I'm Glad My Mom Died(8)

“Grandpa, can you use a little less butter? You’re gonna upset Mom.”

“Huh?” Grandpa calls out. I swear to God he huh’s me whenever I ask him something he doesn’t want to respond to.

Exasperated, I head out and spread open The White Thing on the gray carpet in the living room. The White Thing is a poorly named thin, white, floral-patterned square that folds out into three ten-inch by ten-inch segments. This trifold square serves as our “table.” Apparently, we have a thing for trifolds in our household.

So I splay out The White Thing as Dustin and Scottie walk single file into the living room. They’re walking like they’re on a tightrope, with just as much focus as tightrope walkers, because they’ve both overfilled their bowls with milk and cereal to the point that the milk sloshes over the sides of the bowls and lands on the gray carpet. Mom tells them every single day how much she hates when their milk spills on the carpet and how it gives off a sour smell, but no matter how many times she tells them, they just keep overpouring their milk and cereal. Nobody listens around here.

Mom hasn’t yet put on her church shoes because she saves putting them on for the last minute since they make her bunions throb, so I know that the second she steps onto the milk-sopped carpet, she’ll rip off her tights, fly into hysterics, and demand that we stop at Rite Aid on the way so that she can get a new pair of tights. If we stop at Rite Aid, that will cut into my three-hour-escape. We cannot stop at Rite Aid.

I rush to the towel closet. On my way, I pass the bathroom. I press my ear against the closed door and hear Grandma complaining on the phone with a friend of hers.

“Jean left the price tag on the sweater she got me. She does that whenever she gets something on sale but wants to pretend like she paid full price. It’s pretty sneaky of her. Anyway, I went to Mervyn’s and saw the sweater there, seventy percent off. She didn’t even spend fifteen dollars on me….”

“Grandma, get out! The boys need to get in!” I shout as I bang on the bathroom door.

“Why do you hate me!” Grandma yells. She always does that when she’s on the phone with someone. Tries to make herself look like a victim.

I get to the towel closet and grab the little red dish towel with the Christmas lights on it, wet the end of it under the kitchen faucet, and press the wet end into the milk-soaked carpet. I look up and see Dustin and Scottie eating on The White Thing. Scott chews silently and with an even and measured slowness, almost like he’s in slow motion. Where is the urgency? Where is the purpose? Dustin chews with his mouth open, loud and chomping. Urgent but not efficient.

I check the clock. 11:12 a.m. Somehow, we have to get out the door and into the van in eight minutes so that we can get to church for the eleven thirty service.

“Hurry it up, slowpokes!” I bark at my brothers while pressing my full body weight into the wet Christmas towel on the milked carpet.

“Shut up, poopsmear,” Scottie snaps back at me.

Grandpa steps over me as breadcrumbs spill out of his paper towel–wrapped toast. Grandma crosses in from the other end of the room, wrapped in a towel shabby enough that you can see through it—disgusting. Her perm is clipped into place with a makeshift headwrap made of toilet paper and hair clips.

“You happy, little girl?! I’m out of the bathroom now,” she says as she heads to the kitchen.

I ignore Grandma and tell my brothers that the bathroom is free so they can go and brush their teeth while I put their cereal bowls in the sink. Through an act of God we may just make it to church on time.

I’m elated. I lift the wet Christmas towel from the milk spot. I head to the kitchen to re-wet it for round two when Mom crosses through and heads for the living room. Anxiety fills my body. I’m just about to warn Mom, but by the time she’s out of the kitchen, I know it’s too late.

“What is this?” Mom asks in a tone that makes me know she knows exactly what it is she just stepped in.

I tell Mom I already started to clean it up, so the wetness is mostly just water, but it doesn’t matter. Her mood has already switched. She’s already ripping off her tights and calling for Dad, saying we’re gonna need to stop at Rite Aid so she can get a new pair.

I wonder if there’s something different I could have done to get us out the door faster. I wonder if there’s something I can do in the future. We all pile into the van and head to Rite Aid. Maybe we’ll make it to church in time for “Popcorn Popping.”





6.


“DADDY!” I SCREAM AS SOON as he walks through the door. I run into his belly with my head, the same way I do every time he gets home from work. I take a whiff of his flannel—mmm, freshly chopped wood and a dab of fresh paint, his trademark scent.

“Hi, Net,” he says, more blandly than I would hope. I’m always crossing my fingers for a laugh, or a hair rustle, or a hug, but they never come, or at least not yet. I’m still hoping.

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

I’m desperate for something else to talk about with him. For some kind of connection. With Mom, it’s effortless. Why does everything feel so stuck with him?

“Did you have any fun?” I ask as we walk from the entryway into the living room.

He doesn’t answer. A concerned look flashes on his face after he locks eyes with something. I turn my head to see what he’s looking at.