The Opposite Of Tidy (27 page)

Lunch dragged on and on as people wandered by, hamming it up for the camera, talking in not-so-hushed whispers about Junie’s mom.

Compulsive hoarder, like, mountains and mountains of junk.

Filthy . . . they say she hasn’t showered in years.

Dead cats all over the place.

I heard there’s a foot-deep swamp of shit in the basement
.

She sits in diapers all day so she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom.

“Dead cats? Where do they get this stuff?” Tabitha said, exasperated. She spun, and hollered at the nearest gawkers, “Get out of here! You guys don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, so scram!”

But they didn’t. They just laughed some more and stayed put, hoping the camera would swing their way.

Halfway through lunch, the PA system crackled on and Junie was summoned to the principal’s office. That was just what she needed. The whole cafeteria erupted with a chorus of, “
Ooohs.”
Junie dropped her head into her hands.

“This day cannot possibly get any worse.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Tabitha said.

This made Junie laugh, kind of a desperate, strangled laugh. “How can you say that? With everything going on, how can you say that? For all I know Kendra herself could be waiting for me.”

But it wasn’t Kendra. It was Junie’s father, his cheeks red and eyes ablaze. “I have to hear about this from the news? The goddamned
news
?”

“It’s kind of old news, Dad. Where were you last night? Or this morning?”

He blushed slightly. “Evelyn and I were doing a silent retreat.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going anywhere.”

“We didn’t. We were at home.” He aimed an angry finger at Bob. “Turn that thing off. You do not have my permission to film me or my daughter.”

Bob, to Junie’s amazement, lowered the camera. “Parents have veto power,” he explained in response to Junie’s astonishment. “Didn’t know there was a father in the picture. Falconetti’s going to be pissed,” he said to Nikolai. “Might have to scrap all the stuff we got today.”

“Oh no, say it isn’t so!” Junie’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Might just mean we have to come back,” Bob warned as he and Nikolai made their way out of the office. The principal excused herself too, so Junie and her father could talk privately.

“What do you mean you didn’t go anywhere?” Junie asked once she had her father to herself.

“We do the retreats at home. Once a month or so. Reset. Recharge. Renew.”

“That has ‘Evelyn’ written all over it. Her idea, right?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Her dad steered her out of the office and out the front door, where his car was parked at the curb. “It’s a very healthy thing. We turn off the cellphones and TV and the radio and don’t go on the Internet. We have a nice meal and a bath with essential oils—”

“TMI, Dad.” Junie held up her hand. He gave her a confused look. “Too much information. Spare me.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be.” Junie threw her bag into the back seat and climbed into the front. “The only good thing I
can think of about your weird silent retreat is the thought of Evelyn not speaking.”

“Junie!” Her dad spun in his seat. “Enough!”

Junie was taken aback. “What?”

Her father gripped the steering wheel and glared straight ahead. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I have absolutely had it with you bad-mouthing Evelyn. No more. I won’t have it. Especially not with everything else going on. Understood?”

Junie pushed her inner nasty bitch out of the way. She knew when she was pushing it too far with her dad, and this was one of those times. “Sorry.”

He started the car. After a long moment, he spoke. “It pains me to say it, but I don’t think you’re sorry at all. I’m sad that you’re not more empathetic toward others.”

For a brief moment, Junie felt a deep, aching shame. But then it flipped, and she was just plain mad again. “Dad?”

“Junie.”

“How about you don’t ask me to be empathetic about the woman who broke my parents up and I’ll just stop talking about her altogether.” She managed to make the words come out calmly, which she was grateful for. “Deal?”

There was another long pause, during which—Junie was pretty sure—her dad was choosing his own words just as carefully.

“Fair enough. Deal.”

They drove a few blocks without saying anything more, until Junie’s curiosity got the better of her. “Where are we going?”

“My place.”

But Junie didn’t want to go there. Because That Woman would be there. Her father, knowing that was what she was thinking, added, “She’s working.”

On breaking up another family, likely.

“Oh,” was all Junie said, to avoid saying anything worse. Another long silence. “Can we drive past the house?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah.”

There were only three media vans out front today, now that Kendra herself had left. The Got Junk trunks were parked in the driveway. There were three of them, and all three were already half full.

“That’s good!” Junie leaned forward, her mood suddenly brighter. “Look at how much she’s gotten rid of already!”

Her father slowed in front of the house. When he stopped, Junie opened her door.

“Junie, wait!” her father called after her. “I don’t want you involved in this!”

But Junie ignored him and ran across the lawn to the front door. She found her mom in the dining room, surrounded by a fortress of file boxes, a tall, slender man beside her, a camera crew behind them, filming.

“Hey, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“Not if you want me to survive this. It was terrible. I might never go back.”

“Well, we’ll talk about it later,” her mother said. “Missing one afternoon isn’t the end of the world.” She gestured at the man beside her. “This is Nigel. Nigel, this is my daughter, Juniper.”

She didn’t need to introduce him. Anyone who’d watched
The Kendra Show
on a regular basis would know exactly who he was: the polished-for-TV psychiatrist Kendra brought in to deal with the worst cases. He was dressed in a smart-looking suit, with narrow pinstriped pants and a matching vest. No jacket. The sleeves of his pressed shirt were folded up in neat sections. He wore disposable gloves on what looked like quite small hands for a man of his height.

“Nigel Carley, psychiatrist.” His posh British accent sounded very out of place, considering the squalor surrounding him.

“Juniper Rawley, daughter. You can call me Junie.” “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you, I guess.”

Junie scanned the room. Despite the loaded trucks outside, it didn’t look as though anything was happening inside. If anything, it looked worse. What had once been disorderly but compact stacks and piles were now all undone and in shambles as her mother sorted through them.

“I’ll be working with your mother for the week. We’re going to be aggressively addressing her situation. Her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and hoarding in particular.”

He was speaking for the camera, obviously.

“Obsessive what?”

“OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s a mental disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that result in severe anxiety, which leads the person to perform ritualized behaviours in order to reduce the anxiety.” He sounded as if he were reading from a textbook.

Junie glanced at the cameras, wishing they would spontaneously combust. She placed a protective hand on her mother’s arm. “You’re saying my mom’s mental?”

“It’s okay, Junie. He’s explained it all to me, too.”

“Not ‘mental.’ Not at all in the way that you’re thinking.” Nigel smiled at her. It was a genuine smile, too, not fake or condescending, like when Evelyn St. Claire tried to do the same. “But she does—you do, Marla, suffer from OCD, and that is, in fact, a genuine mental disorder.”

Before Junie could ask any more questions, her father showed up behind them.

“What the hell is going on, Marla?”

“It’s not really any of your business, now, is it?” Her mother turned to Nigel. “This is my ex-husband, Ron.”

“Ron.” Nigel pulled off his glove and held out his hand. Junie’s father didn’t shake it, just glared at Nigel instead. “Pleased to meet you, Ron. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Not a question. An order. Get the cameras out of here.”

“If that’s what needs to happen to make you feel comfortable, we can do that for now.” Nigel sent them out of the room with a wave. “There. Now what’s on your mind, Ron?”

“I want everyone out of here, that’s what!” Junie’s dad
took a step forward and tripped on a garden hose. “This is still my house, and I haven’t given anyone permission to be here. So out. Go, and clear everyone else out with you.”

“Let’s take a minute to talk this out, Ron.” Nigel’s voice was smooth, but not too smooth. “Can I explain how this works?”

“This? What is ‘this,’ exactly?”

And so Nigel explained about how Junie’s mother had contacted them, and how the intervention was going to work. They’d be there a week, all expenses carried by the show. Junie’s mother would get help. The house would get in order.

“That can only be a good thing,” Nigel finished. “Don’t you think?”

“Please don’t ruin this for me, Ron.” Her mother’s voice was shaky. Junie looked at her. She held a plastic grocery bag full of old bills in each trembling hand. “This is going to make things better. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Better?” Ron swept his arm wide. “You think a week is going to fix this?” He turned to Nigel. “What you don’t know about my wife is that this is the product of years of dysfunction. Decades! You think you can fix her in a week when I couldn’t fix her in seventeen years?”

“I do.”

“You do? How can you—?”

“The difference is that now she is ready.” Junie was rapt. She could listen to Nigel say pretty much anything and it would sound exquisitely right. “The difference is that we have endless resources available to us. The differences are vast, and should not be brushed aside.”

Ron paused. Junie could see that he had been swayed, if only just enough. For better or for worse, she wasn’t sure.

“I don’t have to be on the show, though.”

“I think we can arrange for that.”

“Because I don’t want to be on the show. Not even for a second. Not even in a background shot. Is that clear?”

“As a bell.”

Charlie strode into the room, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. “This is the ex?”

“Charlie, this is Ron Rawley, Marla’s estranged husband and Junie’s father.”

“Sign this.” She thrust the clipboard at him. Junie winced. Not a smart move.

Her dad glanced at it before flinging it at her feet. “I’m not going to be on your salacious little talk show, so you can shove that release form right up your ass, lady.”

“Ron!” Junie’s mother flung the bills down with a flourish. “Don’t talk to her that way.”

“It’s all right, Marla,” Charlie said, her eyes on Junie’s dad. “Mr. Rawley makes his own decisions. We can do the show without him. From the sounds of it, he’s not been in the picture for quite some time now anyway.”

“Let’s go, Dad.” Junie tugged on her father’s sleeve.

He glared at Charlie. “Just what are you insinuating?”

“You left your family.” Charlie shrugged. “You don’t have much say in what goes on here now.”

“This is still my house.”

“Meh, any reasonable judge would award it to the wife and child you left behind.” Charlie sounded even more
New York, if that was possible. “Or should I say ex-wife. Whatever.”

Before her dad could erupt again, Nigel stepped between him and Charlie, reaching a manicured hand toward each of them.

“Let’s take a minute to collect our thoughts.”

“No thank you,” Junie’s dad barked. He grabbed Junie’s hand. “We’re getting out of here. Junie can come back when it’s over.”

“What?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “No way, she’s part of the show. Nigel,” she aimed a finger at him, “make him understand. The kid is a big hook. We need her. We can sacrifice the dad, but Kendra will flip if the daughter is out. She’ll totally pull the show. We already talked about it when the daughter was putting up her own fuss. Make this issue go away, Nigel. Do your magic.”

Pull the show? Jargon or not, Junie could figure out what that meant easily enough. Cancel it. Stop the intervention. Leave.

Her dad was physically dragging Junie toward the front door. “Come on, Junie. Enough of this crap. Let’s get out of here. And you vultures can talk to my lawyer if you have anything more to say to me. Good luck with your fifteen minutes of fame, Marla. The extraordinary squalidness of it particularly suits you.”

“Ron! Come back!” Junie’s mother yelled after them. Junie could hear Nigel murmuring to her. But her mother kept yelling. “You can’t take her! You can’t take her, Ron!”

The camera crew was getting all of this, because while they’d left the dining room, they had only gone as far as the
living room. They aimed their cameras on the scene now, and Junie’s father was too absorbed in his exit to notice.

“Oh yeah?” he hollered over his shoulder. “If I don’t take her, then Social Services will. Because you are an unfit mother, Marla! A friggin’ mess! I’ve been nice enough until now, giving you time to get your life together. And you haven’t! So now it goes to the courts. And who do you think will win custody? Me! That’s who! Sole custody! Because you are a sick, filthy woman living in a sick, filthy house. And I won’t stand it any more. Our daughter deserves better!”