Faucet Envy

I parked my car on the property adjacent to Mom's house. I stepped out, closed the door gently so as not to make any obvious noise, and then stealthily made my way through the woods, channeling Audrey Hepburn in my tight black attire. Branches crackled and leaves crunched beneath my feet. Tensions were rising.

As I approached the house I saw that the driveway was clear. Good. No one was home. No one to tangle with. No one to stand in the way of what was about to go down.

I tore away a corner of the deer-resistant netting encasing the property. Crouching, I slinked my body through the newly formed opening. Revisiting my childhood home, I ought to have been feeling nostalgia. But having been banished from this home in recent years, approaching it I was overcome with a flood of emotions: anxiety, alienation, fear, sorrow -- plus the adrenaline rush that comes with any feat of daring.

The front door of the upstairs apartment would surely be locked, but I figured the living room window on the left would still slide open. The latch on that window had always been broken and I doubted it had been fixed. Yeah, that was how I got in one time when I had accidentally locked myself out. How different things were back then.

Up the stairs, across the deck, a shimmy over the railing to the living room window I went. One deep breath, followed by a simple slide to the left was all it took. The window opened and I was in.

Three years. Three long years had passed, ones filled with pain and the unshakable emptiness of life without my mom in it, and now I was back in the place where it had all began. My eyes scanned the room. This is what cost me -- and lost me -- so much?

All of a sudden I noticed something. Actually, what I noticed was nothing. My entire kitchen -- cabinets, countertop, sink, stove, refrigerator -- was gone.

I can't believe it. That she-devil Pam gutted my kitchen! Nice choice, Mom. Out of all the lesbians in Woodstock to have fallen for you picked one fine bitch.

Oh no -- if the kitchen is gone, what about my beautiful faucet? My lovely, gorgeous... pride and joy. Please don't let the bathroom be gutted, too.

Approaching the bathroom, my sense of dread increased with every step. Just outside the door a full-length mirror lay shattered on the floor. I tiptoed over the splay of glass shards as I made my way in. Sigh of relief: the bathroom was still intact. And there I saw my cherished faucet, gleaming proudly through the mess, waiting patiently to be rescued by me.

What was that you called me? Crazy? Obsessive? Seriously weird?

It's ridiculous, I admit, that after all I've been through, after all I've lost, pining for three years over a faucet definitely sounds odd. But I just couldn't stop thinking about it. The beautiful Kohler faucet (ironically from their "Memoirs" line) was a luxury item I had purchased for the apartment that was never given back to me. So now I was going to take it back for myself.

I tried to unscrew one of its handles with my pliers but it wouldn't budge. Neither would the other. Damn. How does this thing come undone? The voice of reason inside my head kept pushing, Hurry up, Laura! Make it snappy. You know Pam wouldn't take kindly to finding you here, so get the faucet and get your ass outta there. This isn't a place to be lollygagging around.

Further attempts to release the faucet were to no avail. I stared at it and thought intently. Maybe it unscrews from underneath? Not caring that the floor was filthy, I plunked myself down and wedged my body between the sink's pedestal and the wall so I could view the faucet from underneath. From there I spotted two large wing nuts that seemed to be what was securing it in place. I tried with all of my might to unscrew them, but for the life of me I couldn't get either to budge. There has to be another way.

Don't you worry, beautiful faucet. Just like Arnold says, "I'll be back."

Despite the risks of my continuing to lurk about, before leaving I decided to take a look around the rest of property.

I walked down the stone steps leading to the trailer. (A cool 1950s Vagabond trailer came with the property when Mom purchased it years ago.) The outside of the trailer looked in the worst state I had ever seen it. It was dirty and decrepit, the paint was peeling off in giant scales, and its charm was gone. Too bad. It used to have great character. When I was a kid I loved hanging out in the trailer. I fixed it up all nice. When I was in high school I had quite the scandalous make-out session with a guy in the trailer. "Scandalous" because my friend Carol was in it as well. The guy kissed me, turned and kissed Carol, then back to me and so forth. Carol and I never kissed, but that little rendezvous was the closest I've ever been to being with a girl. Now Mom, on the other hand -- we can't exactly say the same for her. More on that later.

I pried open the trailer's warped front door. Boxes were piled up everywhere, and bags of miscellaneous stuff were strewn about. A spider scurried along its way. Eyeing the dusty, musty mess with disgust, I spotted a box that read "Mom's Cookbooks" in my handwriting. I remembered when I had packed up that box for Mom. It was three summers ago, in July, when I had helped her with this big organizing project. Back in July things were fine, but August brought the beginning of the downward spiral that leveled everything.

Rummaging through the box, I came upon The Cake Bible. I had lent Mom that book when she was planning to bake desserts for Pam's new restaurant. Sorry Mom, this is my book and I'm taking it back. It's just collecting dust here anyway.

Surrounded by their boxes of things and too many unpleasant memories, suddenly it felt claustrophobic in there. I had to get out and away from it all. I stepped outside for some fresh air.

There's a round, fenced-in garden at the foot of the trailer. This was Mom's favorite garden of the many that were on the property. Throughout my growing up, every year she grew tomatoes and a bounty of fragrant herbs in this garden. And raspberries. We mustn't forget the raspberries. With little effort the raspberry bushes really thrived down here. I used to help Mom put netting over them so the birds wouldn't get to the precious, ripe berries before we had a chance to pick them.

The garden was completely overgrown. Seeing it in this state struck a deep chord of sadness in me, for one of Mom's greatest joys was tending to her gardens. She endured the harsh, snowy winters up the mountain, holding out each year for the day the weather turned warm so she could dally about in her gardens for hours on end. Many summer days she would be out until dark, working the soil and nurturing her crops. From the looks of this garden Mom hadn't touched it in ages. And only recently had she left.

Speaking of which, I had better get out of here!