Fiction: A Pile of Nothing
By Jennifer Fiorile
Linda stood in the doorway and watched her daughter pull out of the driveway. She honked twice and Linda waved, chuckling. It had been an emotional day for them, but after the cameras and the cleanup crew had left, they'd ordered takeout Thai (there being no food in the house) and had a quiet dinner together. Both of them were so exhausted by their days of hard work that it was nice to allow a lull to settle, a comfortable, familiar one. They looked at their phones and made comments to each other from time to time. Which of the crew had they liked the most? Bruce the producer had been very attentive. How did she really like the house now? It looked gorgeous, like from a magazine. Was there any piece she would miss in particular?
Well, that was hard to say. Linda closed the door and hesitated with her hand on the knob and her eyes closed. She wasn't exactly sure if she could face what was behind her, or rather what wasn't. After a few deep, shaky breaths, she turned and examined the living room of the ranch-style home. The windows were open and it was a gorgeous May evening. A warm breeze came in, passing through to the kitchen window, the new curtains billowing gently. There was no noise in the home. It was probably no more quiet than other nights; it wasn’t as though there'd been an infestation. Her case wasn't the worst by far, thankfully. It was mostly clothes and magazines and knick-knacks. But she could see the silence now, in the form of stark, ascetic emptiness.
The clock ticking suddenly sank into her awareness and she looked at the time. 7 pm. Jeopardy was starting. She sat down on the couch and flipped to the right channel. During the first commercial break, she wanted a glass of water, but when she stood up, she stopped.
The living room now had two paths leading to the kitchen. One that went through the small dining room, more of a breakfast nook, and one that led directly from the living room to the kitchen. For the past fifteen years, the path through the dining room had been slowly accumulating objects, detritus. It became completely unusable eight years ago, and it was as if Linda had entirely forgotten that you could go through the dining room to the kitchen. The most direct path was the most logical, of course, and she took it, but she noted that she had to make the decision. It was no longer made for her.
Easily reaching the sink and cabinets, she grabbed a clean glass and had a drink. As she mulled over this decision, a thought occurred to her. There was a bed in the master bedroom, where she normally slept, but there was one in the guest room also, for her grandchildren to use, now that they could come visit her safely. For some reason, it dawned on her that she could sleep in either the master bedroom or the guest bedroom if she so desired. She could use the master bathroom or the hall bathroom, which had become unusable 10 years ago.
The walls and doorways were now bare and seemed so wide, taking on proportions that couldn't be possible. She walked straight over to her neatly made bed and sat, feet flat on the floorboards. It was really like sitting in a picture from a home styling magazine, in that nothing felt real or lived in (although the years of stuff that the home had to hold had beaten it down). It was a model home staging.
The unanswered question came to her again: which item would she miss in particular? None in particular, really. It was rather that she'd miss the coziness of the cavernous rooms, the mountains of clothes, some reaching to the ceiling, the way she felt like a mountain goat walking over leaning pathways, something she felt kept her spry. She would miss the home that she had built, in the truest sense, with things that she liked. At this thought, lying now on her back on the bed, she began to cry, tears pooling and then spilling out over her temples and dripping into her hair and ears.
After a bit of this, which developed into gulping and sobbing, she took a deep, shaky breath and sat up. The tv therapist had asked her in the afternoon if she saw how freely she could live now in her home. She smiled politely, the lens of the camera bearing down on her, and said it would take some getting used to. There was a chuckle at this, something they all needed by that point.
She closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap and began to pray. She asked God to help her enjoy this new freedom and thanked him for giving her a second chance and that amidst everything, they were able to find Bill's ashes, now displayed on his bedside table. She asked God for his help in keeping her from going back to hoarding. Even though it was new, she would get used to it, she decided. She would learn to make new paths, to make decisions every day about where to go and how to get there. She could learn how to do this. She was 66, not dead yet.
When she went back into the living room, Wheel of Fortune was well into it. She let it play on and pulled out her phone, still sniffling a bit, and checked her emails. The top email's subject line was bold, black, unread. It read, "Your order #617384 has been placed." She'd forgotten all about it in the hubbub of the last three days. It was an order of three swimsuit coverups; she hadn't been able to decide between the three, so she got them all in case she needed them all, though she had no plans for the beach or pool yet. The order had been placed just five days ago, and when she clicked on the email and scrolled down, she saw a blue hyperlink stating, "click here to cancel order."
A decision had presented itself. A new path had opened up before her, one she'd never considered before today. She weighed the pros and cons, the voices of the tv therapist and her daughter. Bill's voice from nine years ago, when they'd argued about the dining room being unusable. She put the phone down and took a deep breath, trying to clear her head and looked around the living room again. Taking in the openness of it, and all the ways that guests and grandchildren could walk and use the space, however they pleased now really. All the seating available, each one an option with its own benefits and drawbacks.
Once, about twenty years ago, they'd taken a family trip to New York City. Smack-dab in the middle of Times Square sat a Buddhist monk with a shaved head, dressed in orange robes, meditating. Linda had never seen a Buddhist monk before and couldn't take her eyes off him as they passed on a bus until he was out of view. She thought of him now, sitting quietly in the middle of one of the noisiest, brightest, smelliest places on earth. Maybe it was the noise that had allowed him to meditate so peacefully. Maybe he had come to Times Square to force a quiet in his mind by placing himself in sensory pandemonium.
She looked back at the hyperlink. She scrolled through the email and looked at the three options again. Finally, she clicked the link and cancelled the order. A wave of exhaustion washed over her and she knew she'd have to get to bed soon.
She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow and dreamt of one of the coverups, a purple one with paisleys. She woke suddenly at 3 am and turned on her light. The emptiness of the room scared and disoriented her for a moment until she got her bearings. There was nothing special going on tomorrow. She'd need to go food shopping. So, she didn't rush to try to fall asleep again, and pulled out her phone.
As she scrolled through Facebook, she thought about the coverup again. She couldn't, could she? It was just the one, that was all she wanted. They'd thrown out so many clothes over the past few days. She really couldn't say whether she had a coverup or not and this one was on sale now. She had plenty of room for it now. It wouldn't be adding to any piles of any kind. "And after all," she thought, "a monk can't live with nothing." In an hour or so, she drifted off to sleep, peacefully. The clock in the living room ticking softly, almost echoing through the cavern.
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Jennifer is the social media coordinator for WWBL. She lives in Bavaria and hosts a monthly podcast, Talking in Bed. You can find her on Instagram at @bambu_chute.