My mother was always fond of boxes, but not all of them were real. When I was a little girl, she taught me how to build them in my head, and hide my worst memories inside. I learned to fill them with the things I most wanted to forget, so that they were locked away and hidden in the darkest corners of my mind, where nobody, including me, would ever look. I tell myself the same thing I always do when I come here:
You are more than the worst thing you’ve ever done.
I feel a familiar pain in the back of my head, which starts to throb in time with my heartbeat. It’s the kind of fast-accelerating agony that can only be cured with alcohol, and the need to do so takes over everything else. I reach inside my bag and find a half-empty blister pack of painkillers. I pop two inside my mouth, then search for a miniature to wash them down with.
They’re not as hard to come by as they used to be—miniatures—and I no longer have to steal them from flights or hotels. I have my favorites: Smirnoff vodka, Bombay Sapphire gin, Bacardi, and, for a special sweet treat, Baileys Irish Cream. But quality scotch tends to be my number one choice, and there are a wide variety of those available in teeny-tiny bottles now—even with next-day delivery online. All small enough to fit discreetly inside any pocket or purse. I twist the lid off the first one I find in my bag and drink it down like medicine; vodka this time. I don’t bother popping a mint afterward. Parents know their children, even the bad ones.
“Mum!” My voice sounds just the same as it did when I was a child when I say her name.
But there is still no answer.
“Plenty big enough for the two of us” was how she described this tiny cottage when I was still here. As though she had forgotten that there used to be three of us living in the house. I can still hear her saying it now inside my head, along with all the other lies she told to try to stop me from leaving.
It’s a brick-built Victorian two-up two-down, with an extension tagged on the end like a twentieth-century afterthought. Our house always used to look like a nice home, even when it stopped feeling like one. Not anymore. I squeeze past the stacks of boxes, until I reach the door that leads to the rear of the building. It squeaks in protest when I open it, and the smell is considerably worse. It hits the back of my throat, and I gag when my mind speculates on what might be causing it.
I pass the stairs, walk through what still resembles a dining room—despite the boxes on the table—and do my best not to trip over anything in the dark. I spot Mum’s old record player on the dresser in the corner, covered in a thick layer of dust. Even when I tried to introduce her to cassettes and CDs, she insisted on sticking with vinyl. I caught her sometimes, dancing around the room with her arms held out, as though she were waltzing with an invisible man.
I reach the kitchen, turn on the light, and my hand automatically comes up to cover my mouth. Dirty plates coated in uneaten food, along with half-drunk cups of tea, litter every available surface. There are a couple of lazy-looking flies, buzzing around what might once have been a microwavable lasagna. It is not like my mother to eat ready meals. She rarely ate anything we didn’t grow in our own garden and would rather go hungry than eat fast food.
The smell is a little overwhelming now. When I manage to look up from all the filth and mess in the kitchen, I see the glow of the TV out in the sunroom right at the back of the house. It’s the place where she always most liked to sit, with the best view of her beloved garden.
I see her then, sitting in her favorite armchair in front of the television, a bag of knitting on the floor by her side. My mother always preferred making things herself: food, clothes, me. Years ago, she helped me knit a Harry Potter scarf for Jack. It was strange and surreal to see him still wearing it today.
I take a step closer and see that she is smaller than I remembered, as though life has made her shrink. Her gray hair has thinned and there are hollow shapes where there used to be rosy cheeks. The clothes she is wearing look dirty and too big, and the buttons on her cardigan are done up incorrectly, so that one side of the white bobbled material looks longer than the other. It’s covered in faded embroidered bees, and I remember buying it for her a long time ago—a last-minute birthday present. I’m surprised she still has it. I glance at the TV screen and see that she has been watching the BBC News Channel, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of me in the background. I knew she did that, but to see it makes me feel even worse than before.
She isn’t watching now.
Her eyes are closed and her mouth is slightly open.
I take a step closer, and memories I locked away a long time ago start to stir. I shake my head, as though trying to silence them before they get too loud. It isn’t just the mess in the kitchen that stinks, it’s her. She smells of body odor, piss, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Or am choosing not to.