I wake up, opening one eye. I look around my bland, messy room, then shut my eyes, hoping to get some rest. My body, however, always seems to have other plans. First comes the dry throat, begging for me to get any water in me. Then comes the back pain, making me flip over and over, trying to find a position that’s comfortable. Finally, my head pounds deep and heavy, like a landlord looking for their late payment, a reminder of last night’s one-party festivities.
I drag myself up, using the bedsheets as leverage. I try to sit up, take a minute to wake up, then grab my phone from my nightstand. I let my eyes adjust, and notice that the time reads 10:13 am. I then look at the corner of my phone, the red battery icon reminding me that I forgot to charge it again. I snap back at the time, remembering that I was supposed to do something earlier.
I shift out of bed and grab a water bottle from the pack I keep by my desk. Sipping from the lukewarm water gives my mind a reset for only a few seconds, but it doesn’t stop me from chugging the whole bottle. Looking at my desk, I realized that there was already a half-empty bottle sitting next to my computer, with a hastily written sticky note that reads “Remember, Dad needs help emptying out the basement @ 10:00 am. Leave by 9:30.”
Well shit. I both thank and curse past-me and scurry to my closet. I throw on the first few things I see, that being a dark shirt that says “Texas” on it, some dark green cargo pants, and a gray sweater with Mickey Mouse on it. I hurry into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the table, a protein bar from the cabinet, and my car keys underneath a nearly empty bottle of vodka. I go outside and get into my red Kia, hoping I remembered to fill the gas tank.
I turn on the car and look at the gas meter. A quarter tank. I shrug, knowing that I’ll just have to get gas on the way back.
I arrive thirty minutes later and park in front of my parents’ house. I get out of my car, admiring the house on the hill, looking at all the ivy covering the front of the house. Coming back here gives me a sense of nostalgia, despite me moving out only a month ago.
Looking around the front of the house, I don’t see any signs of Dad anywhere in the front. He must be at the back of the house, already working in the basement. I sigh, and start to walk up the hill, being careful to not hold on to the railing, to avoid falling over and needing a hip replacement, just like Grandma.
I walk around the house, passing under the white awning that we hastily built last summer, into the recently trimmed backyard with flowers ready to bloom. In the distance, I see the large basement doors open wide, two large piles of random objects, and my dad walking out of the doors with a large box in his arms. He grunts with each step he takes, dropping the box on the floor like if he were carrying a heavy rock.
My father turns to me, breathing heavily.
“Where the hell have you been? I emptied out half of the basement without any help!”
My mother walks up right behind him, holding a box of the same size.
“No help whatsoever, right?” She says.
“Oh! Y’know what I mean!” My father responds, throwing his arms up in the air. He turns to me. “What’re you standing there for? There’s still more things to get rid of.”
I take a deep breath, and walk towards them both.
“Hi Mom.”
“Hi sweetheart.”
“Was Dad giving you trouble?”
“Oh, just the regular amount,” she chuckles.
Thankfully, my mother was there to help him, or else I would’ve gotten more than just his overexaggerated complaining. I follow Dad’s lead into the basement, and gasp at the piles of chairs, bags, lamps, clothes, train sets, broken toys, lumber, and other unidentifiable objects that nearly reach the roof of the basement. With each step, I feel like I’m immersing myself in a sea used as a landfill, with a growing confusion on how much stuff is actually underneath the house.
I reach the floor of the basement, take one step, and immediately trip on a box.
“Watch where you’re going. Look, I even made a path from here to the stairs,” says my father, pointing at the small trail lined by walls of useless junk.
“Yea, I see it,” I say, picking myself up from the floor.
“Now make yourself helpful,” says Dad, walking to another section of our personal little landfill.
I look down at the box, a pile of unused, white towels that are now sullied with the grime and dirt of the basement floor. I pick up the pile and stuff them back in the box, noticing that “Alex” was embroidered onto each one. This was weird to me, since I was an only child, and my name was Casie, not Alex.
“Oh, look what you found!” says my mother, while coming down the stairs.
“Whose is this?”
“Well, these were supposed to be yours, but your aunt Meredie – you know how she is – she thought that we were going to name you Alex, and gave this to us at your baby shower.” My mother sighs. “Thankfully, she didn’t do it herself. I think she found some people near her town to make them.”
“Do you think we should donate it?” I ask.
“Wait, let me see!” Dad yells from the corner. He navigates through the trail with perfect precision.
Dad looks at the towels, letting out an occasional “oh!” and “hmm”.
“I think you should keep this,” he says. “It’s something that’s meant for you.”
“It doesn’t have my name on it.”
“Alright, but what if you want to have a keepsake from your aunt when she passes?”
“Jesus, dad. That’s your own sister.”
“I know, but we’re both not going to be here forever. Remember that Grandma passed away just a month ago.” He puts all the towels in the box, handing it to me. “You better keep this. That’s going to mean something someday.”
Dad walks off into the deep end of the basement, seemingly disappearing behind the piles. I turn to look at my mother, who’s doing her signature downwards head tilt at dad.
“That kind of thinking is the reason why we have to clean up all this mess,” says Mom.
I chuckle. She stole the words right out of my mouth. I head up the stairs and out of the basement.
“Oh, trash is to your left, and donations are going to be on your right,” says mom, right behind me. “If you’re going to put something in the trash pile, put it in a trash bag.”
I pause on the steps, stare at the box in front of me, then continue walking upstairs. As soon as I reach outside, I’m greeted by a couple of black bags to my left, and a huge pile to my right. Despite all the broken stuff in the basement, the pile on the right is much larger than the one on the left. I sigh, and place the box in the donation pile, making sure to balance it so it doesn’t slide off.
“Casie! Come down here!”
I turn around, and head down the basement. I’m met with my father pointing at a corner, obstructed by a large wooden display case by the stairs. I peek over even further, seeing a dry erase whiteboard, some unused LED light strips, a few bags, a backpack, and more – all old stuff from college that I forgot to get rid of.
“See? I’m not the only one who has things here! You guys make it seem like this is all my mess.”
“Most of the stuff in here is yours,” says mom.
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make here.” He sighs, and starts walking towards his pile of baseball memorabilia, at the other corner of the basement.
I grab a trash bag and start stuff from the pile into the bag. Markers, dirty erasers, burnt candles, and plenty of other junk falls victim to the trash bag jail. I clean up most of the pile, and stop to stare at the gray backpack I used for college. I don’t really want to open it. Not because I didn’t like college – college was pretty fun-, but rather I didn’t really want to think what embarrassing stuff was in it. I push the backpack to the side, stare at it, then open it up.
Inside, I find notebooks, notes, papers, and some of the journals I’ve kept. I pick up one of them, removing the strap that prevents it from opening. I open it, looking at the first page. It’s titled “Study of The Borderline Bisexually Polar”. I don’t know who I was fooling with that title, I never was diagnosed with anything, guess I was trying to be funny. I skim through the pages, and find a page, marked on November 11th 1:22 am, talking about being potentially ill, for “not being able to love correctly”. What was past-me thinking about then? Oh right, this was right after I broke up with that one girl who was, frankly, too much to deal with all at once, especially between the constant threats that she would hurl, both at me and herself. I flip over to the next page, which is about me freaking out when she jumped off a two story window the day after we broke up. Thankfully, she only broke her leg, and used to stroll around in a weird support scooter.
I skip a few pages, and stop on an entry on February 10th, 10:15 pm. Seems like a normal rant. Past-me complains about teachers, bad cafeteria food, weed smell in the dorms, the usual. I read ahead, stopping when past-me talks about playing Dark Souls for the first time. Fun game, but I didn’t keep on playing it after I beat it, unlike my roommate at the time. I flip through a few pages, and land on February 14th, 10:07 am. I get a wringing feeling in my stomach, but I don’t quite remember what happened that day. I continue reading, going on and on about buying this beautiful boutique for Caroline, one of my friends from college.
I closed the journal. I didn’t want to continue to read and embarrass myself again. At least, not here. If my parents shouldn’t know something, it’s that one incident, no matter how hard I cried the weeks after.
I hear dad grunting, and turn around to see him trying to lift a box using his back. I shake my head.
“Dad! I told you you’re going to break your back like that!”
“Yeah yeah,” he says, dropping the box.
“Don’t ‘yeah yeah’ me, you’re the one constantly complaining about back pain!”
He looks over at my mother, who raises her eyebrows in the “I told you so” way. I put the journal in my jacket pocket, then step over some knocked over boxes. I show him how to properly pick up a box using one’s legs, and not the back.
I throw the last bag of trash into the left pile, which has thankfully grown a bit more compared to a few hours ago. I sigh in relief, looking up to see stars slowly popping up bit by bit.
“Now,” dad says. “Are you going to help us put this pile in the trash?”
I stare at him with my mouth slightly open.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Dad looks up at the sky. “I suppose it is getting dark.” He looks back at me. “Why don’t you stay over tonight? We didn’t get the chance to make dinner, but we can order Chinese, just like old days?”
I smile, then pull my jacket tight. “Maybe tomorrow. I didn’t bring any pajamas or anything with me.”
“Are you sure sweetie? I think we have some of your old ones here,” says mom.
“Yeah, they probably wouldn’t fit me anyways.”
“Alright then. Just remember, 9:30 sharp!” Says dad.
“Of course, I won’t forget this time.”
I give mom and dad a hug, and walk to my car. I lean back in my chair and sigh. I pull out my old journal and look at it. I would’ve thought that it’d be at least another few years before I started looking back to my college years, but then again, there’s a lot of things to miss. I won’t be missing the towels, that’s for sure, but maybe there’ll be something else that’ll spark some memories once more.
I put my car on drive, and take a look at my parent’s house on the hill, the one I’ve come back to many times, the one that I hope to keep going to from now on. I do like living alone for the most part, but sometimes maybe it’s good to keep in touch with the past.
I smile, putting the journal in the passenger seat. There’s so much I haven’t read, so much that I should continue to remember. I just hope I don’t have to drink the rest of that vodka.
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