She takes the boxes from me and places them by the front door. “You need to relax. You drink too much coffee.”
How dare you.
“You need to get out of that head.”
“I am out of my head.” I’m not. I never am. But I’m pretty sure she can’t actually read my mind.
She gives me a look, like she can totally read my mind. She wags a perfectly manicured finger at me. “You try to put things in boxes and take them away—same way you try to put words on feelings and put them in boxes and then get rid of them. Life does not work that way, Scarlett. Sit down and have some tea.”
I feel attacked.
I haven’t been here for more than a minute, and already my mother, who hasn’t read one psychology book in her life, has analyzed me and completely dismissed my awesome coping mechanisms.
This will not stand.
This aggression will not stand.
It’s not that simple. I’m not projecting my own mental and emotional state onto my mother’s belongings. I mean, yes, maybe in some way all this stuff drives me crazy because it looks like how the inside of my head feels. But it’s not like every item in this house represents a thought about Dylan Brodie that I want to put into a box and take to Goodwill and be like—here, give them to someone who can actually use them because neither my mind nor my vagina can handle this right now.
I mean, that’s not what this is.
This is about my mom and her emotional attachment to stuff she doesn’t need.
My mother moved here from a small town in China, for grad school. She has remained in the US ever since because my father hasn’t been able to go much longer than a day without seeing her—and they met during her first week of classes. She says she thought my dad was Steve McQueen when he walked over to say hello. She realized she was sorely mistaken as soon as he started asking if she’d like to go see E.T. with him that weekend and told her he had already seen it five times. They ended up seeing that movie together three times while it was still in the theaters and got engaged two months later… Le sigh…Your parents’ love story always sounds so easy and simple compared to your own.
Anyway, I wouldn’t label her as a hoarder. The items she’s collected ever since she met my dad have never quite become what anyone would consider disruptive clutter. She just gets attached to things. But she’s very good at storing and hiding them too.
In her house and in her mind.
I inherited her thick shiny hair and spatial awareness, but it would have been great if she’d also passed along that particular trait. As well as her ability to meet the love of her life and effortlessly stay with him forever. That would also have been nice.
“Did you eat lunch today, Scarlett? You sound hungry. Why are you so stressed, huh? Stay for dinner. I’m making your favorite noodles and stir fry.”
I totally want noodles and stir fry right now, dammit.
“We have to let the dogs out, and we need to get home so Noah can work on his science report.” I raise my Mom Voice so my son can hear me. “It’s due tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.
“Nah! You both need to eat. You eat here. I make extra. You watch TV with the boys.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. Did you get any packing done today? You can’t leave it all to the last minute.”
“What difference does it make if we do it now or last minute? There’s a Chinese saying—It’s all the same whether you carry it in the front or on the back. It means who cares how you do something as long as it gets done?”
I truly love that my mother spouts Chinese proverbial wisdom when she’s being totally irrational and difficult. “Yes. There’s an English saying—If I had a nickel for every time you told me that, I’d have as many nickels as you have things that should be given away.” I go over to the display cabinet in the dining area. Each shelf is jammed full of salt and pepper shakers, mismatched china sets and serveware—gifts that have never been used. “Why don’t we go through this cabinet tonight. We’ll focus on this right here.” I pull out a charger plate that I know for a fact has never been used and get all Marie Kondo up in her face. “Does this rattan charger plate bring you joy?”
She gives me another one of her looks, the one that tells me I’m not leaving this house with any of her belongings tonight.
“Or how about this—if you can tell me what a charger plate is used for, then you can keep it.”
She calmly takes the plate from me and places it back where it was in the cabinet.
“Scarlett. Stop being so stubborn. Stop picking on me.”
“I’m not picking on you. I’m trying to help you.” And I’m trying not to obsess about Dylan Brodie, shut up.
“Aiya!” That’s the exclamation she makes when she’s truly exasperated with me. “I will pack up those boxes myself. When you come by next time, you can look through what’s in them and decide if you want any of these things that I have been keeping for you. My only child. Decide if Noah and your future second husband and my future grandchildren would appreciate having them. If not…” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You can give them away to strangers.”
I look over her shoulder at my dad. As always, he doesn’t argue with my mom or even suggest that perhaps she should consider my side of the argument. He just sits there, where she can’t see him. Silently pleading with his eyes. Wordlessly begging me to convince her to get rid of those things.
Coward.
After resisting Dylan today, I don’t have any energy left to convince another person of anything.
“Okay,” I say to her. “You win.”
“Well, no. I don’t win. I still have to put things into boxes for you.” She retreats to the kitchen, but she’s smiling. “You need a boyfriend to harass. I need a break.”
I’m not going anywhere near this topic with her tonight. “Noah! Time to go, kiddo!”
“The episode’s not over!”
“It is for you, young man. Let’s go.”
Noah groans as he stands up, shoulders slouched. “That is so mean, and my life is so unfair.”
My dad pauses the show. “We can finish watching it next time you’re here.”
“You promise you won’t watch it without me?”
“Tell you what.” My dad pauses for effect, and I just know that means a really cheesy pun is coming. “I promise I won’t watch it without you. But if I break my promise—you can have this watch.” He shows Noah his wristwatch. “This is a very special watch, did I tell you? It was given to me by Will Smith. Ever heard of him?”
“Wait. Will Smith from Jaden Smith?”
“No. Another guy named Will Smith. But he got the watch from Johnny Depp.”
“Wait. Johnny Depp the pirate?”
“No. Just a guy named Johnny Depp.”
I recognize that as a variation on a Clark Griswold joke from Vacation because my dad has told it many times. He changes the names of the celebrities every time, depending on who he’s talking to, which is actually very sweet and impressive. Unfortunately, my eight-year-old son doesn’t seem to think so.
Noah frowns and scrunches up his face. “You’re weird, Grandpa.”