Their Mother

“I’m sure she’s fine.” She was saying this as much to convince herself as she was her brother. “Just relax, ok? I’ll call you when I leave.” The strain of their relationship was evident in the clipped finality of the call.

She threw her phone into her massive tote bag and began digging; fingers searching carefully among month-old, half-eaten granola bars, a light coating of grit and sand, at least 2 feet of CVS receipts and a modicum of other daily essentials. The key for her mother’s apartment was in there somewhere.

She’s fine… I’m sure of it, she thought again. The neighborhood really left way too much to be desired and a wave of guilt ran over her.

Their mother had insisted that she'd be just as happy in her new location as she was before their father took off. His bar fly girlfriend, 27 years his junior, with minimal baggage and a penitent for daddy-worship had been much too enticing to pass up. Especially after everything that had transpired. Both she and her brother knew he left with good reason, but knowing why didn’t take the sting away. These “little episodes” their mother had been having had only gotten worse over time and even more exhausting. Ultimately, moving had been their mother’s idea. The siblings agreed it financially was the only option once dad was done playing his dutiful role of drunken caretaker to a woman who was slowly losing her shit.

The lock on the front door of the building had been broken since they’d moved their mother to that claustrophobic third floor apartment 14 months prior. Shoulder down, she pushed her way in and sighed “thank Christ”; the lone key was still sneaking its way past her fingertips. The Victorian-style single family turned multi-family must have been a classic in its own time. But now? It was dark, dusty, creepy and very past the rules and regulation of what would be considered up to code with local fire officials. Knob-and-tube electrical and cloth-covered appliance and lamp cords were just the tip of the inferno-style iceberg.

Early on, they had taken turns popping by to check in and visit. Insisting she was fine, she’d push them back out of the door almost as soon as they’d stepped inside. Their visits went from consistent, to infrequent, to a “not-it” game of back and forth. Neither she nor her brother wanting to make the trip just to be shut out immediately. The stress of the whole exchange began to drive a massive wedge between the siblings; one that had begun years ago. Helping the animosity along was really not necessary at this point. But here they were.

Wrapped up in her own anxiety-riddled mess of a life, she hadn’t made herself available at all. But how long had it been? She thought back to when she last spoke with her mother. It was probably close to a month since she’d made a visit. 3 weeks since she called or texted? Ugh. She hadn’t had the stomach earlier to question her brother about his lapsed time-table of parental neglect. She had known by his fast-talking and higher pitched tone that he was feeling just as guilty – and maybe panicked? - as she was.

“Stop. She’s fine.” Aloud to herself this time as she rounded the 2nd story landing. Fingers feeling the outline of the key, a flash of relief for the first time since she’d gotten the initial text asking:

“Have u heard from her?”

Admitting she was slightly out of shape and gulping down air, she stopped dead in her tracks. What was that smell? A whole new level of panic brought on a sudden wave of nausea. Or was it the smell making her stomach churn? Intensely bitter, dense, palpable. It was an earthy sent that was not at all one she recognized. But the image of decay came to mind.

Taking the last, narrowed set of stairs 2 at a time to the attic-apartment, the odor was getting progressively stronger. But what was it?

She knocked.

Silence.

She knocked harder and listened intently, simultaneously drawing the smell deeper into her lungs. She was urging her brain to connect with the image of what was on the other side of this door. Every sense was heightened. Her instincts were telling her to grab her phone and dial her brother… or 911. The line between wasting another second and over-reacting had blurred in that half-second.

“Mom, you in there?” She put the key in the top lock and felt the deadbolt slide. Turning the knob with a shaking hand, she took one last second to brace herself for what horror she would be walking into.

Her mother’s usual bright and airy apartment was unnaturally dark for an early evening in July. As far as she could tell the shades had been drawn, creating a terrifying wall of that pungent smell and murky shadows.

“Mom?” her voice was shaking, but she reached her hand inside the door to the light switch on her left. She refused to take a single step forward without a full view of what she was stepping into.

Marigolds. Thousands of potted marigolds. The smell. That was it. They were covering every single surface. Everywhere; on her small entry-hall table, shoved into the bookshelves lining her walls, and covering all available surface area of the entertainment center. The radiator was covered in mostly soil. The flowers had been removed from their pots and shoved directly into the grates. A few golden-brown flower heads remained, to remind us that this space wasn’t forgotten. At least 6 dozen pots - some upright and some knocked over - were spread among the living room couches and coffee table. The floor of the open-spaced apartment was teeming with soil and flowers and filth. Some of the golden blossoms were lush and full, some were in desperate need of dead-heading.

She gingerly stepped between the pots to avoid kicking any over. As she did so, her eyes swept the entirety of the living space. The kitchen had been no different than the rest, except between the marigolds there were dishes piled high, covered in dried food. At least she was eating, right? No. Upon closer inspection, the plates were moving. Bugs. These dishes hadn’t been touched in an unnerving amount of time.

With each forward step, the air quality grew thicker and more palpable. A film of sweat instantly covered her entire body and she knew that these small rooms hadn't been ventilated in days, maybe weeks. The heaviness of the humidity along-side the marigold fragrance created a menacing green-house feeling of her mother’s home.

“Mom…? It’s me…” her voice had lost all signs of confidence. Her legs were getting heavier with dread as she worked her way toward the single bedroom at the back of the apartment. As she worked her way through the floral debris, she glanced into to bathroom to ensure it was unoccupied.

Oh, it was occupied. But by more marigolds. And more bugs. She didn’t need more light to know there was a swarm of flies just beyond the door jam. This time her stomach finally gave in. She doubled over and wretched with disgust and panic. The sink, bathtub and toilet were all filled to the brim with soil and more of those awful flowers. She couldn’t bear to think what else. She fertilized a large pot with what remained of her lunch. The flies were audible. Her stomach turned again. But her attention was snapped into focus. For the first time, she noticed there was another sound inside of the apartment.

Scratching. It’s a frantic, clawing sound. But this sound wasn’t coming from the bathroom like the swarm of bugs. Pivoting to determine its origin, she knew instantly. She uses the wall to steady and guide her forward. It takes 3 high-steps over the last of the remaining marigold pots for her to be outside of her mother’s bedroom door. The scratching is getting louder; like fingernail nails on wood. Scraping. Digging. Louder and faster. The sound echoing off the walls of the room beyond.

She reaches the doorknob, turns, and begins to push the door open.

Silence. The scratching abruptly stops, mid-gouge.

“Mum?”