book1 unit2 a child's clutter awaits an adult's return

I

watch her

back her

new

truck

out

of

the

driveway.

The

pickup is

too

large,

too

expensive.

She’d

refused

to

consider

a

practical

compact

car

that gets good gas mileage and is easy to park. It’s because of me, I think.

She bought it to spite me.

She’d dropped out of college, and I’d made her come home. All summer

long she’d been an unstable cloud of gasoline fumes, looking for a match

to set her off. We’d fought about her job, about leaving school, about her

boyfriend and her future. She’d cried a lot and

rebuffed all my attempts to

comfort her.

“I’m twenty, almost,” she’d told me so often that my teeth ached. “I am

an adult!”

Each time I silently replied, no, you are not. You still watch cartoons, and

expect me to do your laundry, and ask me to pick up toothpaste for you

when I go to the grocery store.

Now

she

is

gone,

off

to

be

an

adult

far

away

from

me.

I’m

glad

she’s

gone. She’s impossible and cranky and difficult to get along with. I am

sick of fighting, tired of her tantrums.

Her father is angry. He watches television and will not speak. He helped

her

with

the

down

payment

on

the

truck

and

got

her

a

good

deal.

He

slipped her cash before she left. I want to say, if only you hadn’t helped

her buy the truck, she would still be here. It’s a lie.

“I am never coming back,” she told me. “I’m a grown

-up now. I want to

live.”

What

had

she

been

doing

for

twenty

years?

Existing

in

suspended

animation?

The cat is upset by the suitcases and boxes and unspoken recriminations.

She’s hiding. For a moment I fear she’

s sneaked into the truck, gone off

with my daughter on an adventure from which I am forbidden.

She

left

a

mess.

Her

bathroom

is

an

embarrassment

of

damp

towels,

out- of-date cosmetics, hair in the sink, and nearly empty shampoo bottles.

Ha! Some grown- up!

She can’t even pick up after herself. I’ll show her.

She

doesn’t

want

to

live

with

me,

doesn’t

want

to

be

my

baby

girl

anymore, fine. I can be even stinkier than she is.

I bring a box of big black garbage bags upstairs. Eye shadow, face cream,

glitter

nail

polish

and

astringent

—

into

the

trash.

I

dump

drawers

and

sweep shelves clear of gels, mousse, body wash, and perfume. I refuse to

consider

what

might

be

useful,

what

can

be

saved.

Everything

goes.

I

scrub the tub and sink clean of her. When I am finished, it is as sterile and

impersonal as a motel bathroom.

In her bedroom I find mismatched socks under her bed and frayed panties

on the closet floor. Desk drawers are filled with school papers, filed by

year

and

subject.

I

catch

myself

reading

through

poems

and

essays,

admiring

high

scores

on

tests

and

reading

her

name,

printed

or

typed

neatly

in

the

upper

right

hand

corner

of

each

paper.

I

pack

the

desk

contents

into

a

box.

Six

months.

I

think.

I

will

give

her

six

months

to

collect

her

belongings,

and

then

I

will

throw

it

all

away.

That

is

fair.

Grown-ups pay for storage.

Her

books

stymie

me.

Dr.

Seuss,

Sweet

Valley

High,

R.

L.

Stine,

The

Baby-sitters

Club,

Shakespeare,

The

Odyssey

and

The

Iliad,

romance

novels, historical novels and textbooks. A lifetime of reading; each book

beloved. I want to be heartless, to stuff them in paper sacks for the used

bookstore. I love books as much as she does. I cram them onto a single

bookshelf to deal with later.

I will turn her room into a crafts room. Or create the fancy guest room

I’ve always wanted. But not for her benefit. When grown

-up life proves

too hard and she comes crawling back, she can stay in the basement or

sleep on the couch.

My

ruthlessness

returns

with

a

vengeance.

Dresses,

sweaters,

leggings,

and shoes

she hasn’t worn since seventh grade are crammed into garbage

bags.

Her thoughtlessness appalls me. Did I raise her to be like this? To treat

what

she

owns

—

what

I

paid

for

—

as

so

much

trash?

No,

she

left

this

mess to thumb her nose at me, as payback for treating her like the child

she is.

“Fa la la, Mom, I am off to conquer the world, off to bigger and better

things. Do be a dear and take care of this piffle.”

I am a plague of locusts emptying the closet. Two piles grow to clumsy

heights: one for Goodwill, the other trash.

There are more shoes, stuffed animals large and small, knick-knacks, felt

pennants, posters, hair bands, and pink foam job grows larger

the longer I am at it. How can one girl collect so

much in only twenty

years?

It’s obvious she doesn’t care about me, her father, our home, or anything

we’ve provided. We are the flotsam and jetsam, the detritus of childhood.

I stuff garbage bags until the plastic strains. I haul them down the stairs

two bags at a time. Donations to Goodwill

go into the trunk of my car;

trash goes

to the

curb.

Sweat

and

sore shoulders

fuel

my

irritation.

My

husband

has

left

the

house,

perhaps

to

avoid

the

same

fight

I

wish

to

avoid.

She left the bed rumpled, the comforter on the floor, the sheets in a tangle.

I strip off the comforter, blanket, sheets, mattress pad, and pillows. Once

she

starts

feeding

quarters

into

Laundromat

machines,

she’ll

appreciate

the years of clean clothes I’ve provided for free.

I

turn

the

mattress.

A

large

manila

envelope

is

marked

“DO

NOT

THROW AW

AY”. I open it. More papers. I dump the contents onto the

floor. There are old photographs, letters, greeting cards, and notes filled

with sappy sentiments, bad puns, and silly nicknames. There are comics

clipped from newspapers and book reviews. Every single item had passed