Trembling With Fear 11-17-24

Open House, by Kahlo R.F. Smith

First Floor

 

Mudroom

Father’s shoes caked in long-dried mud. 

Mother’s topcoat for important errands. 

Stacks of her unopened mail, perfumed and wax-sealed and red-lettered and stamped for return and invoice enclosed and important: open immediately. 

A note slipped under the door. More than one note, in fact: a small pile of notes filling the crack under the door. These days I only use the back door and sit in the garden, where the walls are too high to see over. 

I’m planning one last party in the garden. You weren’t invited, but I’ll leave the front door unlocked, and I expect soon you’ll find your way in.

 

Living Room

Two plastic-covered couches. Mother still spends most days lying on those couches.

Three crucifixes, freshly dusted.

Tasteful floral wallpaper.

The single square of wallpaper where once, when I was even stupider than I am now, I drew a heart in red crayon and as punishment spent three hours on my knees staring at that spot on the wall until the whole room turned red.

Two stained-glass-shaded lamps.

Father’s photos, shrouded in black tulle. Mother draped them all, hiding his face but maintaining our dignity. She even allowed guests to comment briefly—sympathetically—on his sudden passing.

The indoor dining table. There was no need for space to host inside when Mother had the garden, but we ate inside, quietly and with good posture.

 

Guest Bathroom

Perfect folded towels gone crisp and stale.

Light blue seashell soaps.

Mother’s perfect room. I still can’t bring myself to use it. I walk inside just to stare at myself in the spotless mirror. Today, I used the mirror to paint myself with Mother’s waxy lipstick. I put on two thick coats and smacked my lips. I look pretty in her lipstick, though tears streak my mascara.

 

Kitchen

Tupperware for our meals, which Mother prepared every week, and which are all I have been eating. Chicken breast with rice. Quinoa salad. Grapefruit supremes. They have run out, finally, so we are having our garden party today.

The stain, of course. The corner of the counter where Jean’s head…and it spread under the sink. 

Beneath the sink, the rat poison. Where Mother always kept it.

A pantry full of dainties for the guests, which I was never allowed to eat. I’ve plated them up for the garden party.

 

Second Floor

 

Children’s Bathroom

One toothbrush, pink.

One cup, pink.

One floss dispenser.

Assorted face washes, shampoos, and exfoliating masks, which I have stopped using.

A bar of Jean’s soap, which she gave me the one time I visited her house after school. I used to hide it under my mattress. Now it’s all I wash with.

Jean’s nightgown—my nightgown, really—hung up to dry. I help her and Mother change their clothes every morning and evening, and I wash the clothes every day.

The bandages and antiseptic Jean brought me when Father was still alive. Mother never raised a hand to me, so I haven’t needed them since he died, but I kept them. They were one of the few things Jean gave me that Mother wouldn’t find suspicious, and on each of the bandages she’d drawn an X to mark where she would kiss me if she could.

All my stupid makeup. Mother taught me how to use it, and now that I can finally stop wearing it, I’m using twice as much. Full faces for her and Jean every morning. Caring for other people is so messy. I’m beginning to understand why Mother resented it.

 

Children’s Bedroom

One stuffed bear, white.

My bed with its soft pink sheets.

The case for my violin, which I was allowed to play only at practice and at garden parties.

All our letters. Some freshly tacked on the wall for me to read while we sleep, Jean’s body curved around my back. Some still crammed below the board I loosed under the bed. 

Jean’s dress—my dress, really—perfumed and hanging on its hook for me to change her. She is wearing a different outfit to our garden party. A pair of Father’s dress pants and one of his button-down linen shirts. She looks quite dashing.

 

Master Bedroom

Mother’s bed, freshly made. I make it every morning, to keep the pillowcases clean.

Mother’s vanity. I am afraid to touch her make-up. I have only done it twice. She caught me the first time, when I tried to blush my cheeks for a dance, and she made me scrub it off until my skin burned redder than any powder. The second time was the night I took her very favorite red lipstick, melted it down and mixed it in the kitchen, and reformed it in its tube. She didn’t catch me that time. She didn’t even notice the taste.

The key to the garden, where I was not allowed except when Mother held her tea parties. I’ve locked the back gate, so you have a reason to explore the house and see what wonderful condition I’ve kept it in. Despite the circumstances.

 

Master Bathroom

The dark patch by the shower. Mother collapsed, finally, in the bathroom. It was days after I fixed her lipstick. Mother never wore much makeup. She did not hit her head, but her nose bled, and her gums. It stained. I did my best to clean it up, but could never be as thorough as we were down in the kitchen. 

Mother was always the expert. Cleaning, cooking, entertaining, parenting. Perhaps best at cleaning. Before I recovered from the sight of Jean on the floor—imprint of Mother’s hand still blush-red on her cheek—Mother was on her knees sopping up the blood. She was so calm when she ordered me to carry Jean’s body into the garden.

One bar of soap, pink and rose-scented.

A small hand-held mirror.

All of Mother’s perfumes, caps unscrewed. I have used up half her collection, but the smell is only getting worse. Yes, today is the perfect day for our garden party. We could all use some fresh air.

 

Garden

A table set for three.

Father’s shrouded photograph, set between my plate and Mother’s. 

My violin, discarded in the grass. I have already played a song for each of them. A drinking song for Father, and a hymn for Mother, and a love song for Jean which she could never hear me play.

A tiered platter of the fancies Mother would not let me eat. 

Mother’s plate is empty, and so is Jean’s, but mine overflows. I’m eating as fast as I can. And I wonder—as I shove another petit four into my mouth—if I could have been the girl who only eats salad at parties and never dreams of cake. The girl who loves her Mother and never colors on the walls. The girl who talks to boys and never looks at other girls. Instead, here I am—the girl who dreamed of all the wrong things until she went and did them.

I want you to find us like this: my face smeared with fondant and frosting, Jean and Mother’s cold cheeks smothered in waxy kisses, and my lips red red red. 

Us all sitting down with father; a happy family at last.