Leave It Be, Em

"What about this thing?"

I hold up a round, yellowed appliance with a bulky wire wrapped around it like a hazardous umbilical cord. I have no idea what it is, but there's some sort of food hardened to the side that's probably been stuck there for years. Gross.

Mom takes the thing from my hands. "That's a rice cooker, darling. I just picked that up at a yardsale." She sets it in (or rather atop) a full basket of kitchen relics in the "keep" pile, which, as I expected, dwarfs the little "toss" heap. So far, that modest mound only includes things of which she has more than two. Even those items had been a strain for her to part with. The idea that she still peruses yardsales is beyond discouraging.

I look to the clock on the wall to find both hands resting lazily near the 10. We've been at this all morning. I take a deep, daunted breath as I lift another box down to the black-and-white linoleum. The kitchen and bathroom are the only rooms with any floor space left to speak of.

"Why don't you take a break, sweetie?"

I turn my gaze to my mother, sitting on her feet on the floor beside me. The frizzy, white hair that frames her face is glowing, backlit by the sun through the window. Behind her glasses, her green eyes crinkle in a familiar and genuine smile, and I force a smile back. She is still my mom, the same woman who cuddled me and read to me as a child, who kept an immaculate house for decades. She had been a great mom. She had been ... normal.

It's not a good time to take a break; the apartment is still nearly impassable for all the boxes, totes, and baskets of Mom's new and old junk, but looking at it all again, I feel myself tense up, yearning for a smoke. I know I should quit. "Fine," I lament, "just a quick break."

I walk out to the front step through the bright hallway that smells like paint and pot smoke, and as I fumble with my lighter, I feel the tears coming again. How can she stand living like this? 

I think the hoarding began around the time Dad died. Of course, Mom refuses to call it what it is. "I'm not a hoarder," she'll laugh whenever she hears the word, as if her lifestyle is perfectly normal, moving from room to room in that cramped place via a narrow path through stacks of crap. It's obviously not healthy. I mean, she can't even have company over anymore. The last meal we shared at her table, before it got buried in junk, was more than six months ago.

I take a deep drag off my cigarette and slide up the lock screen on my phone. It's a picture of Gaga, the one-eyed pomeranian my husband took in our long and petty divorce. I get visitation with her every Monday, court ordered. 

I swipe idly through my text messages, pausing over an unread message from Eva: "Just leave it alone, Em."

My younger sister is almost sweet in her sincere naivety. I should have known better than to even bring this up with her again. I texted her last night, something along the lines of "if I can't get Mom to clear out at least half that shit tomorrow, I'll lose it." 

How can Eva argue that anyone living among so many towers of crap could be properly looking after themselves? Honestly? She doesn't get it. Six years my junior, 25-year-old Eva seems to still believe Mom knows everything and can do no wrong, but she wasn't here when Dad was sick. She didn't see how obsessed Mom became with his care, all but totally neglecting her own needs, nor how quickly she began to replace his presence in the apartment with these random things. At first it was a box of old books from goodwill, a few extra throw pillows, practical things that she more or less made room for. Then I started to notice other things. When was she ever going to need a plant stand? She never kept plants. And the suitcases? She doesn't travel. She might, she says. Then her collection became more obscure: rolls of sparkly wallpaper she might someday do a craft with, a broken doll that reminded her of me, an old-fashioned butter churner, five different can openers. I couldn't even find those things in there now if I tried.

"Emma Grace," Mom sings my name when I re-enter the kitchen. She's moved a tray of silverware off of the stove top to boil a kettle for tea. I try to swallow the annoyance I feel at her lack of focus.

"Mom," I plead, proud of my calm, even tone. "I think we'd better get back to it here, or we'll never finish."

Mom has her back to me, so I don't see her expression, but I notice her hand pause briefly in mid-air before she pulls open the cupboard to root for teabags. 

"Emma, Emma, Emma," she sings softly. She puts a hot mug in my hand and clinks it gently with her own. "How's that nice man you're seeing? Clive, was that his name?"

"Mom," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Is this a pencil sharpener?" I examine a clunky, metal device with a turning handle, the kind of sharpener that was screwed into the corner of the teacher's desk in third grade. Mom's gaze is fixed on my face, like she's studying a new artifact for this museum of uselessness. "Mom?" I shake the thing at her, trying to snap her out of it.

"Oh, yes," she coos affectionately. "I love that." She takes the sharpener with a little sigh and places it gingerly next to the teetering "keep" pile.

Incredulous, I'm not sure I can take much more. All I want is to throw a lit match at this mess and move Mom across town to the complex next to mine, someplace fresh and empty with space for her to move around, maybe even entertain guests the way she once enjoyed. Hadn't she enjoyed that?

"Have you heard from your sister this weekend?" Mom blows over the rim of her cup and tries again to change the subject.

Eva's text flashes in my mind, "Just leave it alone, Em." Easy for you to say, I think. Eva has a steady boyfriend who dotes on her, a close-knit group of friends she's known since high school, and a full-time job she landed effortlessly right after graduation. She's almost enviably preoccupied, I think to myself, as I sample the steaming drink in my hand. It's our favourite, chamomile.

"I'm sure she's busy," I sigh.

Mom smiles contentedly as she leans back against the counter, which is layered with magazines and various debris. Clean dishes sit in the drying rack in the sink, where they'll stay until she dirties them again, as there's no room to put them away in the cupboard.

It's true, when I was dating Clyde and working at The Rivera, I wasn't worrying about Mom's situation so much. She'd say she's fine, she's happy, and I'd just take it at face value, carrying on with my own business. That's all the more reason I should be glad for the change. I was laid off and dumped in the same week, and it's probably for the best. Mom needs me. Doesn't she?

Mom laughs and plucks a magazine off the counter. "Did you see this?" she asks, turning it to show me the cover. It features a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker draped in tulle, and a bright, pink headline screaming, "Self-Love and the City". Mom loves Sex and the City, although her TV hasn't been accessible for awhile, and she loves a good play on words. Her smile waxes and wanes as she happily flips through the pages looking at the pictures as if for the first time.

My phone pings for attention in my back pocket, and I slide it out to see Clyde's name. Clyde texted me. My heart trembles. What does he want? My fingers reach trepidatiously to tap open the message preview. "Can you come over?" A pinball of excitement and angst ricochets through my chest. Mom raises her eyebrows in curiosity. 

I can't just leave. I promised Mom I'd help her clean out the apartment today. She hadn't asked, but she obviously hadn't had to. I tap the screen of my phone with chipped fingernails, thinking about Clyde. Have I shaved my legs? I realize it's been more than a couple of days since I even showered.

"I need to make a call, Mom." I look around the cramped apartment. "Are you … You're okay? You don't mind if we put this off a bit?"

Mom's thin lips form a smile that is warm and reassuring, with a touch of what might be relief. Her green eyes crinkle. She probably knows it's about a guy. She knows me pretty well, after all. She's still my mom, a thought that both confounds and comforts, and, as always, I'm grateful for her approval. 

Maybe we'll try to tackle this again tomorrow.

I kiss Mom's cheek, and as I pull the door behind me, I hear her chuckle carelessly into the glossy pages of the magazine. Yeah, I guess she'll be fine for now. Tomorrow it is.