https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtGtjaCmJdTMQ6MrYaAiLI-5ls_eo003a)
Play: “Exploration B”
Where are you?
Cleveland. 1992.
My mother only picked me up from school twice, as far as I can remember, neither was planned and both happened while I was in high school. The first time, she surprised me with tickets to Paula Abdul’s Under my Spell Tour. We set out right from the curbside pick-up for the hour drive south to the Blossom Music Center, an open-air amphitheater on the edge of a national park. It felt like we had enacted a long-planned escape.
The second time, she hadn’t waited outside the school. Instead she was up the street, deep into the neighborhood, waiting for me in her plum colored Dodge Spirit. I smiled and skipped to the passenger side, anticipating that this signaled we’d be off to another concert. I turned toward her as soon as I closed the door. My smile withered. Smoke from her cigarette gathered at the front windshield like a rolling fog, her gaze straight ahead. She didn’t wipe her tears. I stayed silent and didn’t move. I knew better.
“All you had to do was make your bed.” She took a drag of her cigarette.
“What have I asked you to do over and over again? Make your bed before you leave. It takes two seconds.”
“You’re the only one I thought I could count on.” She shook her head.
I bowed mine. Ashamed I had let her down.
At the time, and for most of my life, I didn’t understand why my mother craved cleanliness. Yes, many mornings started with wiping up the tomato sauce that my drunken father had streaked across the kitchen counters as he attempted to make pizza in the middle of the night. Some mornings the dried dark red sauce ran down the white oven like streaks of blood. My mother and I cleaned, many times together. Like concerts and movies, it was our thing.
Last April we spoke for the last time. For reasons I will not get into here, we have not spoken in a year. She leaves voicemails. I listen, but do not call her back. Some days it’s easier to think that she did die.
Play: “Haunted”
One more look at the ghost before I’m going to make it leave.
During that call we discussed what I termed her obsession with cleaning and the pressure I felt to care for the house. She had thought I enjoyed it. She counted that time as mother/son bonding moments. I considered it an obligation.
“Oh.” Her voice cracked. She inhaled smoke and stayed silent.
I like to believe I didn’t intend to hurt her. But, a year later, I don’t know if that’s true.
Play: “Exploration B” and “Haunted”
I need to get my bearings…and the shadows keep on changing.
Where are you?
Chicago. Now.
After breakfast, wash dishes. Sweep floor whether it needs it or not. Spray lemon-scented Lysol on floor and use dry Swiffer to mop. I feel a sense of purpose. An idea that I’m contributing to the household. I lost my job as a dog walker because no one needs a stranger to walk their dog when they are home all day, every day, during a pandemic.
Play: “Terrible Thought”
What’s your greatest worry because you seem to be worried all the time?
Being useless. The fate of the world. General uncertainty of the Covid-19 situation. So many more worries, but I’ll stop there. I’m running out of words.
Play: “House of Leaves”
No one should brave the underworld alone.
After kitchen is clean, spray Scrubbing Bubbles on bathroom sink. Make sure to wipe behind the faucet. Repeat for bathtub. Don’t forget the shower walls. Let the fog of lavender-scented cleaning product surround you. Breathe it in. Rewind to last conversation with your mother. Stop. Rewind further to the conversation with her in the car. Stop.
Play: “Control”
While you were looking the other way. While you had your eyes closed.
During my scrubbing and sweeping, a theory surfaces: cleaning gave my mother a sense of control over her life. Our house was unpredictable. There were times survival didn’t seem possible. Yet, we both did. We both found our ways to cope. All I can do now is imagine her response. A chuckle as she says, “I don’t know.”
Perhaps I’m overthinking. Looking for a pattern where there is none.
Play: “Terrified Heart”
Mom? Are you there? Are you sleeping? I'm so bummed.
Washing and scrubbing gives structure to my day. Gives me a break from the news. A respite from the red graph line climbing higher and higher as more people die. For however long it takes, I’m not distressed, sad about all the people getting sick, people losing their jobs, being afraid for their families.
Play: “House of Leaves”
Try now to take the next step. Mom?
My mother leaves voicemails for me. They congregate in my phone’s blocked messages folder. I imagine them all huddled around a table in the middle of a room only lit by one candle. Messages, her attempts to conjure me into her life. Her recording a voice from the past, the present, and a future that I cannot currently imagine. What I tried to make her understand during our last conversation is that you can love someone and still consider them a negative force in your life. I wish I’d had the language to tell her that too many ghosts exist in the distance between us.
Bruce Owens Grimm’s haunted queer essays have appeared in The Rumpus, Kenyon Review Online, Ninth Letter, AWP's Writer's Notebook, Iron Horse Literary Review, Older Queer Voices, and elsewhere. He is co-editing Fat & Queer: An Anthology of Queer & Trans Bodies & Lives, which is under contract with Jessica Kingsley Publishers. More can be found at www.bruceowensgrimm.com.
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