Em Garner - Contaminated

My fingers curl over the money. I don’t look to see how much it is, but tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks.”

There are people in the world who are kind and good, the same way there are bad ones. I wish it were easier to figure out who’s who. Or what kind of person I’d be if I weren’t who I am.

“You’ll be okay?” Mr. Behney asks.

“Yeah. I think so. Lots of cleaning to do, but that’s okay.”

We both look at my mom, who’s moved into the family room. She’s touching the couch, the chair. She runs her hands along the mantelpiece like a blind woman trying to see the world with her fingertips. She’s still silent in her inspections, but she’s not crying. That’s good.

“Well.” Mr. Behney slides his palms together with a little clap. “I guess I’ll let you get settled.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I’m not looking forward to that part of it, even while I’m eager to check out my room, see what’s left.

He looks at my mom, then back at me. “Not many would do what you’re doing, Velvet. You know that.”

I shake my head and think of how he mentioned his wife. “I think more would do it than you think. She’s my mom, Mr. Behney. Wouldn’t you do it for someone you loved?”

His mouth thins. I’ve said something wrong. His eyes glisten; I don’t want to see him cry. That’s too intimate, too embarrassing.

“I waited too long,” Mr. Behney says. “I couldn’t decide if I could handle the responsibility, and I waited too long. They sent her back to the lab. And once that happens… they don’t come back.”

I have nothing to say. My mouth opens, no words come out. I’m not full of advice or wisdom, I’m still a kid. Adults are supposed to have the right words to say in situations like this.

He doesn’t seem to expect anything. He looks at my mom again. He squeezes my shoulder. Then without saying anything else, Mr. Behney leaves through the front door.

In the pantry, there are cans and jars and bottles and boxes. My mom had always joked that she shopped in bulk in case there was an Armageddon. The joke doesn’t sound funny in my head when I remember it, but I’m glad she’d done it because at least it means we’ll have something to eat, even if it’s plain white rice.

The rest of the kitchen is a mess I ignore for now. My mom’s found a nest of cushions and plops down in them. I have a vision of them being filled with mice or worse, squirrels, but though I run to her and pull her up, the cushions aren’t even chewed. That’s lucky, at least.

“Mom,” I say. “We’re home.”

It’s really too much to hope that she responds to this, but of course I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. I sigh and squeeze her hands. I sit back on my heels. I’m suddenly so tired, all I want to do is take a nap. The room, in fact, spins a little bit.

“Let’s get the couch set up. Maybe light a fire. At least it’ll be warm.”

There’s still some wood in the basket next to the fireplace, even if the rest of it is thrown all over the room. I pick up all the wood I can find and put it back in the basket. The floor and walls around the broken window are dark with mold. Leaves have blown inside, and I gather those up, too, stuffing them into the wood basket I use to help start the fire.

Our house always used to smell good. Like baking bread or the scented candles my mom liked to burn in different “flavors.” My favorite was Clean Linen. The smells lingering in the family room aren’t clean; they sting my nose and the back of my throat, and I don’t really want to think about what made them.

From her place on the couch, my mom watches me. Actually, she doesn’t watch, she stares but doesn’t seem to see. Her gaze is steady, unblinking and blank. Her mouth drops open. Drool leaks from her bottom lip, stretching thin like a spider’s thread down her chin and hanging in the air.

“Mom.”

Nothing. She doesn’t move or speak or react. Her breath rattles.

I tell myself she’s tired, worn out from walking and the drive. It feels like an excuse, but I keep making it because I don’t want there to be another reason why she’s gone so silent. I busy myself with cleaning up the room, even though I’m tired, too.

All the dust is making me cough and sneeze. My eyes water, and I scrub at them. My back aches. I’ve cleaned up a lot, but the couch is still overturned. I rub at my runny nose and study it. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it turned over on my own.

“Mom, can you help me?”

No response. I struggle with the end of the couch. My fingers slip on the leather. I grunt and yank, but the couch is easily eight feet long and really heavy. It took two big burly deliverymen to get it in the house, and even when we tried to move it for vacuuming during spring cleaning, my dad had to help Mom.

I can’t do this alone, and I’m suddenly frustrated. Sore. I shove at it again, barely shifting it. I need someone else to help me tip it, that’s all it would take.

“Mom!”

Again, she doesn’t answer. She sits on the pile of cushions without moving or blinking, her mouth gaping wide. She looks old. She looks demented.

“Mom, get up!” Anger is boiling in me, my fists clenching, even though I feel like I’m staring down at myself, watching, and sick in my guts at my fury. I kick the couch and let out a scream. It doesn’t make me feel better.

I want to break something.

Is that how they feel? I wonder, as everything inside me twists and shifts and breaks apart. Is this how the Connies feel when they can’t control themselves any longer?

“Mom, I need you! I need you!” It’s what I used to scream in the night when I had a bad dream, when she’d come running down the hall to turn on the lights and chase away the monsters.

There is no light to turn on now, and who’s the monster? Her? Or me?

I’m leaning over her, my fingers clutching at her shirt. I mean only to get her attention, to make her look at me. I want my mom to see me. Her hands fly up, fists. I duck, jerking back, but she’s not trying to hit me. She’s being defensive.

She hunches over suddenly, hands still in front of her. People compare Connies to animals. To dogs. And I can’t deny that’s what she reminds me of just now, a growling, scared dog.

My heart hurts for whatever she went through while she was missing, that she should automatically assume someone grabbing at her means her harm, and I can’t blame her because I was being too loud. Too abrupt. I’m ashamed.

I put my hand out slowly. They say you shouldn’t do that to dogs, that you’ll just get bitten. But she’s not a dog. She is my mother, and I’ve said that to enough people already that I need to make sure I act like it now.

“Mom. Shhh. It’s me, Velvet. I just need you to help me with the couch, okay? Get it turned over so we can sit on it. Okay? It’s okay.”

She gets slowly to her feet. She pushes on the end of the couch. I take a couple of steps back, and she watches me.

“See? I’m going to the other side. Then we’ll push it together. Okay?” First, I move the end table and lamp, useless without electricity, out of the way. Then I go back to the couch’s other side and put both hands on it. “We have to tip it together, at the same time.”

I know she hears me, but does she understand? I’ll just have to find out. I take a deep breath, count slowly to three. We both push at the same time. I push too hard, not expecting help from her, and the couch tips but also slides. I manage a grin. “Yes! Again! We almost got it!”

I count slowly again. On three, we both push. The couch tips from being upside down to rocking onto its back legs, then all the way upright. It’s a mess, the leather scratched and dirty. Cushions are missing. But as with the others, they don’t seem to be chewed or ruined by rodents.