Dirty Secret (36 page)

“Hi, Helen,” David says.

“Hi, Dave. Hi, Jessie.” She's blinking too much. She's nervous. “How are you two?”

“Good,” David says, at the same time I say, “Sick.”

“How are you, Mom?” I ask.

“I'm starving!” she says as David pulls open the restaurant's thick glass door.

I stop at the bathroom to blow my nose. When I join David and my mom at the booth, the waiter is standing there and we all order the lunch buffet. My mom also asks for coffee, holding up her travel mug for him to see.

Though it's prime lunchtime, there's no one else in the restaurant. The buffet table is draped in white cloth, with six different dishes lined up, three on each side, flanked by two big bowls of rice at one end and naan bread and chutneys at the other. While David and I make one trip around the buffet, taking portions of a few different things, my mom is zigzagging all over the place, and managing to move pretty swiftly, for her. Even after her plate is crowded, she keeps heaping on more, her lips pursed in concentration as she ladles on another scoop of
saag paneer
and chicken
tikka masala.

David and I sit down and she yells over to us, “Don't wait for me. Eat while it's still hot.”

By the time she slides clumsily into the booth David and I are
both halfway finished. Her entire plate is covered. Because it's Indian and most dishes are stewy, the food can't exactly tower, but she has managed to make it into a mountainous mass, with three pieces of naan sticking out like footholds.

“Helen,” David says, “don't you know that you can go back? It's all-you-can-eat.”

“I know, but I couldn't decide what to try first.”

I sneeze into my napkin and my husband smiles and nods his head as I sneeze a second time, then a third—for some reason I always sneeze in threes.

“Bless you,” David says. My mother takes a bite of
saag paneer.

“Thanks,” I say and get up. “Be right back.”

I go into the bathroom to wash my hands.

“You're okay?” David says when I return.

I nod. “Thanks for asking.”

“I'm going for seconds,” David says, and I slide out of the booth so he can get past me.

“Isn't this food fantastic, Jessie?” my mother asks as I sit down again.

“I wouldn't know,” I say. “I can't taste very well right now, because I've got a cold.” I realize that I'm being juvenile, bitchy, but it irks me that my mother never seems to notice or care when I'm sick.

And like clockwork, my mom changes the subject. “So what are you reading, Jessie?”

A tiny bomb goes off in my head. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, honey. You can ask me anything.”

“Why don't you ever care when I'm sick?”

“Oh,” my mother says and looks down at her plate, her fork frozen in the air.

“I really want to know,” I say. “It's something I've always wondered.”

My mom sets down her fork. She looks up and meets my eyes. She's not smiling. “I know you're angry with me and I understand your anger,” she says. “Please know that for as much anger as you have, I have that much regret.”

I wait for her to laugh.

I count to ten, then twenty. Still, no laughter.

My mother's hands are on the table, one on each side of her plate. Her weird little thumbs with the crescent-shaped sliver of a nail. She's doing this thing where she rubs the side of her thumb along the pad of her index finger. I look down at my own hands and I'm doing the exact same thing.

I have a choice.

I make it.

“What are
you
reading, Mom?” I ask.

“Oh, Jessie, didn't I tell you? I'm reading all of Proust and it is ab-so-lute-ly incredible. Have you ever read him?”

“Only snippets for a class once,” I say.

And just like that things are back to normal. Well, normal for us. Which is not normal, nor is it even consistent in its abnormality, but somehow my mother and I have found a way to navigate.

“My God, how that man could write,” my mom says. David comes back then and sits down next to me. “What about you, Dave, what are you reading right now?”

While they talk, I find myself imagining that I've shrunk myself down, so tiny that I'm microscopic. As this microscopic being I'm able to enter my mother's mind. Once I'm in, I try to look around. It's dark, too dark to see. But I can feel what's in there. And there's so much. It's filled with isolation and disregard and abuse. It's filled with uncertainty and self-doubt. It's
filled with laughter, too. It's filled with friendless winters. It's filled with salty breezes and ten happy years with a man who truly loved her. It's filled with chaos and emptiness when that man was gone. It's filled with ideas for flexible knitting needles and new ways to hold paintbrushes and keep notes tidy and protect one's knees and clip dollar bills and warm a neck; it's filled with information from newspapers, books, magazines; it's filled with rejections and preemptive rejections and self-loathing. It's filled with confusion. And fear. More than anything, it's filled with fear. It's a frightening vantage point from which to view the world and just as that microscopic being feels herself suffocating, my mother calls my name.

“Jessie, right? Don't you think?” my mom is asking.

“Sorry, what?” I say, coming back to the real world.

“Don't you think that show about the little people is just hysterical? I could watch that show all day long. They're just such a wonderful family. Such wonderful people . . .”

David and I look at each other and we both can't help but laugh.

“What?” my mom asks.

“Nothing. Sorry,” I say, and my mom smiles.

“You two are funny,” she says, looking from David to me. She wraps her fingers around her travel mug and picks it up in both hands to take a sip. It's empty. “Say,” my mom calls out to the waiter. “Could I have some mo-ah coffee?”

AFTER LUNCH, MY
mom gets into her car, and David and I get into the one we borrowed from my dad. When we drive away, for a split second I consider asking my husband to go past my mom's house so I can see how it looks. But I don't. I don't need to know.

Every so often I feel those papers at the lawyer's office beating like a telltale heart, my burden. They don't really matter, though. I'm her daughter, so with or without the papers, chances are someday—far, far off into the future, I hope—that house will become mine.

Someday, that mess of a house will be mine to deal with.

Probably.

But not today.

IT'S BEEN ALMOST THREE YEARS SINCE THAT DAY AT THE
Indian restaurant. My mother's health is fine, in spite of the lack of green vegetables in her diet. My dad's health is fine, too. I haven't been inside my mother's house since the kitchen-cleaning-frenzy day. And I won't, until I absolutely must. My mother understands this, and other than claiming her house is “like a gazillion times better,” she hardly mentions it anymore. And I never ask.

A few days ago my mother called me, breathless with excitement. “Oh, Jessie, I just bought the most beautiful new car!”

“Did your car break down?” I asked. This happens with some regularity, as she always buys clunkers.

“No, no, it's fine, but now I have a spare. Anyway, Jessie, I can't tell you how beautiful this car is! And the best part is, it's a station wagon, so it's big enough for when I go—”

She cut herself off. I knew we hadn't been disconnected, because I could hear her breathing.

“Shopping,” I said. “You were going to say it's big enough for when you go shopping.”

“It's true.” She laughed. “I was going to say shopping.”

I could have launched into a lecture; I could have gotten frustrated. But what would be the point? I'm no longer that ten-year-old girl trying desperately to fix her so she'll become the mother I want her to be. She is who she is. I can accept it.

And I can admit it.

For so many years I was tormented by the idea of my mother's hoarding—her secret, which became
my
secret—becoming known, but once I began writing this book, I had no choice. When someone asked what I was working on, I couldn't lie. In the beginning, every time I said the words: “I'm writing a memoir about being the daughter of a compulsive hoarder,” I'd set my jaw and feel my shoulders rise defiantly; I'd lock eyes with the person, scrutinizing for even the slightest flicker of judgment. I steeled myself for it. I expected it.

But no judgment came. Instead, people were curious and compassionate and empathetic: “My sister is the same way,” or “My grandfather was like that,” or “There was a guy like that in our neighborhood when I was a kid.” Those who didn't have a personal connection to hoarding asked questions; nearly everyone wanted to understand it better. One day a friend emailed to tell me that
her
mother is a hoarder, too. A few days later another friend told me the same thing.

And an extraordinary thing happened: The more I talked about my mother's compulsive hoarding—and the more people who told me about their mothers, fathers, brothers, cousins, sisters, aunts—the weaker my secret became. Until it was gone.

I owe enormous thanks to my diligent and dedicated agent, Melissa Sarver, who worked with me on this project from its inception, reading draft after draft and talking me through (and down when necessary) the entire process. It's a privilege to have you in my corner. I'm also very grateful to my exceptionally talented editor, Megan McKeever, whose enthusiasm for the project and shrewd editing skills made this a much better book and working on it a pleasure. Thank you to everyone at Gallery Books.

I'm forever indebted to my fabulous writing group, especially those who went way above and beyond: Paul Bravmann, Sandra Newman, and Michelle Herrera Mulligan. Huge thanks also to my brilliant friends who read drafts of this book: Anita Faranda, Lorna Graham, and Abbie Kozolchyk, as well
as friends who've been supportive in ways too numerous to list: Erica Ackerberg, Alice Bradley, Mo Coslett, Catherine Coy, Nichole DiBenedetto, Elisabeth Eaves, Lauren Fox, Stephanie Elizondo Griest, Tania Grossinger, Melissa Ewey Johnson, Sol Kjok, Kate Lacey, Jana Larson, and Chloe Wing.

I would also like to thank my caring and kind in-law family, especially Cathy and Tom Kelly, who gave me the use of their bonus room at a crucial time. For the luxury of space and time to write, I'm also grateful to Wellspring House and the Writers' Colony at Dairy Hollow.

It's truly an honor to teach writing, and I'd like to thank everyone in The New School writing department for providing me with a place to do what I love. I'm constantly learning from my students, and I'd also like to thank all of them, past and present.

For her wisdom and counsel, I'm extremely grateful to Dr. Elizabeth Friedman.

To the founders of the Children of Hoarders message boards, and all the members: thank you, thank you, thank you. And thanks also to the many friends and acquaintances who've shared their own hoarding stories with me. Being able to talk openly about what was once an entirely hidden part of my life means the world to me.

It's to my father and stepmother that I owe everything. With the deepest gratitude I thank you both for your unconditional love, unceasing support, and for showing me, through example, the kind of lives and the kind of love that is possible. Thank you also for understanding my need to tell this story.

My sweet, smart, hilariously funny, and adorable husband, David Farley, has been encouraging me for years to write about my “dirty secret.” This book would not exist without him. I'm utterly appreciative of his love, loyalty, spot-on editorial input,
and wholehearted acceptance of me and all my weirdnesses. I still have no idea how I found such a wonderful husband, but every minute of every day I am grateful that I did.

And, of course, thank you to my mother, for allowing me to tell her story. Our story.

ARTICLES

An, S. K., D. Mataix-Cox, N. S. Lawrence, S. Wooderson, V. Giampietro, A. Speckens, M. J. Brammer, and M. L. Phillips. “To Discard or Not to Discard: The Neural Basis of Hoarding and Symptoms in Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”
Molecular Psychiatry,
14 (2009): 318–331.

Anderson, Steven W., Hanna Damasio, and Antonio R. Damasio. “A Neural Basis for Collecting Behaviour in Humans.”
Brain,
128 (2005): 201–212.

Cermele, Jill A., Laura Melendez-Pallitto, and Gahan J. Pandina. “Intervention in Compulsive Hoarding: A Case Study.”
Behavior Modification,
25:2 (2001): 214–232.

Duenwald, Mary. “The Psychology of Hoarding: What Lies Beneath the Pathological Desire to Stockpile Tons of Stuff?” www.discovermagazine.com (October 1, 2004).

Frost, Randy O., and Rachel C. Gross. “The Hoarding of Possessions.”
Behaviour Research and Therapy,
31:4 (1993): 367–381.

Frost, Randy O., and Tamara L. Hartl. “A Cognitive-Behavioral Model of Compulsive Hoarding.”
Behaviour Research and Therapy,
34:4 (1996): 341–350.

Frost, Randy O., and Gail Steketee. “Hoarding: Clinical Aspects and Treatment Strategies.” In
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders: Practical Management,
eds. Jenike, Michael A., Lee Baer, and William E. Minichiello. St. Louis: Mosby, 1998.

Frost, Randy O., David F. Tolin, Gail Steketee, Kristin E. Fitch, and Alexandra Selbo-Bruns. “Excessive Acquisition in Hoarding.”
Journal of Anxiety Disorders,
23 (2009): 632–639.

Grisham, Jessica R., Randy O. Frost, Gail Steketee, Hyo-Jin Kim, Anna Tarkoff, and Sarah Hood. “Formation of Attachment to Possessions in Compulsive Hoarding.”
Journal of Anxiety Disorders,
23 (2009): 357–361.