that thatâs not true! Iâm still an atheist!â
âGood for you, Mom. Now what about that tree? What tree are you talking about?â Good Lord, Iâm a humorless bitch. But someone has to take care of business and it certainly isnât going to be her.
âItâs just this branch thatâs been growing against the house. Itâs not a problem.â She waves it off. How does a âbranchâ grow against a house? I walk past her, toward the back door, which is blocked by empty paper grocery bags, more plastic bins,dirty dish rags, rolls of paper towels, the skeletons of shelving units she never got around to properly installing, giant metal pots still in boxes, and full bags of garbage I donât even want to guess the ages of. She stands behind me, watching as I try to get through it all.
âOh, Jessie, the lock on the back door is broken. Do you think your dad and Sandy know a good locksmith?â
âIâll ask them tonight. Although I canât see why anyone would want to break in,â I add, rudely. I canât help it. Most people, I imagine anyway, whose mothers are about to undergo surgery for cancer have visits where they get to know each other better or discuss fond memories or whatever it is that normal families do. I, on the eve of my motherâs surgery, get to begin cleaning out her junk-filled house because she canât. The one bright side to this is that Iâm too busy to worry about the cancer.
Sheâs not offended by my rudeness, anyway. âI know, you can think of all this stuff as a burglar deterrent! Itâs my own free version of home security!â
As she laughs hysterically, I finally make it through the pantry and open the back door. She follows me out.
It is indeed a tree and itâs growing right against the house. To my untrained eye it looks big enough to crack the foundation if left untended. The whole yard looks like something out of
Wild Kingdom
: There should be lions and tigers prowling the lawn, hunting prey. It was once a beautiful backyard, with neatly cut emerald-green grass, two lilac trees that every spring and summer filled the air with their purple scent, and a long garden running the length of it. Someone has put planks of wood down where the garden once was, which is odd because itâs right up against the metal fence that divides my motherâs lawn from the neighborâs. What is the purpose of the wood? Itâs like a shabby catwalk to nowhere. And the two lilac trees look like somethingyouâd see in a movie involving a haunted forest with evil foliage that comes to life and strangles passersby. At the back of it all, the rickety, paint-flaking garage looks about to tip over.
âAnd thereâre those, too,â my mom says, pointing at the rain gutters running up the side of the house to the roof. âCould he do those?â
Theyâre totally rusted through in places, hanging off the house like a trapeze artist flailing in the wind. Then I notice the trim around the windows: The wood is coming apart from the houseâitâs as if nothing wants to be part of this decaying landscape. And I donât blame any of it. I donât want to be here either.
âJesus Christ,â I say.
âOh, Jessieââ my mom says. âI just remembered something. The dryer guy is coming tomorrow.â
âWhat dryer guy? Whatâs wrong with your dryer?â
âIt hasnât worked in over a year.â
âHow have you been drying your clothes?â
âIâve been going to the Laundromat,â she says, shrugging. âBut I donât think Iâll be able to get there with my clothes while Iâm recovering from the surgery. . . .â
âWhatâs your basement like right now?â I doubt a stranger should go down there.
âItâs fine,â she says, a nervous smile on her face.
Sheâs lying. She brought it up for a