Chapter 14 - The Woman of the House

By the time I’m inside the house, I’m exhausted from replaying the conversation with Heather and Krisha in my head. One thing sticks out: Heather said something was off with Angela. Whatever it was, it might have something to do with her disappearance.

Before I can sink onto a barstool at the kitchen counter, my gaze lands on a package sitting on the back porch. I slide the glass door open and wonder what new gadget Brian has ordered now. Then I see the return address: The New Hope Mental Health Facility in Chicago.

The house falls away. A narrow hallway appears in its place. The fluorescent lights overhead are dim. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming, but this time, I barely notice it as I run toward the elevator at the end of the hallway. I must have walked this route hundreds of times, from the elevator to the end of the hall and back, but now it seems to have an indefinite end. The harder I run, the farther away the metal elevator doors seem. I resist the urge to look behind me, despite feeling like what’s behind me is pulling me back.

“Rose,” a man’s voice says. I look around, but the hallway is empty. I’m alone. “Rose!” A hand grabs my arm and I open my eyes.

It’s Vick. I’m standing on the back porch. “Are you all right?” His face is full of concern as I steady myself against the railing.

“Sorry,” I say, still finding my footing. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You look pale as a sheet,” Vick says.

“It’s nothing.” I pick up the package and balance its weight against my knee.

“Here,” Vick says, reaching for the box. “Let me help you with that.”

“No, no.” I grip the box tighter and get the door open just in time. “I’ve got it, thanks.” I hurl myself inside and lock the door behind me, leaving a confused and sweaty Vick standing alone on the porch.

The house is quiet as it waits to see what I do next. I hoist the box onto my hip and carry it upstairs. I try to shove it into the closet in the guest room, but it doesn’t fit. When I flip it on its side, two corners stick out, keeping the door from closing all the way. Brian will notice.

I slide the box down the hallway into our room. My phone feels like it’s vibrating in my back pocket, but the feeling is phantom. It’s a reminder of all the calls I didn’t answer. All the voicemails I never listened to. All the parts of the past I never dealt with but hoped would wash away like footprints in the sand. Now, the past is sitting right in front of me, begging to be opened.

I shove the cardboard box into our closet, covering it with long dresses before I slam the door shut and collapse on our bed. My breath is shaky and uneven. Now that I’ve stopped moving, the sweat on the back of my neck is beginning to chill, sending an uncomfortable coolness down the ridges of my spine.

“Don’t do it,” I say to myself as I resist the urge to open the closet, and the box along with it. There’s nothing in there I want to see, I know that, but still the thought pulls at the corners of my mind like a loose thread on a sweater, threatening to unravel it completely.

Open it.

Before my mind can stop me, my body is moving. The closet door is open, the dresses are pushed aside, and I’m standing in front of the box once again. I rip at the edges of the tape before flinging the flaps open.

The smell is the first thing that hits me. The mixture of cigarettes and cheap drugstore perfume wafts through the air of our freshly painted house. Smelling Mother here, in a place she never existed, is disorienting.

I push past the Bubble Wrap and pull out the main culprit of the stench: her flannel blanket. It traveled with her from the one-bedroom apartment she lived in my whole life to the facility she was sent to by the court. As a child, there were so many times I wanted Mother to tuck me into bed, to wrap me in a blanket like this to make me feel warm and safe, but it never happened. Instead, I went to bed alone every night, wishing I had a different mother, a different life. The last time I saw this blanket, it was lying at her feet while she took her last breath. I toss the blanket on the ground and push the memory aside.

When I dig farther into the box, another smell greets me. Sweat and vomit. I pull out a dark knit sweater stained with both before shoving it deeper into the box to save myself from the stench. At the bottom there’s a series of small trinkets: a lighter, a deck of cards, and the silver flask Mother never went anywhere without. I don’t have to open it to know it would smell of vodka. Or, if she wasn’t able to get her hands on any at the facility, rubbing alcohol.

Wedged in the corner of the box is a small plastic container. I pull it out, surprised at how heavy it is, and hold it in my hands. This small, forgettable thing is the reason the facility has been so desperate to get in touch with me, the reason they’ve been calling me nonstop. I thought ignoring their request would be enough for them to throw it in the garbage along with used bedpans and soiled sheets, but somehow, the facility got my mailing address.

Surrounded by Mother’s belongings, I picture her standing in front of a classroom in a rural farm town. Tiny beads of sweat form at the bridge of her lip as she explains the difference between present and past tense to a room full of eager students, who look up in awe at their teacher who hails from a faraway land. The weight of the contents nestled between my palms reminds me that vision exists only in my head. Mother isn’t in Seoul. That was a lie, of course. She’s right here.

I turn the container over and see there’s a paper label stuck to the back with Mother’s name, birthday, and death day typed in three neat rows. My eyes linger on the bottom row, and I realize the anniversary of her death is only a few weeks away. If it weren’t for this label, no one would know this was her. No one would even know she existed. I pick at the corner of the sticker. My brittle fingernail wedges itself between the paper and the plastic. A puff of gray dust escapes from the poorly closed box as I rip the label off. I cough, but it only makes it worse as dry ash moves from the cavities of my nose down the back of my throat.

“Fuck!” I yell. I wipe my face to rid myself of Mother’s ashes, but it’s too late. I’ve inhaled them. There’s nothing I can do but stand here and feel her move through my organs, seep into my veins.

I feel the sudden urge to hurl the box across the room and watch it smash against the wall, but that’s just what she would have wanted. She’d be in every crevice and corner of my room, and I’d be forced to clean it all up.

The memory comes back to me in waves. Broken glass on the floor. The smell of vodka. Mother hovering over me, screaming as spit flies out of her mouth. She had just gotten home from her shift at the gas station. I couldn’t have been older than thirteen as I stood in the corner of the room getting ready for school. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. She walked from the front door to the kitchen counter. I remember thinking she looked like a puppet because she didn’t seem in control of her own body. She opened one cabinet after another, looking for something. When she couldn’t find it, she slammed the cabinet doors shut, one after the other. Bang, bang, bang. I winced every time. Then, there was silence. I peered out from around the corner, careful not to make any noise, and saw her hunched over a bag of chips. She was scooping them into her mouth by the fistful, like a starved animal that hadn’t eaten in weeks. I turned and tiptoed toward the front door with my backpack slung over my shoulder. All I had to do was get out without her noticing. The door was five steps away. Four, three, two…

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Mother said from behind me, making me jump.

“School,” I said as I turned to face her. Deep purple bags hung under her eyes, and she was so skinny I could see the blue of the veins in her neck. She had the bag of chips in one hand and an empty bottle of vodka in the other. “I better get going, I don’t want to be late—”

“Not until you clean this mess up,” she said.

I looked around the apartment. Dirty laundry was strewn over the couch Mother had hauled off the side of the street, and the sink was full of plastic dishes with remnants of microwavable dinners caked all over them, but it was no messier than usual. “What mess?” I dared to ask.

“This one.” She raised the vodka bottle over her head. A frenzied smile flashed across her face before she threw the glass bottle at me. I ducked, and the bottle smashed against the wall right behind my head, sending shards of glass in every direction. For a moment, we both stood there catching our breath. “You heard what I said, clean it up!”

Terrified to argue with her and desperate to bring peace to a place that so rarely saw it, I dropped to my knees and picked up the pieces of glass one by one.

Standing in the middle of my bedroom, holding her ashes, I realize things are different. She isn’t here to tell me what to do. She can’t control me anymore. Now, she is the one in the palm of my hand.

Downstairs, the front door opens.

“Rose, I’m home!”

“Shit.” I shove her ashes back in the cardboard box, then slide it into the corner of the closet before joining Brian downstairs.

Despite my tiring day, I walk down the stairs feeling weightless. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror along the staircase, I notice that a smile is plastered across my face. Brian loosens his tie and beams back up at me. In this moment, I’m the perfect stay-at-home wife, greeting her hardworking husband after a long day. In this moment, I’m happy. And not just because I’m about to kiss my husband, who’s undoing the top button of his shirt, but because I know the box of Mother’s ashes is alone in a closet, surrounded by her own vomit and filth.

“Hi, honey,” I say when I finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Our eyes lock. When other women look at Brian they see dark brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a firm jaw, but I see so much more. I see patience, understanding, and security. I see the life I always wanted but never thought I’d have. I see the father of my future children, a man with a wife who would do anything to be with him.

A light layer of stubble is sprinkled across the bottom half of his face. He’s usually clean-shaven, but now I’m noticing he hasn’t shaved for days. It’s rough on my fingertips. I kiss him on the lips, hard, and I feel his mouth react to my forwardness.

“How was your day?” I ask when we part.