day my mother and I will both be in the house while I'm cleaning, which will give me a chance to ask her before I throw out anything I'm uncertain about. Tomorrow she's going into the hospital for one last quick test and then the surgery—we'll learn her prognosis a day or two after that. I intend to finish as much of the cleaning as I can while my mom is in the hospital recovering; then I'll stay in Minneapolis for a few days after she's out, so I can help when she first goes home.

We pull up to the curb. The exterior of the house is the worst I've seen it—the paint peeling, some parts of the enclosed front porch piled to the ceiling with furniture, boxes, and giant empty picture frames. And that's just what I can see from here. But I'm going to do this, no matter what. This is my chance. I say good-bye to my dad and climb out of the car. The lawn is a foot high and the unruly bush plopped right in the middle of it at least six feet across. I quicken my pace as I walk up the narrow sidewalk and then the front steps. I open the creaky glass door and duck inside the porch, hoping no one has seen me. I don't want to be associated with the junk house.

A neglected heap of mail, who knows how many days' worth,
lies scattered under the slot. The red carpeting, in the few places I can actually see it, appears to have been splattered Pollock-style with motor oil. Two beat-up, three-speed bicycles lean precariously against one of the windows. In the corner stands a vintage washing tub, the kind where clothes are squeezed through a wringer. And in another corner there's something black and twisted, no,
coiled
—ohmygod, ohmyfuckinggod—

—it's a snake.

I'm out the door, down the steps, and to the sidewalk in a millisecond. At the curb, I lean over at the waist, taking shallow hiccuppy breaths. I don't even care who drives past—if it's a choice between being associated with the junk house or facing one of those hellish creatures, I'd happily tattoo across my forehead that I belong to the junk house. On the other hand, I don't want to give my mother the satisfaction of seeing me like this. I pull my cell phone from my purse and dial my husband. He'll know what I should do. He'll understand.

But he doesn't answer.

And I really can't put this off. I only have five cleaning days here and if the house is anywhere near as bad as last time, that may not be enough.

I force myself up the steps. Getting my eyes to look at the snake is another challenge. But somehow I manage. And maybe I'm at a better angle, but now I can see that what I thought was a snake is actually a pile of oil-black rags. A twisted pile of rags. Thank God. I feel the dizziness leave my head, as if clearing out a room's stale air by opening windows; my lungs expand, drawing deeper breaths.

I open the door and once again step inside the porch. Two crumbling armoires take up half of one wall. Boxes and paper bags are stacked all around and on top of them. This mess looks somehow familiar. And then I recognize it: Like stumbling
upon the remains of a village buried by lava, the evidence of my last cleanup attempt lives on underneath. She was supposed to arrange for the Salvation Army to get the armoires. Ditto for the bags of old sweaters and the sets of inflatable furniture.

The glass part of the house's heavy front door is covered with a bamboo shade, so I can't see inside. I press the doorbell. My mother opens the door and steps forward onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind her so I won't come in.

“Oh, Jessie, let's go to Perkins before you start cleaning. I want some of their pancakes.”

“Let me see the house,” I say.

She freezes. I push the door open a few inches and steal a look behind her: The hallway is packed with stacks of even more ignored mail—her phone gets shut off on a semiregular basis because she can't find the bills—two ironing boards, a mound of ratty looking sweaters, winter boots and coats and snow pants heaped directly underneath an empty metal coatrack, at least one box of marshmallow Peeps, milk-colored storage bins that I know without checking are empty, an oversized plastic pail containing ironic jugs of Lysol and Pine-Sol, and dozens of unopened white plastic Savers bags with the receipts still stapled to the top.

I push past her, to the narrow path in the center of the hallway. It reminds me of the winters here, when people are too lazy to shovel their whole sidewalk.

“Christ, where do I start?” I ask no one, already overwhelmed. The last time I cleaned, three years ago, my husband was here helping me.

During a visit to Minneapolis, my mom had asked us to help her move a dresser. I hadn't seen the inside of her house in a few years, not since before Roger, her boyfriend of a decade, died. When David and I went in, I almost couldn't believe
what I was seeing—while her house had always been messy and crowded with things I considered useless, the clutter had entered the realm of the pathological: plates full of hard-as-a-rock spaghetti, smashed up takeout bags from Taco Bell and Burger King, coffee mugs with an inch of solidified
something
on the bottom, containers of motor oil, calculators and flashlights and key chains still in their packaging, knitting needles, magazines, bunches of brown bananas, and fast-food soda cups bleeding brown stickiness down the sides took up every inch of the kitchen table and the counter. The sink was piled high with dishes and an open garbage bag in the corner overflowed with paper plates. If she'd switched to paper plates, I thought, how long had those dishes been in the sink?