Day 2 at Pearl’s house. I don’t remember waking up that morning or driving to her house. Everything starts with me sitting in a rather new-ish burgundy LazyBoy recliner in the living room. It was the color of a full-bodied red wine, maybe a Petite Sirah, and had nearly no red undertones. I had made it 15’ further into the house than I did the day before. Progress. The chair was covered in a densely woven fabric. Velvety-velour with thick ridges running vertically, very squishy. The piping was about as big as a pencil and not as narrow as what you’d find on corduroy pants.
The chair stunk horribly despite the fact that it looked relatively new. All the cigarette smoke just recirculated through the house and glommed onto any surface it could find. Permanently. I still smelled Pearl’s perfume, hair shampoo, and lotion on the headrest, but my God the stench of the cigarette smoke was stifling. I made a mental note to shower before holding my son at the end of the day. Every surface of that house stunk, but that chair especially. She must have spent hours on end sitting there smoking. It occurred to me that at least I had changed my cadaver clothing I’d worn the prior two days. This thankfully meant I caught an unexpected smell of Tide detergent wafting upward from my clean shirt every now and again.
Directly to my right was an end table. Sitting atop was a nice lamp, a notepad, and a few pens. Dental floss, too; my mother loved to floss her teeth. A small sandwich bag for disposing of the used floss. It seemed Pearl was deep in an episode when she left for her procedure at the VA. Sitting next to her knicknacks were two overflowing ashtrays. Butts everywhere. Clean ashtrays were the first thing to go when I was a kid, and I didn’t suspect she changed much as she devolved further into her head and as the years widened our time apart.
It felt odd, a LazyBoy recliner as my mom’s spot. She was more of an end-of-couch person. You know, the place a person picks as “their seat” speaks to their personality almost more than anything in a house. Middle seat people are transient, agitating as hell, and never stop moving. Up-down-up-down. Just sit still already. To secure their own comfort, they must infringe upon the person immediately next to them, on either side…or both if they are really rude. God forbid there’s not an ottoman or the people on either side will be kicked. These people are constantly asking for someone to place their drink on an end table, for a Kleenex, a blanket, or the remote. Just shut the hell up. Middle seat people piss me off and are the sole reason I have a table behind every couch in my home. Middle seat life was not Pearl. It’s not me, either.
There are two end-of-sofa people, one of which has the primo spot and the other is the ugly duckling in the pecking order of family seating. End-of-sofa people without the prime location are the unlucky bastards that have to deal with the bullshit from the middle seat person all while lacking the benefits of an end table, balanced lighting and sound, or a clear view of the television. These people are pissed at the world, their seat choice, which I think reflects their general outlook on life. I mean, sure, they do have a sofa arm for leverage, but not much else. How can they see Wheel of Fortune from the place furthest from the television? They can’t and they make their disgust known. This was definitely not Pearl.
Pearl embodied the role of a prime, end-of-sofa resident. This person sits on the opposite side of the vocal idiot stuck on the inconvenient side. The person for whom the television was placed sits in the prime spot. Pearl. Convenience to light switches, end tables, magazine racks, crocheting baskets, and the kitchen make this an ideal location. Also close proximity to the bathroom. This is the location where the boss of the house sits. The real boss, not the one that plants their ass after a long day, reclines, and drinks a beer.
Pearl was the primo, end-of-sofa, household boss, and she always was, even when Mick was being an asshole. I could envision her pulling her petite legs up under a blanket she’d crocheted herself or one she was actively finishing. Maybe I’m just stuck in the 70s, but the janky ass LazyBoy felt very Archie Bunker and Pearl was more Ann Romano from One Day at a Time. All these years later and I’m still shocked. Small details perplex me.
The room was a modest size, able to hold a full-length sofa that was napable in length, and another chair. A few more end tables and a coffee table which seemingly was a set that included the one in the entry room. Oak. I hate that color. Always have. It’s the yellow undertones. The fact that the bookshelves were also that horrific wood made this my least favorite room of Pearl’s house…at least for the moment.
The walls were painted a satin, eggshell white. Recently, too. There was a faint waft of paint triggering the nostrils. It fought its way through the smoke. Or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me when I saw a nearly empty Sherwin Williams gallon of paint sitting in the corner with a few used brushes. The big window was covered in black plastic, and there were very few artsy pieces on the walls. No macrame, no pictures; there was a strange, twisty, metal thing, roughly 2’ long, that looked like a bong, though I’m certain it wasn’t smoking paraphernalia. Pearl was a minimalist by nature, but this felt sparse even by her standards. And weed wasn’t her thing.
The fact that her walls were bereft of any visual enrichment was offset by Jesus. All the Jesus. There were crosses everywhere of various sizes, styles, and craftsmanship. At least 5 in the living room with one over each door and window. One, in particular, I recognized instantly. It was from my Wonder Bread world. This was the tip of the crucifix collection, in total there would be over 100 hanging throughout her home, drawn on the wall, or scratched into the dirt out back. Lots of crosses are helpful in the fight against demons.
The room was tidy-ish, but there were roughly half a dozen bankers boxes next to the LazyBoy, some opened, and neat piles of paper everywhere. No dust. Pearl was involved in some paperwork purge or was on the hunt for something important. I had no idea what it was she sought, but I picked this as my first task. Finish her paperwork project. Her half-done project was fortuitous for me because I needed to get the name of her mortgage company, insurer, power company, and more. The business side of death is clunky when working behind the mental health case that was my mom. So many phone calls to be made.
First task was to determine her method of sorting so I could identify her goal. Pearl was methodical, so this took all of 5 seconds. A pile for trash, one for important paperwork like tax returns and military records, another for recipes she’d clipped from magazines, and an entire box of documents pertaining to her late husband. There was also a pile I’d categorize as random shit.
Based on the piles of paperwork, her notes, and the order of things, she was looking for an important document of some type. I quickly went through the piles she’d already sorted and began going into boxes on my own. About halfway through my first box, my phone rang. Mick. His tone sounded sincere, so I didn’t question it; plus, I was too tired for mind games.
He was calling to check in on my progress, to keep schedule as I had asked for calls every two hours. I suspected an “oncoming ear infection” in my son, and to see how he’d done with the steady stream of visitors I’d planned for him. Remember. Trust no one with your son. Controlled commotion all day lowers the risk of one person harming any one person.
“How’s it going? What have you accomplished at your mom’s house today?”
“Not much. I made it past the foyer, into the living room, and am sitting amongst endless boxes of paperwork. Old taxes, warranty stuff, military documents.”
“Military documents?” Mick’s question came at me in an uncharacteristically blunt and rapid manner.
“Yes. I think. It’s all old stuff. And it stinks. I don’t really know what I’m looking for, but I guess I’ll know when I find it. Plus this is helping me find all the stuff I need to take care of her end-of-life affairs.”
I continued to explain that her paperwork project was already underway when I arrived, was a rather daunting task, and I wasn’t having much fun. I had 10 more days of this left. Ugh. I wanna go home.
His pitch, tone, and insistence changed on a dime. He wanted to know what military documents I had seen. He was laser focused, wanting specifics. Were they photocopies or originals? Was there a form number on the bottom of each document? If so, which ones had I seen? Did they look official? Of course they look official, you asshole. What the hell was he getting at? Just shut up already, I want to be off the phone.
Then, he made a suggestion that seemed off. Not overtly so, but in a way that made me instantly question his motives when combined with this interest in the military contents stuffed in Pearl’s boxes. “Why don’t you let me help you load the boxes up in your car and you can bring them here or go through them at the hotel? You know…a place where you are more comfortable. I know you hate that smell.” What? It’s not as if the process of sifting through my mother’s paperwork wasn’t arduous enough, he wanted me to relocate it all somewhere else to go through. To bring the smell with me?!?!
Then, he offered to help.
That was it. Line crossed. No, no you won’t help. Don’t try the guise of a helpful father…not now, not ever. I know you too well. Typing these words sends the hair on my neck at high alert. He was looking for something, and wanted to nose through Pearl’s belongings. Over my dead body. I quickly remembered the shift in our power dynamic, told him I had about 3 hours left, and then I’d be by to get my boy. I hung up while he was in mid-sentence. I liked the new, curt me.
Perusing through old papers felt nostalgic and somewhat intrusive. I found paperwork from a breast augmentation Pearl had done several years prior. Some breast deformity to correct. I never found any documents alluding to cancer or anything, and this remains a perplexing spot in her past. She was not fake, wore minimal makeup, and would hug trees. The notion that she had implants locks my brain to the point of needing a reboot. I eventually made my way through the water heater, dishwasher, and refrigerator warranty documents. Hours passed and I made significant progress, procuring the names of all important companies to call, life insurance information, and mortgage documents. One box left.
I opened the lid and immediately saw a large, 5” x 8” notecard. Written in her perfect penmanship were clear instructions in a black Sharpie marker. The note was specifically for me. I picked up the card, “Pumpkin Seed, never show Mick this box or its contents. Do not share any knowledge of it with anyone whatsoever until we’re dead.” Bold black letters. Underlined sentences. Exclamation points.
What the actual fuck? I hadn’t seen my mother in 22 years. We last spoke 12 months prior. She was unwell when we talked. And I ended the call, quite abruptly, because she crossed the line and tried to bring my boy into her distorted mental world.
This note, the box, the writing in black marker, jarred me to my core. How did she know I’d be the one to open the box? Did she know she was dying? Was she planning her death before she had her procedure at the VA? Did she know that I would come and blockade anyone that tried one ounce of monkey business? Did she know that I had moxy that only comes from being a new mother and I no longer feared using my teeth…on someone’s throat? The questions…so many of them. I could write the questions crossing my mind for days.
Pearl knew me better than anyone on the planet. She was my mother and I was her daughter. From her I learned how to make a homemade envelope out of plain paper, how to whack a cattail plant against the cement so it would blow apart and not end up in your face, and how to brown hamburger at the right temperature. From her I also learned that you can get revenge on your mother-in-law by slowly poisoning her booze bottles and how mommies sometimes go to faraway places in their brains and hurt you. Our connection went far beyond the traditional mother-child dyad, it was sickeningly reinforced by the trials of her mental illness, our nights of being hungry when Mick was nowhere to be found, being homeless, and more. My link to Pearl was raw, ugly, terrifying, brutal, and full of love. No halfsies with her.
Of course she knew I’d come.
I sat on the floor and looked inside. A mahogany brown, locked attache case sat directly below the notecard and above more paperwork. The damn case was locked. Whatever it contained was so important to Pearl that it was secured shut and she wanted to protect it from Mick. She didn’t even want him to know that I knew about it. As if her mind wasn’t already a labyrinth I couldn’t understand and navigate, now this?
It then really occurred to me that this damn case was locked. In practical terms…it required a key to open. Seriously? My God, I’d have to go through every last nook and cranny in this house, go on a wild goose chase, and a scavenger hunt. I’d have better luck finding the Hope Diamond on my own, with my eyes closed. Pearl was a genius and a masterful manipulator. She was crafty and well-thought. Leagues ahead of anyone in her midst. Wherever those keys were, they wouldn’t be easily found. And holy shit, the 10 days of dread instantly turned into a speeding stopwatch. I was now on a covert mission assigned by my dead mother.
You’d think I was being tailed by MI5 or Jason Bourne when I went to my car that evening. It was dusk, cool, and the skies were purple as the sun set over the mountains. My eyes darted back and forth and I fought to get the stupid case inside the trunk of my fuel efficient rental car while trying to look inconspicuous. Thinking back, I must have looked like an idiot, but knowing Pearl as I did, I was spooked. Heart pounding like I had robbed a bank or something. Hello panic. Once in the driver seat, I tried reminding myself that Pearl could be hyperbolic on a sane day and maybe this was another example of her predilections and distorted worldview. Nope. It didn’t work. Adrenaline dumped and my night of gut wrenching anxiety would only be moderated by Prince Xanax.
I didn’t sleep well that night despite my little blue oval bedfellow that I’d washed down with day-old water. Tossed and turned all night. When the sun came up the next day, I had a strange urge to talk to the hotel manager and ask for additional barriers to my room. Typing this now feels paranoid and bizarre.
I explained to the manager that my mother had died and I had several valuables of hers; I was waiting on insurance adjusters. The items were too big for the hotel safe. It was the only lie I could come up with that seemed plausible without me looking like I was guilty of theft. She was also the person that checked me in the night of my arrival and saw the tears. My locks would be changed daily and housekeeping stopped from entering my room. As an additional barrier, she told me to hang the do not disturb sign.
Upon leaving the hotel, I’d notify the manager of my departure, and the electronic access was revoked. For everyone. For me to enter my room nightly, I had to show my identification and I’d get a new key made allowing me in. I made special note that my room was paid for by my father and he was not allowed access to my room, under any circumstances. Nobody but me in or out of that room. Hard stop. Jesus himself could show up and I didn’t want him granted access.
Apparently hotels sometimes have to do things for law enforcement officials so my ask was no problem. That’s a creepy thought.
Who the hell was I and what was I doing? I was channeling my inner Pearl, that’s what was happening. Maybe she was speaking to me from the freezer at the VA hospital. The thought that her autopsy was likely concluded made me sick to my stomach when it crossed my mind. While I am grateful for medicine and the information gained by the procedure, the thought of her corpse being opened up with an oscillating stryker saw and rib spreaders, organs removed and weighed, and then her brain removed skeeved me out. Tools like a hammer and chisel, a Weitlaner retractor, and sternal knife do not belong in the same visual as my dead mom.
Those additional security measures would later pay off. The manager informed me I had a visitor while out two days later. Mick. He was denied access to my room while I toiled away at Pearl’s looking for a stupid key and he was livid.
Mick would never know that I was told he was there.
