Maureen McHugh - After the Apocalypse

“I want to ask you something,” Irene said.

“Sure,” he said.

“You saw the house, right? I mean, that’s crazy.”

He wasn’t sure what they were talking about—the stuff, the hospital room? He nodded as noncommittally as he could.

“Can I come live with you and Momms when Mom dies?”

We moved a lot. I went to seven different schools in twelve years. I wasn’t an army brat. My dad went back to finish a college degree when I was five, and then he went to grad school for two years. Then they moved three times in two years because they lived with my mom’s parents, then dad found a job with a nonprofit that went bust and then got work through a grant. He was a chemist working with companies that did environmental studies. Analysis of water systems. He had trouble working for other people. Every move was the last one. Every job was the good one. The last three moves were without my dad—back to my mom’s parents, then to one job for my mom, and halfway through the school year, the last one. My mom is still in that house.

When my mom and dad split up, my mom made me get rid of most of my stuff. I wasn’t a hoarder then, but I always had a thing about my stuff. She said we could only take what would fit in the car. I had a collection of statues of horses and some stuffed animals and some shells from a vacation in Florida. Sanibel Island, which was boring, but I loved the shells. It was my museum. My history. I could tell you when I got each horse. Each one had a name and a story. I was fifteen. We had a huge fight. We were both upset because of the divorce. Her because it was a failure, I think—a failure of a marriage and a failure of judgment. Me, because it had taken so long for her to finally do it. She threw out the horses and the stuffed animals and the shells.

It was a big deal. I was devastated. It was like she had thrown out my entire past. I realize that she didn’t understand. I don’t hold it against her. But it was big. Really big.

Hoarding runs in my family. My granddad is a hoarder, only they say pack rat. I haven’t been there in years, but last time my mom and I were there after my grandmother died, there was this smell, like canned peas or something. Musty. I know things are too cluttered, but it’s not as bad as that. It’s gotten a little out of control now that Natalie is sick, I know. But I can’t do anything about it right now. I can only handle so much. After Natalie is gone, I’ll have to do something.

Nat’s parents want to take Irene, but she needs to stay in her own house, with her friends. High school is too important a time to take her away from everything.

I don’t want to. I want her to be somebody else’s problem. She hates me, and I don’t really like her, but when I committed to Natalie, I committed to everything that came with it. We would have gotten married if we could have. Natalie is my wife in every way that I can make it so. Irene is her child. It’s not Irene’s fault, she didn’t pick me or my problems. She’s already been abandoned by Eva. Eva chose drugs over her daughter. I owe Irene the best I can give her. I do. I want to work on that, see if we can find a way to love each other.

That’s not realistic, is it? I read in a book on stepparenting that you can never replace their biological parent, but you can become someone important in their lives. That you can become an adult they can tell things they couldn’t say to a parent. Like a beloved aunt or something. I don’t know that Irene and I can have that, but I feel like I have to try. She can’t live with Eva. She doesn’t want to go to Texas and live with her grandparents. That leaves me, right?

I know that my stuff is a problem. But it’s really not that bad, not as bad as Irene makes it sound. Irene is hurt and angry and lashing out.

When Natalie is gone, then I’ll concentrate on dealing with the stuff. I will. I’ll work with the professional organizer you talked about. I don’t want to stop seeing you and work with someone who has more experience with people like me. Will you continue therapy with me?

Those horses were worth some money. People collect them. Not that I would ever sell them if I had them again.

Everything goes away. You just try to hold on to what you can.

Irene went through the dark house to the kitchen and got a Coke. The only light in the whole house came from her room, because then she didn’t have to see anything, although the problem with that was sometimes the piles kind of slid, and something fell in the path through them, and it was easy to trip.

Alice was at the hospice with mom. Alice stayed at the hospice all the time now. She had come home Wednesday and done some laundry and taken Irene back with her. Alice slept there. Irene couldn’t do that. She couldn’t make herself do it. She had gone back on Thursday evening. She had said she didn’t want to go tonight. She thought Alice might give her a hard time. They were pretty sure her mom was going to die in the next couple of days.

Alice said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Can I have some money to order a pizza?”

Alice dug in her purse and handed Irene a wad of bills. It turned out to be over sixty dollars. “Call a friend if you want. Call me if you want to come to the hospice. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“Happens?” Irene said, cruel. “Like she dies?”

Alice just looked at her for a moment. “I’ll call you if they tell me she’s going. You can come if you want.”

Irene said, “She’s not even really there.” Her mom was gone. Just this thing with half-open eyes and a gaping mouth, breathing really loud. They had an IV in her to keep her hydrated, but they didn’t even have to give her painkillers anymore because her brain had been replaced by cheese.

“I know,” Alice said. “I just have to be there. But it’s okay if you’re not.”

Alice was probably glad to get away from her.

So St. Alice was at the hospital, and Irene was drinking a Coke. Of course, Alice would have a life when Mom died. She’d be sad, Irene knew that. But Alice lived in Alice-world. Alice didn’t really see all the stuff. Alice talked about whether Irene would take some classes at college next year for advanced placement, like everything would be the same. Alice didn’t know that Irene had asked Lonny if she could live with him and Momms. (Lonny’s face had said everything, even though he’d sort of talked around and said, sure, it was fine with him but he’d have to talk to Eva and they really didn’t have much space in their place.)

Irene was pretty sure that if she moved to Momms’s, Alice would barely notice.

She really didn’t want to move to Momms’s. Momms was high when she came to see Mom, and Lonny was a waste of oxygen. The apartment had hardly any furniture, and she’d have to sleep on the couch. She had been stupid to think about it. It was just that Momms was supposed to be her mother, and she’d kind of thought maybe Momms might get her act together when she realized that Irene needed her, really needed her.

Irene sat on the bed, crying. If Alateen had taught her anything, it should have taught her that Momms wasn’t going to magically stop using and clean up her act for Irene. (Oh, God, Irene needed her to. Couldn’t Momms see how bad things were? How badly Irene needed her?)

She cried for a while. Then she opened her laptop and tried to find something to watch on Netflix.

She hated Houston. She didn’t know anyone there except her grandparents, who were okay but who never really accepted that Mom was gay and always did the “everything is so normal!” thing when they went to visit. She felt like a science experiment in Houston. Her grandmother took her shopping and watched what she picked, waiting to see if Irene was gay. They’d probably send her to one of those Bible places meant to cure you of being gay. Irene didn’t actually think she was gay, but if she went to Houston, she’d probably turn gay just because of her grandparents.