Happy Hoarding

It happens whenever I pack, but I never expect it. I’m missing a green tanktop and have no idea where it’s gone. I sigh and leave my bedroom, avoiding the stacks of newspaper in the hallway. Leaning over the banister, I hear Mama in the kitchen, tapping back and forth in giggling rhythm. She sounds so happy that I decide not to bother her. Twenty-five years of living with Mama have taught me much, but I haven’t yet learned the pattern to this scene.

If asked about my mother, I say one thing. Mama is a disposophobic, a packrat. It’s the only constant in my tumultous life— my mother, joyous as a puppy-dog, tip-tapping around, stockpiling whatever catches her eye. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but her behavior traumatizes me and my daddy.

Daddy—at the thought of him, a lump rises in my throat. He’s been gone ten years, and died believing his inability to provide pushed Mama into “keeping,” as he called it. No matter what, Daddy could always cheer me, but now I’m alone with this woman. Over the years, Mama hears the diagnoses, listens to the suggestions, and changes nothing.

“Those doctors,” she confides to me. “Are very nice, but they know nothing about helping people.” She denies anything is wrong and dances on. I don’t blame her; sometimes I, too, disbelieve the diagnoses.

I grab a pair of jeans, then freeze. Along my wall lies a stack of newspapers. An exasperated sigh escapes me. I have one rule for my mother— no keeping things in my room. She remembers, until she fills her “normal” places; then things creep into my room. I keep the door locked when I’m gone, but sometimes I forget.

At the moment, I don’t have time to deal with the newspapers, since I have a half-hour to pack. My work demands frequent travel, which is fine. As long as I can be home monthly to check on Mama, I prefer being away. In the kitchen, Mama’s singing intensifies; I close the door.

#

In thirty minutes, I’m lugging my bags down the stairs.

“Mama?” I call. “I’m ready.”

“Just a minute,” she trills. I roll my eyes. Her “minutes” often become hours as she rearranges piles.

“No, Mama, now,” I insist. She sighs.

“Oh, all right. I’ll just leave this project.” I grin at her terminology, but my smile fades when she comes around the corner, beaming, and asks, “Now, have you seen my keys?”

“You don’t remember where you put them?” I gasp, and she looks bemused.

“Why, no,” she says. “If I did, would I ask you?”

Mama trips off to check the kitchen, living room, and entryway; I race to search the dining room, bathroom, and bedrooms. Rushing through the hallway, I play slalom with decorative doorstops. I tiptoe around precarious stacks of broken radios, fax machines, obsolete computers, and other electronics on the dining room floor. Shifting papers on the table, I find the warranty for an ancient refrigerator, a construction manual for a portable greenhouse, and French game instructions. I peer between the seventeen chairs crammed around an eight-person table and rifle through piles of Happy Meal toys. There are no keys, so I run upstairs, ignoring the seven motion-activated fish serenading me, but pausing to search the baskets along the steps.

I check my watch— fifteen minutes to get to the airport. Turning into the bathroom, I discover a mound of empty toilet paper rolls and five model ships, along with a myriad of old cleaning supplies, stuffed under the sink. A tangle of barrettes and expired medications greets me when I open the medicine cabinet. I find some lost glasses, but no keys.

It’s time to search the most dreaded place— Mama’s bedroom. As I touch the doorknob, I remember something. Months ago, I bought Mama a key-ringer that chirps to answer a remote. Both of us have a remote. I dash through the hall, wreaking havoc on the newspapers, fumble with my lock, and fling open the door. To my tearful relief, the remote is on my key-rack. I snatch it and run back. As I open Mama’s door, clothes tumble out, but I wade in and press the remote, straining to listen over my gasping breath. At Mama’s dresser, I glance through the mass of sticky notes and photographs adorning her mirror. Beside the bed, I hear a muffled chirp. Stooping, I push aside used tissues, empty hangers, and dirty socks. Then I see it— not Mama’s keys, but my lost green tanktop. As I grab it, something tumbles out. It’s the keys.

For a long moment, I am limp with relief. Then I glimpse the time. We have five minutes to make a twenty-minute drive. Flying to my room, I replace the remote and lock the door behind me.

“Mama!” I shriek, pounding downstairs. “I found your keys! Let’s go!” She emerges from the living room, surprised.

“So fast? Do you have everything?” I grab my bags and toss her the keys.

“Come on, Mama,” I urge, trying to be kind. “I can’t be late!”

I shove my suitcases onto the bottles in the backseat, and try to catch my breath. As Mama drives and sings, worries clutter my mind. I tell myself I should have left extra time in case of such emergencies. Inside, I seethe at Mama. Eventually, I stop both; it’s not helping.

We arrive at the airport forty minutes after I’d hoped to be there. Mama pulls to the curb and gets out as I yank at my bags. She smiles, and I look down at her, still annoyed. As I meet her gaze, though, I am struck by the sparkling beauty of her eyes. There I read her exuberance for life, the pain she’s borne, and the fear that haunts her. As I try to speak, she laughs.

“Go on,” she says, tiptoeing to kiss me. “You don’t want to be late.” I smile and tear up all at once.

“Bye, Mama,” I whisper, hugging her. As I let go, she pats my cheek.

“Stay out of trouble!” she calls as I rush to the door. I laugh and wave.

Next time I’m home, we will replay the frantic last-minute search. But right now, everything is okay. I’m at the airport, and Mama is happy. It strikes me that her joy has been another constant in our lives, and the thought is a relief. Until now, I thought of Mama as a hoarder who was somehow happy. Now I see my inaccuracy.

Someday, maybe Mama will see the truth and she’ll change. Until then, if asked about my mother, I’ll say three things. First, Mama is always happy. Second, I love her more than anything else. Third, she just happens to be disposophobic.