Page 3 of Fever: Love In Scrubs
“She would have kept it clean,” he’d mutter sometimes, running his hands over his collection of junk. “Your mother, she would have known what to do with all this.”
My home was nothing like the pictures I’d seen in an old photo album growing up. The once open space was now filled with narrow pathways carved between towers of newspapers, magazines, boxes of things my father bought and never opened. The smell of decay and neglect clung to every surface and seeped into every item of clothing. I used to wash my clothes with so much detergent and scent boosters before storing them in air tight containers to keep the smell out.
I’d learned to navigate the house by feeling around in the dark because I was afraid that turning on lights might reveal just how bad it had gotten. If I pretended it didn’t exist, maybe it wouldn’t seem as bad as it was.
I lived nothing like that now, though. My bed was always made with perfect hospital corners and sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter. My kitchen, living room, and bathroom were spotless. Everything had to be in its designated place. My shoes were lined up by size. My books were arranged by height. My clothes were categorized by season, color, and occasion.
Not a single surface of my home was cluttered with the remnants of daily life. Everything was in pristine condition, just how I liked it. It wasn’t that I was a neat freak…okay, maybe I was. But after living in chaos for so long, I deserved peace and order in the place I rested my head. It was my biggest fear that I would inherit my father’s hoarding habit.
Fifteen years.
That’s how long it had been since I stepped foot in my childhood home or the town of Silver Run. I could only imagine how it looked now. It was crazy to me that the city hadn’t condemned the property. I knew he had complaints out the ass for the yard alone.
I kept telling myself that I was going to go visit, but I couldn’t. Every time he said he was going to visit me, he found some excuse not to. I knew the state of that house would sadden, enrage, and give me severe anxiety if I broke down and finally went there. I was bound to call the city on him my damn self. The last thing I wanted to do was lash out at my father over unresolved childhood trauma. It was bad enough that he hadn’t answered my calls in a few weeks.
It wasn’t the first time he stopped talking to me because I tried to get him to leave that house and come live with me. I had to have been crazy to invite a hoarder into my space, but he was my father. In spite of his flaws, I loved the man.
My phone buzzed with a text from my cousin Tinka asking about dinner plans. I stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could use a night out, so I accepted. Tinka was always the life of the party, and I was sure I’d have a good time. She responded with the details and I confirmed I’d meet her there.
I unhooked my phone from the nightstand charger so I could go make myself some coffee before work. Walking into my kitchen, I smiled. This was my favorite room in the house and the one I always cleaned first. I loved to cook and bake, so a clean kitchen was a must. Growing up in a house where I couldn’t see the kitchen floor through the piles of junk, it was a must that I kept it clean.
If nothing else was clean, the living room, kitchen, and bathroom were in tip top shape. Logically, said three spaceswere high traffic areas. You entertained in the living room, cooked in the kitchen, and the bathroom… well I wouldn’t use a dirty public bathroom, so that was the only logic I needed.
In the quiet of my controlled space, I could almost hear Dad shuffling through his maze of accumulated grief, keeping Mom alive in the only way he knew how. He never let anything go, never threw anything away, and never admitted that, for him, death meant emptiness. He filled our home in ways he couldn’t fill the empty space in his heart.
“Get your shit together, Wynter,” I mumbled to myself as I prepared my travel mug of coffee. “Don’t take your ass too far down memory lane and end up crying like a bitch in here.”
With that thought in mind, I finished making my coffee and warmed up one of the breakfast burritos I’d prepped yesterday morning. With my hands cluttered with my coffee, food, work bag, purse, phone, and keys, I left out my front door.
I’d just gotten in my car and cranked up when my phone rang. Looking down, I saw that it was my Aunt Kira. She was part of my morning routine, making sure she called me every morning at the same time. It didn’t matter that I was about to see her at work. She was going to call. Swiping the screen, I answered the call after three rings.
“Hey, Auntie.”
She sniffled. “Hey, baby.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m about to leave for work, auntie. I’m still in the driveway. Please tell me what’s wrong. Why do you sound like that? I don’t like it.”
“Stay right there. I’m almost to you.”
“Auntie, you’re scaring me.”
“I’ll be there in a second just?—”
“Why do you have to come here to tell me what it is? Tell me right now. I can handle it.”
“Wynter… baby, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard as I put the car back in park.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“It’s your dad, sweetheart. He’s… he’s gone, Wynter.”
“W-what? What do you mean he’s gone?”
