by Samantha Elliott

Created on: September 10, 2010

July, 2010

As I stood on my tiptoes on the filthy, rusted bulkhead door, my legs trembled. Ever so cautiously, I peered in the kitchen window while keeping an ear on approaching traffic. I was afraid of the metal giving away underfoot, sure, but monumentally worse I was afraid of my mother’s car pulling in the driveway.

In the kitchen, I saw the same pile of moldy dishes that were present the last time I was in the house-twelve, fifteen years ago? Piles thigh-deep of newspapers, junk mail, and magazines blocked every possibility of a pathway. Long-dead plants hung in the dining room windows. Every square inch of counter top and table were overtaken by what most of us discard without so much as a thought. Memories sprang into my head in an instant.

1971-1989

Throwing dirty paper towels away were a big no-no while growing up. “I’m still using that!” she would snarl at my brother. He was the stereotypical first born: independent, always able to speak his mind, and strong-willed. He represented the biggest challenge to my mother’s secret lifestyle and would attempt to throw things away regularly. I, on the other hand, was meek as a mouse. I just knew it was a topic that you didn’t talk about with anyone-family or otherwise. A lot of sacrifice was made in my childhood because of it, but I felt like I had to protect her. I never had a sleepover. I never had friends come in the house. I always had a million and one excuses ready when the neighborhood kids pushed the issue.

What my siblings and I thought of as garbage was always sorted through. A chewing-out usually followed. “There was still toothpaste in the bottom of the tube-you should’ve squeezed it more!” In my mother’s eyes, we were wasters of everything household related. I was regularly scorned for using too much toilet paper, too much shampoo (“What do you, drink it? You are supposed to use a dime-sized squirt!”), and even too many feminine products, much to my horror. Our fridge was always packed full, and much of it was rotten food that she insisted was still good. If a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice had half a cup left in it, we knew it should not be drunk or a major battle would ensue.

The contents of the house to an outsider would have looked very randomly arranged, but to my brothers and me they were familiar. There was the ever-present laundry pile in the basement littered with buried treasures: two liters of Coca-Cola,

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>