Cleaning House

It rains pink. Large drops fall heavily on concrete slabs, forming puddles that change like a never-ending kaleidoscope. I hold out a hand, but the falling rain avoids it, like I’m covered by an invisible umbrella. As if the rain doesn’t want to acknowledge my presence here.

Pariah.

The word whispers in my mind, my skin prickling with the knowledge that I'm not welcome here… I don’t belong here where the platform glistens in pink and the train tracks lead into darkness. Into eternity.

An owl hoots, I turn to look - and there you are. On the other platform, dressed in your favorite purple skirt and a tank top that hugs your breasts. So pretty. A gust of wind makes your hair whip around your face and the skirt moves like angry waves.

A train comes screeching in, blasting through the station without stopping, car after car passes me so fast they’re a blur. When the last one disappears into nothingness, you’re gone. Only the pale face of the clock looks back at me, drops glistening like pink diamonds in its light. It shows 11:58. The ticks grow louder, but the hands never move.

TickTockTickTockTICKTOCK

*

I know what time it is. What time it always is when I’m pulled from my nightmares, gasping, with blood thundering through my too-hot veins. I stare at the yellow numbers of my alarm clock, holding my breath until the numbers change. 11:59. Good. Unlike in the dreams, time here still moves. I keep looking until the numbers change again, and again, until we’re well into the new day. Only then do I feel safe enough to close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

The next time I open my eyes, sunshine is filtering through the curtains, filling the room with light and warmth. Someone is knocking on the door, hard, impatient, as if they’ve been doing it a long time. I glance at the clock, almost lunch time. I never sleep this late. The knocks continue as I bolt out of bed and pull on my dressing gown.

“Coming,” I shout as I head toward the sound, dragging my fingers through my hair. I fumble with the security chain, then open the door. “Hi Mom.”

“Sweetie.” She takes a long look at me. “Did I wake you? You forgot I was coming?”

“No, of course not.” I had totally forgotten.

Her eyes narrow as if she knows I’m lying, then she holds up a large bag. “I brought you some food, home-cooked meals and some fresh fruit,” she says, smiling, pulling out a peach, ripe and heavy. My mouth waters in anticipation.

“Thank you. It looks delicious.”

“I fixed you a few bento boxes too, perfect for work.”

I murmur another thank you as she heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge. She stiffens, the bag swinging slowly from her hand as she looks from the fridge to the sink, to me. Lips thin and a frown that makes a wrinkle form between her eyebrows. Eyes worried.

“Are you sure you’re doing alright, sweetie?” It’s not really a question, it’s an accusation, but I still nod.

“Of course. It’s been hard, but I’m coping.”

“Coping? Aki-dearest. You’ve always been the neatest person I know, and this…” A hand points toward the fridge and the sink that's filled with dirty cups and takeaway food boxes, many still full of dry, old food. How had I not noticed?

“I… I’ll clean it up today.”

“Good.” Her dark eyes linger on my face far too long. Perhaps she’ll leave it at that… but no. Not Mom. “You’re pale as a sheet," she points out, "and you’re losing weight.”

“Haven’t had much of an appetite,” I mumble.

“I know you two were close, but…grieving your… roommate like this…” She quiets, gives me a peculiar look. Does she know? About us? “I’m sure Nina would want you to take care of yourself. Not fade into a ghost.”

“Mom’s always right,” I quip, trying to make it sound like a joke, not annoyance. Because she's right. You'd hate seeing this.

I struggle to hold back tears as she takes a box of strawberries from the fridge. The ones I bought the other day, no… the other week. They’re not red anymore. Their smell is too sweet, rotten sugar covered in pale blue mould. Wasted.

She places it on top of the dishes in the sink, then pulls me into a hug. Her hair is soft. Smells like home. Suddenly I’m small again. So small. A wounded, sniffling sound escapes my throat.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you should see someone. Someone to talk to. A professional.”

“A shrink?” I snort, but she shakes her head.

“A therapist, or perhaps a grief counsellor. I found one with very good reviews, not far from the university.”

“I don’t think,,,”

“But I do. And I already booked an appointment for you.” She takes a step back, but keeps her hands on my shoulders, looking me in the face.

“Mom…”

“Strong, capable, adult. I know. But even the strongest people need someone to talk to at times.” Letting go of me, she pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and sticks it to the fridge with one of the many rabbit magnets decorating it. “Their phone number is there, so if you truly think it’s a bad idea, you can always cancel it.”

Damn right I can.

She means well, I know that, so for now I give in. Nod. Smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.” She looks around, frowning. “Perhaps we can skip the park and I’ll help you clean. Get you on top of things again?”

To my surprise, my smile widens even as my eyes tear up.

“I’d like that. Thank you.” So much for being a competent adult…

“Great. Why don’t you load up the washing machine and I start on the fridge?” She already has a roll of garbage bags in her hands, and the snap as she pulls one off is oddly hopeful.

As a team we’re efficient, and it’s not long before the washing machine is humming in its little alcove in the hallway, clean dishes are piled on the drying stand, floors have been mopped, and windows opened to let in fresh air. My bed has clean bedding, pillows fluffed up, and all dust chased away. A couple of full garbage bags are waiting by the door. Almost done but…

…the bathroom.

Mom notices me looking at the closed door and comes closer, places a hand on my shoulder again.

“I can handle it. Why don’t you take a break? Eat something?”

Ridiculous gratitude fills my chest, and makes me blink rapidly. It’s just a bathroom. I can clean it myself.

“Thank you. But if you clean the bathroom, I’ll do the toilet.” I point to the door on the other side of the washing machine. We both pull on yellow plastic gloves and go to work. I can hear her humming through the open door, water being turned on and off. It feels good, using my body again, working together like this. Then the humming stops.

“Sweetie?” She sounds puzzled, still I expect the worst as I get up and hurry toward her.

She points to the mirror, covered in white steam. “I didn’t use much hot water at all. Is there something wrong with the ventilation?”

“Yeah, I think so.” My voice is steady, even though my heart is racing. “It does that sometimes.”

“Technology, huh,” she mutters as she sprays the offending mirror with glass polish and rubs it down with a soft cloth. "There, good as new."

While I reload the washing machine and start hanging the laundry, Mom finishes the bathroom. Nothing creepy in there, no mystery, just faulty ventilation.

“Almost done,” she says, joining me in the living room. Floor mop in one hand and a dust rag in the other. Almost? The only place we haven’t done is…

“I’ll do it. I understand it’s still hard for you…”

She heads to the door – your door – pausing with her hand on the handle, looking back at me. For permission? No, don’t open it. Don’t go there! My mind is screaming, but my body isn’t responding. My head nods, lips mumbling, “Thank you.” The doors open, the light switches on, steady. No flickers.

As I hang the last of the wet clothes, Mom keeps chatting through the open door.

“That’s a lovely picture of you two. So cute.” … “Should we go out for lunch? My treat.” The sound of the window opening, the draft carrying the scent of roses and lilies all the way to me. I drift closer until I reach the doorway. Mom is busy wiping down the desk, back to me, still chatting. “Perhaps we can get some plants for you. Liven the place up.” She pauses. “We could visit the grave, if you want to. Bring some flowers.”

The grave?! I freeze, mouth dry. That’d be a nice, normal thing to do, right? Normal is good, right?

Satisfied, she steps away from the desk, turns to me, points...

“That’s an interesting book, you’ve got there. Looks old. I assume it’s for work. Are you planning on turning this room into a study? That’d be…”

Her voice shifts into background noise as I stare at the desk. Take a step closer as if that’d make a difference. I recognize it from here. It’s the book I had the… incident with yesterday. But I had wrapped it, tagged it, placed it on a trolley. 

I hadn’t brought it home. 

Had I?