CHAPTER NINE — A Mother’s Obstacle

I didn’t need to read minds to know exactly what the neighbors were thinking as they watched me from their balconies and doorways.

Patricia Allen, the notorious drunk who only ever caused trouble had finally lost her damn mind.

It’s not that I didn’t expect them to be shocked. I just didn’t expect them to act like the sky was black. I could hear their doors opening, some even pulling their curtains. One by one, neighbors stepped out to their verandas, whispering behind their hands, clapping in disbelief like they were watching a miracle. Even Sarah and Karen, who didn’t even bother coming to talk to me, dragged their chairs outside, cracking peanuts between their teeth as they watched.

“This has to be the twilight zone.”

“I swear I need glasses. That can’t be Pat Allen.”

“There’s no way in hell she’s actually cleaning.”

They were right about one thing, I wasn’t just cleaning, I was washing the place inside out.

I started with the bedroom.

The mattress was the first to go. I didn’t even hesitate as I dragged it out, the sour smell of pee and alcohol clinging to my hands as I dumped it by the trash, cleaning my hands on my skirt in disgust. Some things were too far gone, I can’t believe the children were sleeping on that thing.

The next thing I focused on were the clothes. I packed every shirt, every pair of pants and dress that looked somehow manageable, I stuffed them into buckets, soaking them in hot water with soap, and bleach. I didn’t care if the colors faded. I just wanted the smells gone. I scrubbed until the water turned dark and dirty, then poured it out and soaked it again leaving it to the side.

When I was done, I shut the windows tight, removed all the dirty curtains and soaked them too.

I emptied the wardrobes, sorting through what I guessed the kids would want to keep and packing those things away carefully. Everything else was dragged to one side, piled up to be burned later.

I made sure I removed every cobweb, climbing onto wobbly stools to reach the corners my hands couldn’t. Dust fell down on my hair and shoulders, but I didn’t stop until the ceiling looked clean.

Then I grabbed the bug killer and sprayed every corner, along the walls, behind the doors, watching roaches scatter and die. I kept spraying until the room smelled like pure chemical. When I finally stepped back, the room looked so much better.

Outside, Gracie slept peacefully, and Billy sat beside her watching her like I asked him to. I warned him not to talk to anyone and just wait for me.

Next was the bathroom and it was a war I was ready to win.

I pulled on gloves, tied a mask over my face, and scrubbed every inch of the cramped bathroom. Not only did I soak the toilet and the sink with bleach, I washed every crack and crevice until all the green grime and dirt was gone. I also threw out every prescription bottle I knew Pat Allen used to get high right in the trash.

I cleaned the mirror and replaced everyone’s toothbrushes with new ones. I put out new bars of soap, stocked diapers for Gracie, washed her potty until it smelled like nothing at all, and hung clean towels by the door for each of us.

I wiped down the shelves, cleaned the soap dish and even went as far as getting on my knees and scrubbing the floor.

I opened the window and let fresh air roll through the bathroom, sprayed air freshener, and stood there breathing it in.

It wasn’t perfect but it was clean. And that feeling was so addictive it made my chest ache. I was exhausted, but it wasn’t the soul crushing defeat my old body used to have. This tiredness felt rewarding. Like proof that I still had strength left in me.

So I used it.

I moved on to the living room. Since there wasn’t a wall separating it from the kitchen, I cleaned them together, going back and forth until they looked liveable. I dusted the couches and dragged them outside to air out, refusing to bring them back in until the smells were gone and the bugs were dead. I disinfected every plate and pot, scrubbed the sink, emptied the fridge and left it open to breathe. I bug sprayed every corner before going back to the clothes to dry, fold and put them where they’re meant to be.

By evening, everything around me was clean and dry.

Gracie and Billy played quietly in the living room while everything started getting dark outside. For the first time, I could walk through the house without wanting to vomit.

I carried Gracie to the bathroom and bathed her, washing her until she smelled like soap before bathing Billy too, even though he was shy. I dusted baby powder over both of them and dressed them in fresh clothes.

When it was my turn, I scrubbed my body so hard it felt like my skin might tear. It was like I was trying to wash Patricia Allen’s stench of despair out of her body. And it took a while until I was able to feel comfortable and fresh again.

I tied a towel around myself and stepped out of the bathroom just as the front door opened.

Anna walked in.

She was still wearing the clothes from that morning, but she wasn’t carrying a school bag. I knew immediately she hadn’t gone to school. Her steps stopped as her eyes moved across the house, taking everything in. She didn’t walk fully inside at first, like she was afraid she’d walked into the wrong place.

“Anna!” Billy jumped off the couch and ran to her, stopping at her side. Gracie giggled and lifted her arms, reaching for her big sister.

Anna looked down at Billy, at his clean clothes, his freshly washed hair and then slowly took another step into the house, her eyes drifting over the room again.

She scoffed, like the whole thing was the best joke she’d seen in her life.

“So you do know how to clean a house,” she said. “You just chose to let your children live like animals all this time. What an amazing mother you are.”

I let my eyes settle on her.

She looked so much like Pat Allen. They had the same blue eyes, same dark hair but Anna was smaller and way thinner. Like she was younger than she should be, but older at the same time. She was malnourished, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. With deep shadows under her eyes, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights and too many thoughts a child her age should never have to carry.

She wasn’t just angry. She was tired.

And she hated her mother but I couldn’t blame her, anyone who grew up with an abusive mother would understand that kind of hatred. The problem was that now, I was her mother. I’d inherited Patricia Allen’s face, history and damage.

Somehow, I would have to turn things around and find a way for us to coexist and heal, so we could become something that doesn't hurt anymore.

But as she stared at me with pure rage, her eyes red and glassy, like she was seconds away from breaking, I understood something clearly.

She was going to be my first obstacle in Patricia Allen’s body.