The problem was that her mother now had too much time and too much money. When Erika was growing up her mother had had her full-time nursing job as well as the occasional cheques Erika’s father sent from his new home in the UK, where he lived with his replacement, upgraded family. So they’d had money, but there was still a ceiling to how much new stuff she could accumulate, although Sylvia had given it a red-hot go. However, when Erika’s grandmother had died, leaving a considerable sum of money to Sylvia, her mother’s hoarding had been given a whole new financial boost. Thanks, Grandma.
And of course, now there was online shopping too. Her mother had learned how to use a computer, and she managed to keep it plugged in and accessible, and because Erika had arranged for all her bills to be paid by direct debit, the electricity never got turned off like it had when Erika was growing up and the paper bills used to vanish into the abyss.
If the front lawn looked like this, the inside of the house would be monstrous. Her heart galloped. It was as though she had the sole responsibility of rescuing someone by lifting something impossibly, incomprehensibly heavy: a train, a building. Of course it couldn’t be done. Not on her own. Not in this rain. And not without Oliver by her side: methodical and unemotional, looking for solutions, speaking to her mother in his reasonable let’s-work-our-way-through-this voice.
Oliver didn’t take every object personally, the way Erika did. To Erika, every piece of junk represented a choice her mother had made of an object over her. Her mother loved random, crappy objects more than she loved her daughter. She must, because she fought for them, she screamed for them, and she was fully prepared to bury her only daughter in them, and so each time Erika picked up an object it was with a wordless cry of despair: You choose this over me! She should have waited until he was better. Or she should have at least taken her anxiety medication – that’s why she’d been prescribed the tablets, to help her get through exactly this sort of moment – but she hadn’t taken one since the day of the barbeque. She hadn’t even looked at the box. She couldn’t risk more of those terrifying memory gaps.
‘Erika! I’m so happy to see you! Oh! Sorry to startle you like that!’
It was the woman who had been living next door to her mother for the last five years. Erika’s mother had adored this woman for quite a long time, long for her, anyway, maybe six months, before, predictably, she’d committed some sin, and gone from a ‘really quite extraordinary person’ to ‘that woman’.
‘Hi,’ said Erika. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name. She didn’t want to remember her name. It would only increase her sense of responsibility.
‘Isn’t the weather terrible,’ said the woman. ‘It’s just torrential!’
Why did people feel the need to comment on the rain, when they had absolutely nothing of value to add to the conversation?
‘Torrential,’ agreed Erika. ‘A veritable downpour of cats and dogs!’
‘Um, yes. So I was pleased to see you here actually,’ said the woman. She held a child’s tiny transparent umbrella tightly over her head. The rest of her was getting wet. She shot a pained look at Erika’s mother’s front yard. ‘I, ah, just wanted to let you know that we’re putting our house on the market.’
‘Ah,’ said Erika. Her jaw clicked as her back teeth began to grind. It would be so much easier if this were one of the horrible neighbours, like the couple with the Jesus Loves You sign in their window, who made regular complaints about the state of Sylvia’s house to the Department of Community Services, or the snooty ones across the road, who made aggressive legal threats. But this woman was so nice and non-confrontational. Michelle. Dammit. She’d accidentally remembered her name.
Michelle clasped her hands together as if to beg. ‘So, I know your mother has … um, difficulties, please know I do understand, I have a close family member with mental health issues, oh gosh, I hope this isn’t offending you, it’s just that –’
Erika took a breath. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I understand. You’re saying the state of my mother’s house will affect the value of your property.’
‘By maybe a hundred thousand dollars,’ said Michelle pleadingly. ‘According to the agent.’
The agent was being conservative. By Erika’s calculations the loss could be much higher. No one wants to buy a house in a nice middle-class suburb next door to a junkyard.
‘I’ll get it fixed,’ said Erika.
You are not responsible for your parents’ living conditions. That’s what the children of hoarders were told, but how could she not feel responsible when she was this poor woman’s only hope? Someone’s financial outcome depended on Erika stepping up, and she took financial outcomes seriously. Of course she was responsible. She saw one of the blinds at her mother’s window twitch. She’d be inside, peering out, muttering to herself.
‘I know it’s hard,’ said Michelle. ‘I know it’s an illness. I’ve seen the TV shows.’