But when I come through the door and see the familiar tragic looks on my dad’s and Melody’s faces, my bubble is burst. I clench up. What now? I think.
“Julianne, there’s been another development about the house,” my dad says, “It’s bad.”
What could be worse than losing the house altogether? My mom moving away from me?
“I’d rather you find out now than get ambushed with it online.”
His words start floating around the room—It’s bad. I’d rather you find out now. Ambushed by it. The landline starts ringing.
“…everything in the house is being sold to help cover her debts. She’s hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt so they’re taking everything…”
Melody looks at me with the most abject compassion. Her chin starts to tremble and a single tear spills out, rolling down her cheek. I’ve never seen Melody cry before. She’s the prettiest crier in the history of crying. I look at Melody’s face and hear my dad’s words and the phone ring, ring, rings in the background.
“…A person who deals with estate liquidation came in. He’s organizing an auction. And he’s starting to advertise the auction…”
I hear the words liquidation and advertise and my mind flips like a channel. I think about all of the Price-Buster-Blow-Out-Pre-Holiday-Post-Holiday-Everything-Must-Goooo sales that my mother loses her home-shopping shit over. I wonder how many hours, how many days, weeks, and years, my mother has spent watching those shows; watching clearance sales, midnight markdowns, buy-one-get-one deals of a lifetime. Oh, god, the shows, the ridiculous names of them go bouncing across my brain like toxic tennis balls—Barbie Bonanza, Doll Daze, Doll Emporium, Discount Dollies, Dollyology.
I want my yellow balloon.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to find it; I try to find a thousand of them so I can grab on and float away. But my dad’s words keep coming at me like missiles. They keep coming and coming, and the phone rings underneath them like a terrible current.
“…It’s this guy in Cleveland who’s handling the auction. He was on the news tonight. He gave pictures to the media. Billy-something...”
My eyes fly open.
“Billy the Junk Detective?” I say.
My dad sighs, nods, and presses a palm to his forehead. He nods at the TV across the room. I look at the screen where the 19 Action News reporter is paused mid-word, her face all contorted. The caption below her reads “Dollhouse of Horrors.”
Like a robot, I walk over, pick up the remote from the coffee table, and press play. Within seconds, I wish I hadn’t. Billy the Junk Detective is standing on my lawn with a bleach blonde rookie news reporter.
“I’m here with Bill Culp,” Jessica Newcastle says. “Also known as Billy The Junk Detective.”
Billy nods at the camera and smiles. He’s a star now.
“It’s being called The Dollhouse of Horrors,” Jessica says. “Tell us Billy, what’s going on in there?”
“It’s bad, yep,” he says, nodding up and down. He jerks his thumb behind him, pointing to the house. “I was here a couple months back. Me and some other folks come to help the owner get organized. But then she changed her mind and wouldn’t let nobody in. Now that I been inside, I can see why. It’s a frightful sight. You can’t get through the place, stuffed stacked to the ceilings. The worst part was there was a kid living there. A little girl. I don’t know what happened to her, though.”
“Yes, we’ve talked to neighbors,” the reporter says, nodding at the screen to assure the audience that she’s done her groundwork. “All reports say that the child is safe and living with her biological father.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Billy says. “No kid should have to live like that.”
“So, we know the house will be auctioned,” Jessica says, moving him along because her segment is wrapping up. “What about everything inside?”
“Well, any kinda dolls you want’s in there. Along with *BLEEP* knows what else.” He throws up a hand, smiles sheepishly and apologizes for swearing on TV. “I’ve already cleared out the garage but will start on the main house tomorrow. We’ll sort through everything at the warehouse and have an auction next weekend at the fairgrounds. But I’ll have stuff up on my eBay store as early as tonight. Stop by www.junkdetectives.com for details.”
Then, when I think it can’t get any worse, pictures pop onto the screen.
“Just to give the viewers an idea of what it looks like,” Jessica says. “Here are a couple of shots from inside.”
The Nest and Coffin Alley come on screen. Jessica groans and clucks her tongue in the background. Then she appears again, shaking her head. “Tragic situation. Our hearts go out to that little girl, wherever she is. Back to you, Bob.”
Then the regular anchorman comes on, a blow-dried, salt-and-peppered, bronzed mannequin named Bob Whitmore. “I can’t believe a young child was living there…,” he says. “We’ll keep the viewers updated as this story progresses. A follow-up piece will air next week called “The Power of Stuff. How Much is Too Much?””
It takes everything in me not to throw the remote right through the glass. I sink into a puddle on the couch, let out a noise. I’m not sure what it is. A groan. A yelp, maybe.
I’m ruined. Socially, I’m ruined after this. For a moment, I’m grateful to be moving to Middle Bass because I can never show my face in Lakewood again.
Melody rushes over and puts her arms around me and I start bawling hysterically into her chest. She smells like sliced lemons and fresh sage, like she’s been hanging sheets and picking herbs all day. In her whole life, my mother has never smelled this nice. The phone starts ringing again. Nobody ever calls here and it’s the third call in as many minutes.
“I’ll take it off the hook,” my dad says, walking to the kitchen; I’m so glad that my cell doesn’t work here. When he comes back into the living room, I look up at him.
“Where’s mom? Is she okay? Is she in Florida, already?” I ask, my voice cracking. Melody strokes my cheek with the back of her hand.
“She’s fine,” he says, squatting down in front of me. “I talked to her earlier today. She’s staying at The Lakewood Inn for now, until she can schedule a flight to Tampa. The number’s on the fridge if you want to call her. We’ll make sure you get to see her before she leaves.”
I shake my head because I can’t think of a single thing that I might say to my mom right now that wouldn’t be hurtful. Maybe in a few hours, after I’ve calmed down, I’ll think of something good to say. Right now, I just want to close my eyes and keep crying into Melody.
28.
My eyelids are so red and swollen that I’ve nearly lost my ability to blink. During dinner I ask my dad to take me back to Lakewood to collect some of my things before they’re auctioned off. He tells me how the house and everything in it belongs to the bank now. My mother signed over the property and all the contents this afternoon before vacating the premises.
“It would be illegal trespassing,” my dad says. “I’ll try and get special permission for you to collect some of your personal items but that could take a day or two.”
“But by then,” I say, “that jackhole will have picked through everything.”
I shove my half-eaten plate of pasta away.
“The law’s the law, Julianne,” my dad says. “You’ll just have to be patient. It’s going to take a while for someone to go through that house. I’m sure your stuff will be fine for a couple days.”
But he’s never met Billy. He doesn’t know how fast that shady Junk Vulture can move.
I go to my room to mope and rampage some more. All night, my emotions churn back and forth between sadness and fury, never entertaining either for very long. It’s like, as soon as I wrap myself up in some sadness, get settled under the sheets for a nice, pathetic wallow, fury pokes me in the chest with a hard finger. Then I’m up and flinging off the covers, pacing the floor, trying not to punch everything.
Right now, I’m entertaining th
e fury. I’m thinking about his fat, unshaven face and dirty fingernails. In a close-up on my brain screen, Billy the Junk Detective’s drooling mouth jabbers up and down while his pupils blink with electric dollar signs.
I walk the floor and think about how, in a few short hours, Billy’s grubby meat-hooks will be molesting my things. My yearbooks and photo albums; the award I earned in eighth grade for perfect attendance; a pink sweater that, even though it’s old and pilled-up, I love to wear in colder months. He’ll pick each item up, assess its worth, and then throw it into the trash. Because who will want these things besides me? The thought of my things being tossed makes my stomach turn. If I have kids someday what will I show them to prove that I existed before that moment? The alarm clock reads five after midnight. Billy’s truck will be coming at dawn so that leaves me about six hours.
I want my freaking stuff.
But how do I do it?
Elaborate James Bond-style fantasies take hold as I contemplate stealing my dad’s boat. Within seconds, I think better of it. I’d only end up stranded in Canadian waters or crashing and killing myself. I look over at Professor Owl who’s perched on top of my money jar saying Think Julianne! Think! A solution crops up within seconds.
When I’m sure my dad and Melody are asleep, I slip downstairs and plug the phone back in to call the 24-hour water taxi service. It’s going to cost two hundred dollars to get to the mainland at this hour. I’ve got money to burn so I grab my backpack and slip out of the house. I hop on my bike and pedal like mad to meet the water taxi at the ferry landing.
As soon as the water taxi gets within range of the mainland, my phone starts beeping and vibrating like its possessed. Forty-two missed calls from Lindsey, Celinda, Nat, and then tons of other numbers I don’t recognize. People calling to mock the doll hoarder’s daughter, I’m sure. I only read the two messages from Brandon.
Please call me when you get this. I saw the news. I need to know you’re okay. I’m so sorry. <3
It’s been four hours. Why haven’t you called me? Please don’t shut down on me, Julianne.
I don’t call him because the boat and wind are too loud, it would just come across as screaming. I text him back though.
Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.
I text Dana and let her know that I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. She’s letting me borrow her car, no questions asked. Brandon calls but I don’t answer. I shut my phone off and look at the pinpricks of light dappling the shoreline ahead.
The hour and a half drive to Lakewood takes over two because it’s an Ohio freeway in summer, also known as orange barrel purgatory. I swing into a drive-thru to grab a burger and milkshake. The last thing I need right now is a glucose dump. I don’t listen to music because it might distract me and make me think of something that doesn’t entail the task at hand. I am singularly-focused. I have my rage and humiliation to keep me entertained.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I pull down my street and see the foreclosure sign in my yard, a NO TRESPASSING sign on the front door, and what looks like crime scene tape roped around my house. My fury sputters out, plummets right past sadness and deep into despair. I stop in front of the house, right in the middle of the street, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m not quite hyperventilating but it’s coming to that point. If I had asthma instead of diabetes, I’d be sucking on an inhaler right now. I drive around the block and park on the street behind my house.
Getting out of the car and being as stealthy as I can, I slip between the houses until I’m at the back of our privacy fence. There’s a missing board on one side and if I squeeze, I can get in. I shimmy through the crack, getting scratched to pieces by our bushes on the other side. The light from Mr. Phelps’ back porch illuminates our darkened house and yard. As bad as the front was, the back is worse. It’s a jungle. The grass and weeds reach to my knees.
The drapes are pulled so I can’t see inside the patio door. I rip down the big X of Do Not Enter tape and toss it aside. My key doesn’t work…someone’s changed the locks. I pull extra hard on the door, yanking as hard as I can several times until I hear the snap of the lock breaking. Setting my bag down, I slide the door open.
A wave of putrification hits me and steals my breath. It could choke a horse, this smell. It’s like rotted garbage, sewage, and I don’t know what else. I pull my shirt up over my nose and step inside. I feel along the wall, flipping the switch next to the door. Nothing happens. Flip, flip, flip. The electricity has been cut off. But because Mr. Phelps’ security lights are search-and-rescue-grade blinding, light filters in from the windows allowing me a decent view of the kitchen.
The garbage inside is piled up so high that there’s not even a trail to get through at this point. The fridge door is ajar and a spoiled smell radiates from it. I try not to fall face first into all of the filth, going carefully, testing each step before I put my weight down. I need to get to my bedroom and also, I want to see The Nest. It sounds sick, embarrassingly sick, I know, wanting to see my mom’s chair one last time. But I can’t picture her in any other setting. I can’t picture her sitting in a clean motel room.
Oh, god, the smell. It’s all so much worse than it was a few weeks ago. How is that possible? What has she been doing in here?
The deeper I go into the house, the darker it gets. The light being filtered from next door weakens the further I go in and I can’t really see The Nest too well. I pull out my cell and turn it to flashlight mode. I move the phone around like a lantern looking for the best route through the heaps of trash. When the phone starts ringing, it scares me to death and I nearly drop it. It’s my dad. It’s three a.m. and he’s figured out that I’m gone. I have to pick up or he’ll think the worst. I balance myself and then carefully put the phone to my ear.
“Hi,” I say and my voice sounds so small and weak in this darkness. Like I’m a tiny bird trapped inside the belly of a monster.
“J-bear, where are you?” he says, his voice panicked.
I look around. Where am I? I don’t recognize this place. How did I live here for so long? How did I live like this for years?
“Julianne?” he says, his voice rising.
“I’m at the house,” I say, swallowing a sob.
And I start to break down because it’s like I’m seeing myself and the situation with a detached clarity that is so perfectly heartbreaking. Billy was right. No kid should have to live like this. The mess and blackness start to close in on me and my throat makes a sad little chirping noise.
“Oh, god,” my dad says.
The sorrow of those two words reaches out to me like a gust across Lake Erie. I picture my dad all those miles away, his hand on his forehead, looking out the window at the blackened water, wishing he could fly.
“There are things I want,” I say, gulping for air. “My pictures, my favorite sweater. But its dark. There’s no electricity. No lights. And the smell…it’s bad. It’s—,”
“Julianne,” he says. “I want you to turn around and leave.”
And that’s when I hear it. A rustling in the corner of the kitchen. It’s coming from the direction of where the stove would be. I wait for a couple of seconds thinking maybe I imagined it.
“Julianne? You there?”
“Uh,” I say and my heart is racing. I step forward because I need to get upstairs, get my stuff, and get out of here. But the rustling sound happens again. Only this time there’s a squeaking noise, a distinct chattering as something goes scurrying past me underneath the piles. I jump and panic and shove my phone into my bag. Then I scramble over top of everything and try to get out.
My feet sink into the mess like quicksand, the dolls and boxes and garbage pulling me under. It’s like everything is grabbing at me, like the house is trying to swallow me. I fight my way toward the door, slipping and tripping, and making all sorts of hysterical, whining noises because I’m too frightened even to scream. I can’t get through the door fast enough
so, rather than step out, I sort of launch myself headfirst onto the concrete patio. A landslide of junk comes falling out with me.
Pain shoots through my cheek and up my forehead because I have cracked myself good on the corner of the picnic bench. Rolling around for a second on the ground, I hold my head and swear like crazy because it hurts so badly. Fuck! Then I remember where I am and sit up quickly, brushing at myself, brushing all over, swatting at my hair, shaking it out because I’m convinced there are bugs and rats crawling on me.
When I am sure there are no bugs and rats, I just sit for a second, heaving and holding my cheek. When I pull my hand back, it’s wet, definitely blood. There’s blood on my arms, too. I check to see if my pump is okay and it is. I hear my dad’s voice saying my name over and over from inside my bag.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling the phone out and putting it to my ear, “I’m fine.”
“What’s happening,” he says. “I heard noises, a scuffle. Is someone else there?”
“No, no. I just fell, I’m outside now. I’m fine. I’m going to the Lakewood Inn to see her now. I’ll call you on my way home.”
I hang up and put it to silent before he calls back.
I stand up and slide the door but it won’t quite shut all the way now, the big pile of stuff has fallen all around and it’s jammed. One of the things is that waterglobe from that day we tried to get organized with Ginny. I pick the box up and start walking toward the fence opening. On my way across the yard, I turn around to look at my house one last time.
This was great house, once. This was a nice place to live. Beautiful, even. This yard was neat and tidy and I had a lot of good times in it. I picture my baby pool on the patio, tea parties with Lindsey under the maple tree, the two of us playing badminton over the clothesline. I never even considered it anything but a makeshift badminton net until I started having to wash my clothes at the laundromat or in the sink because the basement laundry room had become engulfed. This makes me laugh for some reason. I laugh out loud because I just remembered that this house has a basement. There is a basement that I’ve completely forgotten about for a good three years. There’s a washing machine that probably still has my One Direction tee-shirt in it. Harry Styles has been crumpled up in the washer waiting for me to pull him out and wear him for three years. When I’m done being hysterical, fury springs up again.
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