"OCD and Guilt"

It is bedtime and I am changing the radio station on my alarm clock as the last voice I want to wake up to is Mr. McGee’s. Mom is doing what she does best when there’s too much energy for hook rugs and nail biting: cleaning. She wants nothing more than to tell me off tonight. She has every reason to. Granted, I still believe that Mr. McGee and mom are two fat liars who probably make out when their kids are sleeping. But the way I talked about Seth’s mom is a knife that cut everyone in that kitchen.



Mom used to keep our house like a pigsty. If it weren’t for Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Frank, our place would have looked like a fraternity party trampled through it. But once we moved to Meadowview, mom’s fascination with cleaning began. Scrubbing and scouring is her therapy. She wipes off dirt instead of wiping tears, revisits grime and grease instead of memories and bleaches her way to a new life, devoid of human emotion. I want to pour one of her buckets of soapy water over her head to wake her up. But I am terrified to find out that there isn’t anyone there, just a wax figure of surprise.


Jack sits at the foot of his bed, neatly writing labels for his loose-leaf binder. In his Toy Story pajamas and Lion King slippers he is a vision of pure nerd. Strands of his straight hair stick up like Alfalfa and I know that it’s only a matter of days before the name calling and general bullying at school will begin. I can’t help but look at his delicate frame and think that G-d mixed up our genders. Either that or the Man Upstairs has a wicked sense of humor. He is happy, mumbling the names of the different subjects he writes down so carefully, and so vulnerable, perhaps more so because he’s unaware. He needs protecting but I don’t know how to do this. So I sit on his bed.


“Are you clean?” Jack turns his bug eyes on me.


“Definitely,” He is so much nicer to me than I am to him. If he were on my bed I’d push him off and we both know it. “Do you remember what dad said about your voice?”


“I have a special voice, it’s different from anyone else’s, and this is a good thing, a very good thing,” he says to the binder that he rubs with his hands.


“It is special,” I say.


“No one can make fun of me for my voice.” He squeezes each subject in his binder. “Dad’s not going to let anyone make fun of my voice anymore.” He is no longer talking to me.


“I know.”


“Why are you doing this to me now?” There are huge tears in his eyes. “I don’t need to be reminded of what the kids do to me in school, okay? Why are you doing this to me right now?” He is rocking back and forth like a large fetus on the floor and I sit there, trying to understand how our father could ever be something negative between us.


Mom bursts through the bedroom, beads of sweat on her upper lip. She looks at Jack, hysterically crying on the floor, and this is all she needs to refuel. No doubt that once we are in bed the woman will scour the tub with a toothbrush. “What did you do to him?” She runs over to him and begins rocking with him, his head on her non-existent breasts.


“I was just talking about dad,” I say. “I thought he liked talking about him.” Up until now, our dad was the one topic we agreed on, the only person we both agreed to love.


Mom looks at me like I’ve just shown her a ghost. Through tears Jack says, “Amelia, please don’t tell me anymore about my special voice. Just leave me alone with my binder. Just leave me alone before the first day of school, okay?”


“Honestly Amelia, I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” mom says, rubbing Jack’s back like he’s just survived a drowning.


I only wanted to protect my brother since dad was no longer here to do it. I only want mom to remember who she loved and not forget it with some Long Island disc jockey. But there is no room for my wants. There is only enough space for mother and son. So I leave them to wipe away the tears that each refuses to shed with me.