"Where your fear is there is your task," Carl Jung.
THE RETURN: March 2018
Rusty door hinges squawked as Chloe Masters tiptoed into her childhood home. Through the dimness, she saw black mold crawling the walls and flies swarming appliances made decades before the digital revolution.
Back in third grade, she scampered in this room to find her mother sitting on the couch, waxy and slack jawed. A bug buzzed in her shimmering eye.
She shuddered.
Now she looked upward into a gaping maw with twinkling teeth. She realized she was peering through the ceiling, looking at the stars in an ebony sky.
She jolted, pivoting toward the sick sweet smell of that old honeysuckle perfume.
"MOM??!!"
***
Mom stood framed in the doorway. At a ten-foot distance, that floral house dress was still vibrant with cartoon bees perched on yellow daisies. As a baby, Chloe touched the bug wings with her chubby finger as she counted them, "One, two, free."
Her old toes gripped Dr. Scholl's sandals. Uncomfortable and clunky, those wood blocks with blue plastic straps marched themselves into obsolescence long ago. Dad had joked, "Your feet are hanging on for dear life, Hannah." Little Chloe clapped when he morphed his fingers into grasping claws. Now mom moved forward with a hollow clip-clop.
"Mother, May I," thought Chloe as she took one baby step forward. She was close enough to see capillaries crisscross mom's sallow face. Once, on a fad carrot diet, mom's skin turned bright orange. Tonight, she resembled a pale parsnip.
Air whooshed suddenly from the wrecked ceiling above. A T.V Guide flapped on an end table. Those horrible kitchen chimes clanged. Chloe imagined she was in the guts of a stalled car that just got jumped. Gears ground and sparks burst as the rust bucket cough, cough, coughed back to life.
The queen and her pawn stood in stalemate. Chloe's eyes moved left as mom's eyes moved left, Chloe's eyes moved right as mom's eyes moved right. Chloe's elbow jerked as mom's elbow jerked. A harsh wind slammed, a door shut, and darkness enveloped her.
***
Her open lips touched bluish grey yarn fibers and she tasted mildew. Prior to its long slow fade, this carpet was vibrant cobalt. They were all excited about this mod blue shag even when the acrid odor burned their nostrils. It felt fuzzy and warm between toes, a relief from the splintery slats beneath. She romped in it, pretending it was a huge expanse where fairies lived, and ogres died. Always quipping, dad said, "The baby's at her bluegrass festival again."
***
She was disoriented, confused, exhausted. Her sprawled legs felt heavy and sore. The hair on her exposed forearm shifted gently in a strange breeze. She sputtered and opened her eyes. She knew now she was lying somewhere in her past. She blinked hard twice. She thought, "I'm dreaming about the old house again where things go bad." She shut her eyes.
THE RETREAT: September 2018
"Alexa, make my coffee!" Chloe focused on the sleek machine which immediately began to grind and burble.
She upgraded to this New York City high rise retreat right after what she refers to as The Return. This new start included scoring a great gig as work-at-home fundraiser, but without a commute or office banter these new days stretched like gum on a shoe. To scrub her memories, she daydreamed about renovations when she would re-stain these floors trendy grey and then switch the gaudy counter to a soothing slate.
She conjured activities to exorcise her demons. First, she used her weight to hoist the kitchen window. This Achilles heel, repeatedly repaired, always reverted to an arthritic joint. Chloe heaved hard because she knew the September breeze was her reward. The bacon sandwiches, car exhaust, and laundromat steam all mixed to an urban cologne.
Next, she side stepped to the white marble island to buff its blue veined expanse. She smashed an ant. When mirky images of that old place was scrubbed, she was done.
She plopped hard on the tall chair and bellied up to the high bar where her laptop lived. She flung open its jaw, pressed the phone icon, and then toggled to her sultry voice to seduce her donors as money streamed in. Cha-ching!
***
She often looked back to the moment her solace was snuffed right after she extracted a final fortune from The Rutherfords. They were in their eighties and Joanna's hearing was extinct. At crucial points in this legacy deal, the blueblood would bark, "Repeat that. You're fading!" On the extension, her docile husband contributed blasts of rattle-breath. After they whirled this waltz of wealth, the phone icon turned to red and she yoga-breathed deep for five beats.
Off to the right, her cell phone buzzed and jumped. It quaked with an unknown number and as always, she watched until her device kicked itself still. She was surprised when the voicemail pinged. She came close to listen. "This is Owen Pierce of Lowry, Somerfield and Pierce calling for Chloe Masters. Get back to me immediately about your Levittown place."
She grew up in a post-war home on Long Island. When she was small, she wondered how combat could beget a house. Years later, as she drove away to college, she glanced back at the cloned squares as she warbled, "Little Boxes made of ticky-tacky, and they all look the same." She reappeared only four times, once for a birthday party and twice for funerals and then again last year when she recognized the place as a decaying version of its doppelgangers.
She braced herself. "Hello, Mr. Pierce, this is Chloe calling back." He responded sternly, "Hello, I represent your home's new owners. Before the sale is final, I advise you to walk-through one last time."
In this instant, her calm evaporated, and apparitions rose from its smoke. In the days that followed, she became infected with the old fright. She saw it ugly and smelled it rancid as its creeping strands stank through her solid wall and seeped through the newest window seal. She crouched and triggered for months before she could gather strength to ride back to her battle ground for one last standoff.
THE RETURN: March 2019
The new door glid open as Chloe strode into her past. Chalky sheetrock threw a shocking glare and as her pupils dilated, they followed a subtle web of dry plaster. The pungent smell of new in this empty kitchen was stunning.
A year ago today, she lingered on this spot where they carted her mother away. Gnats bounced in the foul puddle where she had melted.
She stiffened.
She craned upward to track a pale tongue in a toothless mouth. She saw through the new skylight knowing now she was chasing cumulus clouds in a cranky sky.
She smelled her own sweat.
She froze.
"CHLOE!"
Mom was stuck in the old mud room. From five feet in front, she watched that pantsuit flutter. This was the pale travel outfit she donned for the long trips away to the doctor who patched her. The harpy's daughter would count the weeks without her, "Four, five. Six."
Mom's flat feet were often bare. Dad warned, "Watch out for ringworm in your soles," and Chloe would wince as his index finger swirled in a phantom foot.
Mom stomped. A hollow slapping sound from the place where she pedaled the floor.
"Simon says, 'Take one step back'." As Chloe retracted, she squinted at those puffy opaque cheeks. When she ate a six hundred calorie day, mom's face faded to yellow. Now it was a full moon, glowing.
The absence of sound slammed this air-tight space. An errant nail burrowed through new tile. She heard it turn.
Now, her only escape was the vivid vision of herself after mother left. She was a teen on a ten speed with a loose gear. Skinny wheels spun crazy when the chain popped, and she went limp when her cycle stopped.
Now, back to this stalemate, opposing checkers stood their ground. Mom's lips puckered as Chloe's mouth pursed. Mom's nostrils flared then Chloe's nose twitched. Mom lurched forward as Chloe catapulted toward her. A breeze brushed her body, followed by a loud bang then a full jolt.
***
Her smashed mouth kissed a smooth ceramic square and she chewed gritty tile grout that sparkled in this tiny room. Stinging bleach replaced wafts of the old loam. The original floor had been abrasive pocky cement. After she flung her dirty shoes, she would hop up and down, pretending it was fire. Always noticing, dad said, "My girl's a jittery jumping bean."
***
Chloe stands behind the "Sold" sign that spears through new sod. Her lower limbs balance where a tree once rooted. Her splayed upper branches are soothed by a sudden gust. She sees the house, stiff at attention, eagerly awaiting its new company. She scrunches her eyes tight and still she sees it, a glowing ghost image, reframed. Tonight, she will dream of a stately mansion built over the footprint of her mother's tread. She smiles. "I'm awake!" Her eyes burst open.
