Retension

This is always the tricky part. Once the door is unlocked you have to shuffle in sideways. The shoes that have built up around the door make it so that the door only opens about sixty percent of the way. I grab my bags again and shift inside. I put them down to the right on the stair landing so that I can close the door behind me and lock the door immediately. There is a small space on the landing for sorting my bags. I separate my Wal-Mart bags into groceries and clothing. I pick up the grocery bags and take them into the kitchen. I have to lean forward (past all half empty condiment bottles) to get them onto the stove. I lightly place my fingers on the fridge door handle and the door swings open easily. A collection of jars come crashing out immediately. “God damn it!” I yell to no one. The frustration rises in me as I bend over to pick up the fallen items and shove them haphazardly back into the fridge. It’s completely full as usual, and there are empty containers and quarter full pop bottles taking up a third of the space. I wish my son, Ben, and his friends would actually clean up every now and then. Nobody treats this house with respect anymore! I slide what I can into the small gaps left in the fridge. I take the remaining items and carefully move past the Tupperware stacked on the floor. I place the rest of my groceries in the food pile in front of the microwave. It’s getting a little high; it’s almost to my hips. I’ve been meaning to clear out the portable plastic storage bins that I bought last year, so that I can put the dry food somewhere to keep it from the mice, but I just haven’t had a chance. The newly placed bags shift suddenly and months’ worth of piled food comes crashing down into the open space in front of the sink. “Oh. My. God!” I seethe. This is the problem. If everyone actually put things away properly these piles wouldn’t tip over so much. It takes me almost 30 minutes to re-pile the dry foods.

I return to the stairs and pick up the remaining Wal-Mart bags. I check to make sure the door is lock and then maneuver myself carefully up the stairs. Old hockey equipment, books and coats take up most of the landing and the right half of each stair as you walk up. The brown carpet crunches under your feet, and you have to be careful that the cat hasn’t left any treats that you can slip on. At the very top of the stairs are an old television and an assortment of boxes stacked three feet high. I turn sideways again automatically to fit through the opening. I make my way down the hallway which is littered with obstacles to my room. Just outside my door, my laundry hamper sits atop a vacuum cleaner box with the vacuum still safely inside. I shove the door open, bags in hand. The door opens with a loud scratching noise. The handle broke off years ago, but Ben never got around to fixing it. My door opening is slightly smaller than that of the front door. All of my bras hang on the back of my door, and bags of what I think is garbage lay behind it. All of my clothes hang on a rack at the foot of my bed, because I can’t get to the closet. The path around my bed is getting smaller as my shoes begin to fill it. I have about four inches left now. One of the bags in my hands splits and the clothes spill out onto the dirty floor. “Shit, shit, shit!” I mumbled. I jam the clothes into the other bag and toss it onto my bed. I slide my feet out of my shoes and hop onto the bed with my new clothes. I pull out each item, inspect it, and then add it to the appropriate pile on the non-sleeping side of my bed. I used to keep my clothing in bins, but they’re all full of my old fat clothes. Kelly was here last summer and completely rearranged my room and now I can’t find anything, so I had to buy everything all over again. She thinks because she’s my daughter she can do whatever she wants. Ben seems just fine with it! He seems a little more downtrodden since his father left, but he’s always been really good about respecting my things. His father’s room hasn’t been touched since the day that he left. I want to put it all back but first I’ll have to clean some stuff out. I just wish I had more time.

My door slams open hard and Ben stomps in. The clothing rack at the end of my bed blocks him from sight. “I’ve been calling your name for like 5 minutes!” Ben says frustrated.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, my hearing isn’t good. If you want me, you have to come upstairs please.”

“I just want the keys to the car,” He says poking his head around the rack. Looking for my purse.

“Ok, they’re right there,” I tell him pointing to the general location where I usually place my purse. He grabs the keys and walks out without another word. I turn on my television and reach over to my knitting bin in front of my bed. I grab the project on the top and throw it beside me. I get comfy and lean against the clothing behind me while I make my way through the recorded shows on my PVR.

My alarm clock goes off before the sun is even up. I sit up too quickly and my knitting slides off of the bed into my laundry pile. I reach above my head and switch on my lamp. I can hear Ben snoring though the wall. It sounds just like his father’s snoring. I look over to see my keys lying on top of my purse. I put my sandals on and head to the bathroom. The counter is covered in products, the left side is for Ben and the right side is for me. My toothbrush, toothpaste, and cream lie on top of the pile of samples that have come in the mail. I grab my shower shoes from under the sink. Showering always feels like a Mission Impossible movie to me. Every move has to be just perfect. Ben ripped the shower curtain two months ago, and I haven’t had a chance to get a new one, so you have to stand in the perfect spot so water doesn’t get everywhere. The towel rack snapped off years ago so I place my towel on the toilet lid, but if the water sprays out your towel gets drenched. It’s a tricky game at 5:30am. I get into the shower carefully as to not knock over any of the bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Mold climbs up every crack of the tile, so I try not to touch the walls of the shower. I get out just as carefully, wrap myself in a towel and go bang on Ben’s door to wake him up. I run down the stairs to make sure the front door is locked, and then head back up to get dressed in my new outfit.

Ben drives to Tim Horton’s for our breakfast. There’s just no time to cook in the morning. Plus it’s so tough to do the dishes in that tiny kitchen!

“Can I get an extra-large double double, an extra-large steeped tea with one milk and two sweeteners, a sausage breakfast sandwich, and a strawberry yogurt, that’s all” Ben orders from memory and I pass him my debit card.

I finish my tea on the way to the train station and drop the empty cup on the floor in the back seat. I need to clean out my car. It’s starting to get full. . Ben drops me off with a hug over the gear shift. The work day drags on like most. Every day is like the last: meeting, coffee break, paperwork, lunch, conference call, meeting, and then home. I sit at my desk and stare out my office doorway across the hall and out my neighbour’s window for most of the day. My desk is empty and bare. I like to keep a couple of file folders full of knitting patterns to liven it up.

Ben picks me up from the train station and then heads to the house. I take the car and head to my second job at Wal-Mart. I love my job. The people here are great. They really get me, and the young kids all wish I was their mother. I get to stand and do cash. I meet so many lovely wonderful people.

“Good evening how are you doing tonight, darling?” I ask the young girl buying clothes. I look at all of the items as I scan them. I make a mental note of every item I want to try on.

“I’m doing really good thanks,” she replies. We continue to talk while I ring her through, and I learn that she has a brand new job and a brand new boyfriend, she’s just lost 30 pounds and feels great about life. I admire that young girl. I think she’ll do great. After she pays for her new clothes I pass up her bags. I smile as she walks out. I have eight new things to try on during my break.

I get home later than usual. I go to the trunk and grab the new clothes that I bought. The door is open and I walk in. My heart sinks, I don’t know how many times I have to tell Ben to keep the door locked! I can see the light on in the living room so I deposit the bags on the stairs and head down the hall to talk to him. The downstairs hall has floor to ceiling shelving that I bought while I was selling Avon. The shelves are full now, and we don’t really use them for anything else. The shelves on the right side and the shoes on the left take up so much room in the hall that you have to lean your left shoulder against the wall just to get down the hallway without falling. There are long clean patches where my shoulder lands and a second one where Ben’s shoulder lands that run all the way down the hallway. Ben is sitting on the couch. His father is sitting beside him. I don’t really like going into the living room because it’s so hard to get to. I get to the doorway and see my ex-husband sitting on the couch beside Ben.

“Sheila, we have to talk,” Jim tells me, “Ben tells me you’ve gotten worse. Is it true that you’ve installed a lock on my bedroom door?” I don’t respond. “Have you been seeing Dr. Mann?” I still don’t respond. “Okay, since you don’t want to talk, listen. It’s been almost 20 years since the break-in Sheila. Eventually you have to just, get over it, you know? I want Ben to come live with me. People just can’t live like this, Sheila! I think you should come live with me too. It’s time to end this. I want to sell the house. I think you’d do much better in a condo, and you could even have your own room. I’ve already talked to Kelly and she thinks it’s a good idea. Ben has already agreed to move with me, and has packed his bags.”

I stare at the co-conspirators, “I’m not leaving my house, Jim,” I tell him calmly, I turn to Ben, “I don’t want you to either. Please, don’t you like the system we have here?” I look at Ben, but his gaze remains firmly on the ground. I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Fine, do whatever you want. I don’t really care.” I stomp back down the hallway, but too quickly. I knock into one of the shelves as I pass and a pile of papers and small boxes rain down onto the floor. I keep walking. Let them clean that up! I lock the front door and grab my bags from the stairs and head up. My bag smashes into a pile of books halfway up and an avalanche starts, I keep walking up. It feels like I’m walking against a giant cascade of water, but in reality it’s old comics and notebooks, pencil cases and other school supplies. I plant my foot heavily with each step ensuring I have traction before I continue. Every foot placement knocks something else over. I leave in in my defiant act. Once I’m in my room I lock the bedroom door behind me and throw my bag of clothes onto the bed and go to sleep. I don’t even bother sorting it. I’ll do that tomorrow. I turn on the television, pull the covers over my head and fall asleep.

My alarm clock goes off and I slam it off, breaking the battery cover. I roll over, grab my cell phone, and clumsily thumb through my contacts. “Hi this is Sheila, I won’t be in today. I’m feeling really under the weather.” I put my phone on silent and pull the covers back over me. I wake up again late into the afternoon. I push the covers back and sit up. I put on my shoes and make my way down the hall to Ben’s room. I push on the door and it swings open freely. The entire left half of his room is filled with old toys and clothes piled higher than myself. His bed has been stripped and his clothes are no longer in his dresser. I leave the door open and head down the stairs. Jim has replaced all of the piles for me and rebuilt the pathways, wider than before. The pathways were his idea. He was adamant about keeping them clear, and I’ve tried my best since he left to keep them up. There is a two foot wide gap where nothing blocks the way all the way through the house. I smile. I go into the kitchen and grab a muffin and the box of garbage bags. I head back up the stairs and into Ben’s room. Most of the walls are drawn on with sharpie. The Sesame Street wallpaper that he begged for when he was six lines the room. Large chunks near his bed have been ripped down and the plaster wall has been chipped away at. I place my muffin on his night stand and open the garbage bag. I lean down and pick up each item, examine it and toss it into the bag.