Filth

Carolyn sat with a flat affect and stared out the window. She was so tired. She was tired of the never-ending anxiousness over everything around her. It was the mental equivalent of wearing a hot, scratchy sweater and never being able to scratch or take it off. She sighed deeply as if to breathe out a miniscule amount of her misery. It wasn’t always this way. Her world was perfect – like Mary Poppins perfect – “practically perfect in every way”. Her lips tightened to express her contempt for the world. Now everything was retched; her days stretched out in their banality, slowly chocking the very soul from her. She closed her eyes to transport herself to those blissful days of the past, back when Sam was still alive. Back before the house fell into disrepair and filth. Back when Tracie was still a small child and not a selfish, vapid adult. Carolyn properly cleaned the house every day back then. She’d wash her hands in the best way possible and then, using her red cloth, wipe each doorknob seven times in a clockwise direction. Her eyelids fluttered; just the memory gave her satisfaction and, for a few seconds, assuaged her discomfort. She continued her daydream. After doorknobs always came baseboards. If baseboards weren’t kept pristine, bugs might get into the house. Everyone knew those were access points. She shuddered in revulsion but quickly recovered. She’d had a specific cloth she only used for one task and her special tools, as she called them. She had a calming blue sponge that was her baseboard tool. She didn’t think anything could be as fulfilling as completing one’s comprehensive cleaning regimen. After Sam passed, Carolyn threw herself into various cleaning projects to help her cope with the loss. For a time, she was – well, not happy – content. She was content, neither happy nor unhappy. Then that fateful night out changed everything and plunged her into purgatory. It was the dog days of summer, and bugs were particularly bad that year. Carolyn had stayed out unusually late as she perused the isle of cleaning goods at Walmart. The barrage of insects splatting on the windshield drove her to distraction. She tried to use the wipers and fluid to clear the nasty goo from the windshield. When that didn’t work to her liking, she decided to pull over and use some of the many cleaning items she’d just purchased. She’d not cleared the lane completely in her haste to pull over. The eighteen-wheeler that crested the hill didn’t have time to avoid the back quarter of her vehicle where it blocked the road. If she would have been unbuckled already, there’s no doubt it would have killed her. The truck hit her car, and it was catapulted in an arc and into a nearby tree. She suffered numerous cuts and bruises, broke her leg in two places, fractured three ribs, and had burst fractures in her C7, L1, and L2 vertebrae. The fracture in C7 had compressed her spinal cord. The fractures in L1 and L2 were utterly devastating, shearing her spinal cord, and rendering her paralyzed. It took multiple surgeries and countless therapies over two years to get to her current functionality. Wholly dependent on her useless daughter. Her doctors had often stressed how imperative it was to have in-home care: a sitter, physical therapist, occupational therapist, etc. She adamantly refused against all medical advice. She damned sure didn’t want anyone to come in and mess up her house! The sound of the front door wrenched her back to the present as she heard Tracie return from the grocery store. She wanted to call out but realized Tracie wouldn’t hear her as she always had those blasted things in her ears. As she’d done millions of times, Carolyn looked down at her immobile legs. She angrily sneered at them. Carolyn continued waiting for her daughter to come to receive instructions that she undoubtedly would fail to follow, causing Carolyn more misery.

Tracie shut the door and headed to the kitchen to put the groceries away. She always felt an oppressiveness in opening the front door, an overwhelming mental and emotional strangulation that could only be caused by living with her mother. Her mother was a stereotypical boomer, quick to judge and critical. That wasn’t what made her so horrible to live with though, what made her such a vile person was boomer characteristics coupled with severe obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Of course, her mother didn’t recognize it – she was doing everything the proper way. Tracie finished putting all the perishables in the refrigerator and grabbed a beer before putting away the canned goods and boxed foods. She knew she wasn’t supposed to drink the beer. Mother been given precise orders on where she wanted Tracie to put little pie pans of beer in the garden. “Beer was only used to drown and kill garden slugs and never to drink!” Even as a grown-ass woman, her overbearing mother was trying to maintain her stranglehold of control. She’d wanted to leave. After high school she did leave and go to college. She’d worked hard to prove herself and has earned an associate’s and bachelor’s degree. She was in her first semester when dad was diagnosed with cancer and given a poor prognosis. Heartbroken that her beloved father was anticipated to die within the year, Tracie withdrew from classes, planning for a return that never came. That was almost eight years ago. She’d turn fifty-one this year. She’d settled for a mediocre job in retail and resigned herself to never having the chance at a romantic relationship while her mother was still alive. She’d been in therapy for six of the last years, trying to cope with the grief of losing the only person that ever loved her unconditionally and deal with the horrible force of nature that was her mother. Her therapist, Chelsea, had voiced many times her concern that Tracie had no outlet for the stress, no personal gratification. Chelsea had also said something else surprising; she’d declared two diagnoses that made everything make sense. While Tracie knew her mother was extreme, but never considered that her mom had OCD. Chelsea also made Tracie realize that she’d been living with adult attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) all these years. Those insights were such revelations to her.

“Ah, hell!” Tracie sat the beer down and took out a pie pan. Best to put the rest of it out for slug-killin’, or she’d never heard the end of it. Sometimes a few swallows of hot beer were all she could claim as her victory. She ran out to the back flowerbed and pointedly turned to see her mother looking from the window. Best let the witch see her or she’d never hear the end of it. If mother found a beer missing and no pan was in the garden... God! She hated the slimy pans of slug filled beer the next day. Tracie returned to the house and immediately went to her bathroom to wash her hands, brush her teeth, and gargle the smell of alcohol from her breath. I wonder what fresh hell is waiting for me today. She braced to enter her mother’s room.

“Did you fill the pan full?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to stop procrastinating and do the baseboards today. You haven’t cleaned them in a month of Sundays and they’re filthy.”

“Okay, well, I need to check my work schedule first.”

“Tracie,” Mother warned.

“I said OKAY!” No longer to tolerate the contempt in her mother’s eyes, Tracie retreated to the safety of her room to listen to music and work on the earrings she was making. She knew her work schedule and had no intention of doing the baseboards. Why do they need to be done? Nobody’s been over here for the last freaking twenty years!

When her phone vibrated, Tracie had just finished putting the final beads on the intricate filigree. She didn’t recognize the number. She set the phone down for a second until curiosity got the best of her. It was a text message.

“Hi Tracie. Brian > housewares. Jenna gave me your #”

Stunned yet thrilled, she watched in anticipation of the words to follow.

“Hoping you’d like dinner What’s ur schd this wk?”

Tracie’s heart raced. She hadn’t felt happiness like this, actual happiness, in a long time. Brian had talked to her a couple of times in the breakroom and on the floor; he’d been so charming and funny. He was cute too. Her mind joined her heart in racing. She wasn’t sure if she should play coy or…Naw, life’s too short.

She texted back “hey! Yeah, dinner’s good. I work W,T,F,S,S”

“Soooo tonight then?”

“Yes”

“Awesome! Where do you like?”

She tried to do a rapid mental roll call of local places and pick a spot that was, well, romantic.

“Athena’s” She chose her favorite Greek/Italian place with its cozy booths and relaxing ambiance.

“Perfect. 7?”

“Perfect. See you there.”

Dreams blurred through her head like thousands of snowflakes in a snow globe. She hadn’t been on a date since her mother’s accident and had given up hope of a life of her own. She looked at the time, 4:02. Wow, that was fast. She mused to herself. She’d been asked out and would be on a date in less than half a day. She looked down at her clothing. She better change and try to fix her face. Shit! Mother. What am I going to say to her? I’m an adult, I shouldn’t have to say anything…It was funny how she’d been called strong-willed, stubborn as a mule, pig-headed, headstrong, and rebellious as a kid, characteristics common in resilient adults. Features that are also common in children with ADHD. She was so bold as a child, yet constant berating and beatings over the years turned her into a complacent shell of herself. I am an adult. I’ll just tell her I’m going out. I go out for work and groceries; this is no different. While Tracie told herself it was no different, she knew this was very different. She felt different. She couldn’t control the blushing and smile that came to her face repeatedly as she thought about going on a date. In the end, she’d decided to get ready and say goodbye to her mother with little to no explanation. If she were lucky, she’d find her mother asleep early and slip out undetected. Although she had hours to get ready, she was already nervous and proceeding to don her nice jeans and her favorite lavender blouse. The East Texas heat was still sweltering even at night, so she opted to put her long red hair in a messy ponytail. Although her mother said large earrings made her look like a whore, Tracie always loved them, especially her large silver hoops which she put on along with her favorite Celtic necklace. She’d put on a bit of makeup for the trip to the grocery store but decided to try and enhance what was there for an appropriate evening look. She always thought it was pointless to put on makeup just to get milk and eggs, but from an early age, her mother had drilled her into believing that she was too hideous to appear in public without some coverage. “At least put on some lipstick and mascara,” mother would say, although she was also sure to add something akin to “you looked washed out”. It seemed her mother would say anything to cultivate Tracie’s self-consciousness. It took her thirty minutes to get ready, and she was left with over two hours of agonizing over how the night might proceed. She decided to spend the wait listening to music and daydreaming of various possibilities. She presented herself with dozens of scenarios: a glorious second date, months of dating, the proposal to move in or marry, getting new careers together, moving to a different city, moving to a different state…all the wonderful dreams always ended the same way. With mother bulldozing her way into the relationship, destroying any remote chance of happiness for Tracie that remained. She felt her eyes glisten and repeated the mantra she’d recited during her many therapy sessions, “I deserve to be happy too.”

At 6:40, Tracie put on her shoes and grabbed her purse. Timidly she crept to her mother’s bedroom door and silently opened just a crack. Mother had stopped glaring angrily from the window and had her wheelchair in front of her little TV, watching the game show The Price is Right. The slight movement of the door caught her mother’s attention and she barked “What are you standing there for? What is it?”

Tracie gathered her courage and opened the door fully to say, “I’m heading out. I’ll be back in a couple of hours”.

“Well, you’re all gussied up. I see you have your war paint and whore rings on. Where are you going?”

Tracie cringed as the vitriol hit. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the truth. She was too weary of dealing with the onslaught of questions and verbal abuse. “Um, out. Emma from work is having a baby shower”. While it was an outright lie, she knew it wouldn’t arouse suspicion or ire.

“Don’t be past ten”. Her mother ordered as if she was sixteen and not a middle-aged woman. Tracie just nodded. She quietly excused herself from her mother’s room before practically sprinting to the car in glee. In moments she was heading off for what would, indeed, be a magical first date.

Back at home, Carolyn squinted her eyes angrily as she rolled herself to the kitchen for another lonely supper. She knew damned well Tracie hadn’t touched a baseboard. She could see it! She could smell the dust! She opened the refrigerator to fetch ingredients to make a sandwich and sucked her teeth in disdain, Tracie hadn’t done the daily wipe down of the refrigerator shelves either. Lazy. Good for nothing. She grumbled to herself. After making her sandwich and putting a large serving of cheese puffs on her paper plate, she returned to her bedroom to continue watching her shows. During the next hour, she grazed on her sandwich while picking apart people on the screen; this one had on too much makeup, that one hadn’t ironed their clothes, the other one looked dirty…

Bored, she turned the channel to a banal sitcom. One of the characters made a snide comment which caused Carolyn to guffaw. The first bubbling of amusement erupted and caught her mid-chew, the next instant, the large wad of food firmly lodged in her trachea. Panicked, she tried to beat it from her chest to no effect. When that didn’t work, she tried to retrieve it or at least gag herself to eject it. Her face grew redder and reader as she struggled to dislodge it. After only a minute or so her face began to turn from a deep crimson purple to a greyish blue as tears poured from her eyes and drool trickled down. Finally, her oxygen-deprived brain shut down and she slipped into unconsciousness, never to wake again.