ALLERGIES

(Artwork By: Erryn Edwards)

I use my sleeves to wipe the sweat from my forehead, sighing at the state of the cupboard in front of me. Earlier today, my mother asked me to clear out my stuff from my old bedroom, which she is planning on turning into a guest room. But we never have visitors, I had almost let slip out but had held back and simply nodded. She has been nagging me about my quips and sarcasm and so I cannot really afford to dig that hole any deeper.

Eighteen-year-old me had not been organized in putting her things into the almirah. Clothes, books, stuffed toys and odd items that have no place in the cupboard have been crammed into a small space, with no breathing room. This is what my panic attacks feel like, I remark to no one in particular. Four cardboard boxes are strewn about on the floor, waiting to be filled with remnants of my childhood and stowed away in a storage room no one really opens. I grab as many items as I can and plop them into Box 1. It takes two more rounds to fill it completely and I tape it up before my mother notices that my organization skills haven't changed. After pushing the box to the lobby of the house, I return to pack the next box and notice a piece of paper lying on the floor. I grab it and turn it around to see a picture I had forgotten existed. It must have been taken when I was six or seven; I am standing in front of a villa, smiling widely at the camera (or at the person clicking the picture), not self-conscious about the two missing front teeth. From what I remember, this picture was clicked when my mother and I went house-hunting and both of us fell in love with the house in the picture, eventually putting down a deposit on it and moving in a year later. My mother had liked that it was in a good neighbourhood and close to her workplace; I had been overjoyed by the swing in the backyard. The house in the picture looks freshly painted; a lot of the paint has now peeled over, giving it a worn, lived-in appearance.

I keep the picture on one of the pillows on the bed and continue boxing up my stuff. It takes me only thirty minutes to get everything out and into the storage room, including the items on the side table and on the windowsill. I only leave behind the wilting plant, disappointed no one bothered to water it. It feels strange, to find that packing up everything from my childhood took so little time, eighteen years’ worth of stuff disappearing faster than you can say Worcestershire sauce. I sit cross-legged on the bed, the only part of the room not stripped bare, and look around the room. It feels like I am about to move-in, and not move-out. Well, I moved out six years ago, but I suppose as long as my things were in the room, part of me was still there as well. I gaze at the photograph on the left pillow and feel the urge to say something to the little girl in it.

“Sometimes, I wish I was young again. Not always. Not everything that happened when I was you was good. But some of it was and now I don’t even have that.” After we had looked at the house, my mother and I had gone to McDonald’s for lunch. I don’t remember exactly what I ate, but there must have been a pizza puff involved. “The McDonald’s where I live now doesn’t taste half as good as the one I went to then. It is expensive and they don’t even sell pizza puffs anymore. The coffee tastes watered-down and bitter.”

After lunch, we had gone back to our rented flat and taken our Sunday afternoon nap, which was a tradition we followed well into my teens. “Naps are not really a thing anymore. Especially afternoon ones. If I sleep during the afternoon, I cannot sleep at night, despite all the sleeping pills I take. When I was you, I didn’t even have to read a story to fall asleep. I would just nod off while watching television or gazing at the ceiling fan, and mom would carry me back to bed.” I smile at the memory, the scent of my mother’s perfume and the warmth of her arms. “I haven’t been embraced by mom like that in years. Or at least it doesn’t feel the same. Why did I want to grow up so quickly? Why did I want to mature and leave the house? I grew up and left and now, even when I come back, it feels like I am a visitor, not a permanent resident of the house.”

“The other day, I was making an omelette. I couldn’t turn on the stove and had to call mom from the other room for help. She shook her head at me and turned the knob in the direction opposite to what I was trying. The flames appeared within two seconds. She told me she changed the stove a few weeks before I came back home because this model was easier to use and more energy efficient. I stared at her and felt a little lost. You probably think I am being silly, rambling about a stove. I don’t know, it felt so strange feeling lost in the kitchen where I grew up.”

I had a test at school the day after the house viewing. I remember because I had finished preparing for it before we went to see the house. As with any test for children in primary school, I probably did just okay, and it was sufficient. “Tests are so odd. A piece of paper with a bunch of questions that you must answer correctly, because the alternative is being deemed stupid. But when I was younger, the good thing about tests was that each A+ was met with praise and celebration. Now, that excitement has disappeared. Doing a good job at work is just that – it is a good job, but it hardly ever earns praise. Nobody really cares about it. Mom doesn’t really ask about my work projects and how they are going. It is adult stuff; it is my stuff to deal with. So, I have to suffice with my colleagues congratulating me, when I know they hate that I did something well. I suppose some things never change.”

Was this picture taken the same year I fell down the stairs of the apartment building? I cried so loudly my mom heard it from balcony of our flat. She rushed down and took me in her arms, kissing me all over my face and smacking the stairwell for hurting me. “I am sorry you are about to go through the pain of a badly scraped knee and sprained ankle. Now, when I fall sick, I have to nurse myself back to health. I miss home and I miss being taken care of. But what is strange is that even when I am back here, as I am now, it doesn’t feel the same. When I fall down, I still have to clean the wound myself. If I have a cold, it is my responsibility to eat the right medicines. It almost makes me feel like as an adult, you never really win.”

“It is so silly. When I am not home, I want to be home. When I am home, I want to leave. I feel nostalgic and homesick, but when I come back, I still feel like I haven’t returned to the place I seek. You probably don’t get it. You still want to leave home. When you turn 13, you will want to leave even more. By 16, you would be sick of the house, the people who live in it and yourself. By 18, you will feel hopeful again, because you would be close to freedom. And once you leave, you will never really come back. Which sounds wonderful at first, until the horror of it becomes reality.”

I get so caught up in talking, I don’t realize I am crying. Usually when I cry, it is silent and repressed. Today, however, it feels uncontrolled. I am gasping for breath and clutching the fabric of my t-shirt. I want my mom. I want her to hug me, to rock me, to tell me it is okay. I don’t want to fight with her anymore. I want her to ask me if I am okay, and not assume I am because I plaster a smile on my face. I want her to see through the mask. I want her to tell me it is okay to show my emotions, that it is okay to feel. “Please, hold me,” I croak. But no one does, so I wrap my arms around myself and curl up on the bed. At some point, I pass out of exhaustion.

***

When I wake up, I find the room lit up with sunshine. I lay there for a few minutes, still holding the photograph tightly. Once I feel ready to get up, I slip the picture under the duvet and venture out, almost colliding with my mother. “Why are your eyes red? Were you up till five again, watching reels on your phone?”

I ignore her comment and say, “Allergies. The dust in the cupboard really got to me.” She presses her lips into a thin line, “You should have cleaned the dust with an old cloth.”

She turns to go back to her room and even though last night was the longest I have slept in months, I do not have the energy to call out after her and say, “But Ma, I don’t have dust allergies. But you knew that, right? So why didn’t you say something?”