Mum lowers herself into the seat opposite. She’s just over sixty, but it’s the stiff movement of a much older person. “Losing a partner is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she brings it back to him.
“Freddie’s dead, Mum. Dad moved to Surrey.”
She stiffens. Dad’s departure—cowardly as it was—is always a touchy subject.
“And your job?” Her voice is tight with annoyance. And so it begins.
“Still looking for something more permanent. I’m working in a café for the time being.” I was vague when Mum asked why I’d lost my job. I always got the sense that she felt my grief for Freddie was somehow not quite as acute as the grief she felt over losing my father. If I told her that I lost my job because Freddie’s death made it impossible for me to function, I know she’d scoff. Think less of me.
“And how are you finding the café?”
I smile sweetly. “Oh, you know. Pays the bills.”
“Well, it clearly doesn’t.”
“It’s an expression.”
“Right.”
A muscle tics in her jaw. She’s holding back, and I know why. I have something she wants. It’s the only reason she’s let me stay. Sure enough, it’s the next question she asks. She’s so predictable it hurts.
“And howisyour father?”
I stifle a sigh and mentally prepare my speech. It’s important not to give too much away. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, and I must portion the information out until I can find a living situation that doesn’t pose a public health hazard. I’ll just have to go over some stuff she already knows, adding a few embellishments here and there.
I take a deep breath and begin.
I tell her that Dad still lives in a modern (read: ugly) three-bedroom house in Surrey. It is surrounded by a privet hedge that he trims with a handheld bush trimmer every fourth Saturday in the summer months. It has an electric gate, which is something that his scandalously young wife insisted on, for the safety of their now decrepit and largely incontinent dog, Florence. The gate was also essential to keep their two daughters from running into the road, as young children are wont to do. They have two cars: one four-by-four—essential for navigating the treacherous roads of suburbia—and a sedan, which Dad uses to attend his bank clerk job when he doesn’t cycle in. When he does cycle in, he makes jokes about being a MAMIL (a middle-aged man in Lycra), which attracted a polite smattering of laughter the first time, but now the year is 2026 and cute acronyms died in the final years of the pandemic. He enjoys it all. He enjoys the treacherous mundanity of his new, small, boring life. So much so that he barely thinks about the wife and daughter he left behind.
I don’t include that last bit, obviously. Every time I mention Dad, I dip my voice to the reverential whisper of the religious, and Mum closes her eyes and nods along as though every word is an epiphany.
“Did he ask about me?” she says. Her hangover is setting in. Sweat beads along her upper lip.
“Yes.” He didn’t, but it’s a nice touch that will keep her sweet.
“What did you say?”
“That I hadn’t seen you for a while. I told him I was moving in with you, though, and I’d let him know if there was anything to report.”
She nods and I think I even see a flash of gratitude. Then she ruins it all by leaning forward and grasping for the pack of cigarettes. She doesn’t bother to ask if I mind, which I very much do. The flame shudders as she raises the lighter toward her mouth, where a cigarette now dangles from puckered lips.
And, since I am understandably more mindful of my mortality than most, I excuse myself. Back in the hallway, I empty the bottle of hand sanitizer into my palms.
Five
I didn’t have highhopes for my childhood bedroom. I wagered it would be better than the kitchen, likely on par with the hall. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sweet, sickly, cloying smell of death. Though perhaps she thought I’d be used to it by now.
The source of the stench—a rat—did not sequester itself in a dignified corner to die, like most self-respecting creatures. No, this one expired in as flagrant a manner as possible: on my bed, tiny paws raised to the heavens like it was sending one final plea to the great beyond. It must’ve been there for quite some time. The fur is coming away from its leathery skin, which clings to its skeleton like latex stretched thin over fingers. Death doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen two human bodies now, and overexposure has stripped most corpses of their macabre mystery. But I don’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with one.
Other than my tiny bedfellow, the room is exactly as I remember. Divided into two almost identical halves, with two identical beds, two identical bedside tables, and two identical lamps. Everything is caked in dust. There are black rodent droppings over every surface, husks ofinsects suspended in torn spiderwebs, and a thick blanket of flies on the windowsill. I expect they died trying to escape. I know the feeling.
On the other bed—herbed—something has been propped against the pillow. Something glossy, which reflects the dim light from the bare bulb. A photograph. God, I hope Mum hasn’t turned this room into some sort of shrine. If she has, it hasn’t been well maintained.
I pull my sleeve over my hand and pick up the photograph with the material, then hold it to the light. It’s one of me and Marcie. I recognize it, vaguely. We can’t have been more than thirteen. Marcie’s got her arm flung casually round me, whereas I’m hunched in on myself, shoulders rounded, as though the attention was all too much. I’d drawn the puberty short straw: mousy hair greasy with sweat that fell in limp waves around my shiny face. Bushy, unshaped eyebrows. Next to her, I didn’t stand a chance. She was radiant, even at that age. Even with the mouthful of braces, the smattering of spots. It’s coming back to me now. That day: the heat. The smell of garbage. Marcie had been given a disposable camera for our birthday, and she’d asked a passing dog walker to take our photo. She was always so self-assured. So confident, even with strangers. My heart aches for the small child next to her. Always eclipsed by a brighter light.
I can feel myself sinking into melancholy, so I force myself to snap out of it. I should deal with the rat, really, but I can’t face it yet. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. This is all a lot to take in. But it’s important to maintain a sense of humor in the face of adversity, and even I can appreciate the irony of a germaphobe being forced to live in this cesspit.
