Kat Greene Comes Clean

by Melissa Roske

  While I’m taking this all in, Mom marches across the stage with the other Sweepers. She’s not biting her nails, but her face is still green.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam says, reading my mind. “Your mom will be fine.”

  Maybe Sam’s right, but I don’t say anything back. I’m too focused on Mom and on Bing Monroe, who’s now introducing today’s five lucky contestants.

  “And last but not least,” Bing is saying, “we have Deidre Greene, a stay-at-home mom from right here in the Big Apple.” Bing winks and steps closer to Mom. “I hear you’re quite the cleaning pro, Dee. What’s your favorite product?”

  Mom fiddles with the reflective strip on her orange safety vest. “Well, I like Windex for removing finger-prints on glass surfaces, and I…I…like Pine-Sol for, um…”

  I lean across Sam so I can whisper to Dad. “Does Mom look strange to you?”

  “She’s dressed like a sanitation worker and carrying a broom, honey. Of course she looks strange.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Dad. I think there’s something wrong with her.”

  Sam adjusts his glasses. “I think Kat’s right, Mr. Greene.”

  Now I’m worried. So worried, that when Bing Monroe asks Mom whether she’s ready to sweep off with the big money, my heart does jumping jacks in my chest.

  “So, are you, Deidre?” Bing Monroe asks again, only louder this time. “Ready to sweep off with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and a lifetime supply of cleaning products?”

  Mom isn’t listening. She’s staring at the camera like a hunted animal.

  “Deidre?” Bing Monroe waves his hand in front of her face. “Earth to Deidre? Come in, Deidre…” He’s chuckling into the microphone, but his eyes aren’t laughing. They’re fixed on the cameraman offstage.

  “Sam,” I say, clutching my friend’s arm, “I’m scared.”

  “Your mom’s just nervous, Kat. Bing will get her to relax. Watch.”

  I’d rather not, but I keep my eyes on Mom. She’s wriggled out of Bing’s grasp and is making her way offstage.

  “Deidre,” Bing calls after her. “Deidre!”

  I watch in horror as Mom staggers across the set and crashes into a barbecue grill. Her legs buckle under her, and she falls to the floor. I hear a scream ring out across the auditorium.

  It takes a minute before I realize it’s mine.

  “She fainted, sweetheart. It’s a common reaction when someone’s nervous.” Dad is trying to make me feel better as we wait in a small conference room for news about Mom, but it’s not working. My armpits are clammy and my legs feel like Jell-O.

  “He’s right, Kat,” Sam says, taking my hand. “Your mom will be fine.”

  “Absolutely!” Barbara gets up from the conference table and puts her arm around my shoulders. “The excitement of it all probably got to her. She’ll be back on her feet in no time, honey. You’ll see.”

  I want to believe Dad, and Sam, and Barbara: that Mom passed out because she was nervous and she’ll be back on her feet in no time. But I’m still buzzing with nerves when the studio’s doctor walks in with Mom on his arm. She’s walking slowly and her face is pale. “Mom!” I run over and throw my arms around her. “Are you okay?”

  “Careful,” the doctor says. “Your mom’s still a bit wobbly.”

  “Does she need to go to the hospital?” I ask, backing away.

  “No, nothing like that. Just bed rest and plenty of fluids. She was probably dehydrated. It’s a common cause of fainting, you know.”

  “That’s what my dad said.”

  The doctor smiles. “You’ve got a smart dad.”

  I try to find comfort in the nice doctor’s words, but my stomach is churning as Dad and Barbara help Mom out of the building and into a cab. Barbara, Sam, and I climb into the back seat with Mom while Dad sits up front with the driver. By the time we’ve reached Thirteenth Street, Mom is asleep on Sam’s shoulder.

  “Easy does it,” Dad says, helping Mom to her feet. She shoots him a grateful smile and lets Barbara lead her into our building. I wait outside with Sam while Dad pays the driver.

  “I’d better go,” I tell Sam when I see Dad coming toward us. “You know…”

  “Don’t worry,” Sam says. “Your mom will be fine.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  I wish I were so sure. I tell Sam I’ll text him later and head upstairs with Dad.

  Barbara is in the kitchen making coffee when Dad and I walk in. Mom is on the couch, her arm flung over her eyes. “How are you feeling, Mom?” I ask, plopping down beside her. “Any better?”

  “A little,” Mom says, trying to sit up.

  “Stay where you are,” Dad tells her. “You’re still weak.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “If only you were this attentive when we were married.” It’s the first joke she’s made all day. At least I think it’s a joke.

  After Barbara joins us in the living room, Dad offers to stay overnight at our place. “I’d like to keep an eye on Kat,” he tells Mom. “And on you too.”

  “I agree,” Barbara says. “Let Dennis help you, Dee.”

  Mom won’t hear of it. “That’s sweet of you guys, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to my room to lie down.”

  I watch as Mom moves unsteadily down the hall. When she’s gone, Dad turns to me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Kit-Kat? I feel funny leaving you and your mom alone.”

  “We’re not alone,” I say. “We have each other.”

  “I know, but…” Dad looks as torn as I feel. I don’t want him to leave, but staying overnight would make the situation more awkward than it already is.

  “You can go after dinner,” I say. “I’ll call you before I go to sleep.”

  “Are you bargaining with me?” Dad smiles slightly. I can tell he’s relieved.

  “Maybe,” I say. For all I know, things will look better tomorrow.

  —

  Unfortunately they don’t. When I go into the kitchen the next morning, Mom isn’t there. She’s not in the living room, or in the bathroom either. I head for her bedroom and see the door is shut. I knock. “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  I knock louder. “Mom?”

  Still nothing.

  I turn the knob and go in. “Mom…?”

  The blinds are closed, but I can make out a small lump in the middle of the bed: Mom, fast asleep. This is strange. Mom never sleeps late, even on weekends. She’s usually scrubbing, or polishing, or sterilizing something. I lean over and give her a little shake. “Mom?”

  Slowly she opens her eyes. “What time is it?” Her voice sounds like Mrs. Donovan’s, our neighbor in 3B who’s always smoking outside our building.

  “It’s almost ten,” I say. “You slept for fourteen hours.”

  Mom doesn’t answer. She pulls the blanket over her head and turns to the other side. Suddenly I feel hot all over. Should I be worried? Should I call Dad? But that’s dumb. If I know Mom, she’ll be back to her old self in no time. I go to my room and wait.

  Later, when I’m heating up a can of tomato soup for Mom’s lunch, the phone rings. It’s Dad, calling to see how things are going. We chat for a few minutes before he asks to speak to Mom. When I say she’s in the shower, the lie sticks to my tongue like peanut butter. I want to tell Dad the truth, but how can I? He’ll drag me off to his place for sure. Mom needs me here. I promise to call him later and go back to heating up Mom’s soup.

  I bring it in to her on a tray. “At least have a bite,” I say, handing her a spoon. “It’s good.”

  But Mom doesn’t want soup—or anything else. She just wants to sleep.

  I try again at two o’clock, and then at four. When Dad calls at dinnertime to see how things are going, I tell him that Mom went to the deli for sandwiches. At nine, when he tries her cell phone, I say she ran down for the mail. “I’m glad she’s feeling better,” he says, “but have her call
me, okay?”

  I feel bad lying to Dad, but I don’t have a choice. If I tell him that Mom won’t eat or get out of bed, I know exactly what will happen. The same goes for writing to Olympia. She’ll think Mom’s lost it and will get my dad involved. And Halle? She’ll only be pity-nice to me, if she talks to me at all.

  Scared and out of ideas, I go to bed with a knot in my stomach for the second night in a row. Maybe Mom will be okay tomorrow. She has to be.

  Mom is still in bed when I go in to check on her the next morning. I’ve made French toast, which I know she can’t resist. Fresh-squeezed orange juice too. “Time to get up,” I say, placing the tray on Mom’s bed. “Rise and shine!” I go over to the window and open the blinds.

  Mom squints at the sunlight streaming through the slats. “Later, Kit-Kat. I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on, Mom. You’ve got to have something.” I hand her the juice.

  Mom pushes it away. “Later,” she says again. “Please close the blinds.”

  “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “Close them, Kat.”

  I do as Mom says, but I leave the juice and French toast on her nightstand.

  I’m carrying the tray back to the kitchen when I hear my phone ring. I run to my room to get it. It’s Dad. But this time, I can’t tell more lies. I burst into tears.

  “Take a deep breath,” Dad tells me. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. Breathe….”

  In between sobby gulps, I tell Dad what’s happening.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  I go back to Mom’s room and sit on the edge of her bed. I take her hand in mine. Her fingers are redder than ever, and rough as a cat’s tongue. When I was little, I never gave her hands much thought. Not when she rubbed my back at bedtime, or braided my hair before school. Or when she put bubbles in my bath, or tied my sneakers at the playground. She was a regular mom who took me to the library for story time and to my friends’ houses for playdates and birthday parties. Dad did that stuff too, but it was Mom who knew which books I liked and how to wrap presents with fancy paper and ribbon. Back then, she didn’t take her cleaning so…seriously.

  I give Mom’s hand a kiss and put it up to my cheek. I keep it there until the doorbell rings. Then I’m out like a flash. I unbolt the door and go boneless in Dad’s arms. The tiny buttons on his shirt poke against my face, but I don’t care. It feels good to have him here, holding me tight.

  Dad untangles himself and drops his jacket on a chair. “Where’s your mother?”

  I lead him to the bedroom where Mom is still sleeping. We stand over the bed, watching her chest rise and fall as she breathes. After a few minutes Dad motions for me to follow him to the kitchen. He grabs two cans of raspberry seltzer from the refrigerator and sits down at the breakfast bar. He points to the stool next to him. “Sit,” he says.

  I sit. Then I do what I should have done, long before now.

  I tell Dad the whole truth.

  I tell him how Mom cleans the apartment, day after day—and how she washes her hands until her fingers are raw. How she embarrasses me by wiping down cans at the supermarket, in her stupid overalls and that red bandanna. How she wears latex gloves, and makes me wear them too.

  I tell him how she packed up her wedding china to give to charity, and how she wanted to trash my flea-market rug. How she almost knocked me over in a Snapple-cap tug-of-war, but later apologized and promised to change. And how I worry she never will.

  The biggest worry of all, I tell him? That Mom’s behavior will only get worse. Which scares me more than anything else. More than keeping secrets, even.

  So now Dad knows.

  Finally.

  I pick up my seltzer and take a big gulp. Dad watches me, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, sweetheart? I would’ve done something to help.”

  “Like what?” I say, choking on the seltzer fizz. “Hide Mom’s vacuum cleaner? Take away her rubber gloves?”

  “That’s not funny, Kat.”

  “I’m not trying to be,” I say. Dad is blaming me for not telling him sooner, but it’s not my fault he didn’t know. All he had to do was ask. Or even better, open his eyes and look.

  Dad takes my hand. “Your mom’s had a thing about germs for as long as I’ve known her, Kit-Kat. It wasn’t this serious, and it never took over her life the way you’re describing now.” He pauses. “I tried talking to her about it—many times—but she always said the same thing: that I was making a mountain out of a molehill. After a while it was easier to believe her.”

  I know what Dad means. Mom said I was making a fuss over nothing too. “Does that mean she has OCD?” I ask, naming Mom’s problem for the first time to someone other than Olympia.

  Dad nods slowly. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure it does.”

  We sit with this information for a minute, neither one of us saying anything. Finally Dad puts his arm around me. “I wish I could’ve done more to help you and your mom, honey. I really am sorry.”

  I lean in for a hug. “That’s okay, Dad. You can help us now.”

  “I will,” he says. “Promise.”

  I hope it’s a promise he can keep.

  —

  Dad doesn’t go home that night. He sleeps on the sofa, getting up every few hours to check in on Mom. I can hear him bumping around in the dark, trying to find his way around the once-familiar apartment. He’s still there the next morning when I wander into the kitchen. “Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask, glancing at the wall clock. “I’m late for school.”

  “You’re not going to school today,” Dad tells me. He pours coffee into a mug and sits down at the breakfast bar.

  “But it’s Monday,” I say, grabbing a muffin from the box on the counter. “I already missed a day for Clean Sweep.”

  After Dad promises I won’t get in trouble, he tells me to sit down. I don’t have to be psychic to know when bad news is coming. “I want you to come stay with Barbara and me,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “At least until your mom gets back on her feet.”

  I feel my throat tighten. “I can’t leave Mom. She needs me.”

  “She needs to get better, Kit-Kat. And she needs to do it alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dad puts down his mug. “Your mom and I talked earlier this morning. She admitted that her problem—her OCD—is getting worse, and she agreed to seek therapy.”

  “Oh.” I’m glad Mom wants to get help, and I’ll bet Olympia will be almost as happy as I am. But I don’t understand why I have to move in with Dad. Unless, of course, Mom is going to a mental hospital like Beth Ellen Hansen’s mother in Harriet the Spy. But Beth Ellen’s mother wasn’t really in a mental hospital. She was “at Biarritz,” a ski resort in Switzerland. Does that mean Mom won’t be going to one either? I decide to find out anyway—just to be on the safe side.

  “Will Mom have to go to a mental hospital?” I ask.

  Dad seems surprised by my question. “What would give you that idea?”

  “Just something I read,” I say. “I know it’s silly.”

  “There’s no such thing as a silly question,” Dad says. “But no, your mom is not going to a mental hospital. She’ll receive outpatient treatment, right here in New York. It’s a six-week program, five days a week. Some weekends too.”

  “Could I stay home with Mom, then?”

  “No,” Dad says, smiling slightly. “But it wasn’t silly to ask.”

  I knew I’d cry when I left for Dad’s. I thought Mom would too. But she holds it together as she rolls my blue suitcase into the hall. “This will be hard for both of us, Kit-Kat, but it’s for the best.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I say, folding my arms over my chest.

  “I can’t,” Mom says. She reaches over to tuck a flyaway behind my ear. “But continuing to live like this isn’t healthy—for either of us.” Mom holds up her hands, which are as raw and cracked as ever. “I have a real problem, Kat, and I need to ge
t help for it. We both know it’s time.”

  Mom is right, but her words sting anyway.

  I hold back my tears until I’m outside with Dad, waiting for a taxi. I expect him to say, “I know this is tough for you, honey,” or “Things will get better—wait and see.” But he doesn’t. He just hands me a tissue and gives me a hug. He doesn’t say much during the ride uptown either, or when we’re in the elevator going up to his apartment. He must know there aren’t words for what I’m feeling.

  Barbara and Henry are waiting for us at the front door under a big sign that says, WELCOME, KAT! The bright, slopey letters are Henry’s writing, obviously, with some help from Barbara.

  “Kitty-Kat!” It’s Henry, hopping up and down like a baby kangaroo. “You’re here!”

  “Hey, bud.” I take my suitcase from Dad and follow Barbara into the room I’ll be sharing with Henry. The trundle bed has been set up for me, along with a blue-and-white-striped comforter and a set of matching towels. “I hope this is okay,” Barbara says, patting the bed. “I know you like blue.”

  “I like blue!” Henry yells, running in to join us. “And green, and pink, and orange, and purple, and red, and—”

  “Why don’t we let your sister settle in?” Barbara says, placing her hand on Henry’s head. “I’m sure she’d like to unpack.” I mouth a quick thank-you to Barbara as she steers Henry out of the room. Then I go for my suitcase.

  I’ve packed some clothes, books for school, and Quackles, a stuffed duck I’ve had since preschool. I would’ve brought my Snapple-cap collection, but Halle has it. If she doesn’t give it back, I might need to sneak into her room and get it.

  I put my clothes in the drawers Barbara cleared out for me and take out my laptop. While I’m getting lost in a cute kitty video, it occurs to me that I should tell Olympia what’s going on. She’ll find out sooner or later. It might as well come from me.

  TO: Olympia.Rabinowitz@VillageHumanity.org

  SUBJECT: Trouble

  DATE: October 30 2:27:08 PM EDT