The Old Frigidaire

(Light, She, Maid)

The light spread wide on the pale dirty linoleum as the sun slowly filled the kitchen. There have only been two mornings in my life that I have not eaten breakfast at this small table and watched the sun creep across the floor all the way to the old yellow Frigidaire. It was odd to think that this would possibly be my last. I smiled as the sunlight touched my cherry kool aid stain in the middle of the floor, one of my fondest memories of my mom and one of my first in life.

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I was about four and wanted some kool-aid but my mom and dad were arguing so I was too scared to ask. They argued a lot. It's all I remember of my dad really, that and his drinking both of which I knew better than to get in the middle of. I set my Speed Racer cup on the floor and attempted to get some kool-aid. The Frigidaire was my grandmas, it was strong and sturdy like her. I had to grip the handle with both hands and press my foot on the cupboard for leverage to pop the seal. My dad's beers clinged and clanged when the door swung open, I leaned in and hugged the cold pitcher. Despite how slowly I walked to my cup, droplets splashed at my toes. I remember bending to pour it because I knew I couldn’t loosen my bear hug without dropping the whole pitcher.

A laugh creeps out of my smile as I remember trying to put the pitcher back in the fridge, with some determination I succeeded. Pride filled my little body as I used all my weight to close the door, making the bottles rattle again. I turned around with a little jump and slipped on one of my droplets causing me to kick my cup. It twirled and teetered a bit before it tipped over spilling bright red drink in an almost perfect circle around my blue Speed Racer cup. All the pride I was feeling disappeared and panic took its place. I was terrified of being in trouble, I wasn’t allowed to help myself to things in the kitchen, I wasn’t allowed to be in there alone at all in fact. I feared the worst when my mom came into the room. There were tears in her eyes and a look of worry on her face. She sniffled and asked me what had happened, I sobbed out an explanation, feeling as embarrassed as fearful.

Although this is one of my first memories in my life it is one of the last where my mother showed me true patience and affection. She knelt down beside me, placing one hand on my back. She used her pointing finger from the other to draw a smiley face in the puddle.

“Whether it’s spilled milk or kool-aid baby girl there’s no use crying over it, just smile and clean it up. Life is full of messes, be happy when all they take is a Brawny'' I smiled and jumped to get a paper towel. We cleaned up the spill but could still see the red ring.”Some messes leave stains or scars but those are just lil reminders to be more careful.”

She scooped me up and set me in my seat. I watched as she tossed the towels in the trash can and rinsed my cup. My Mom was a tall woman, not only to me at four years old but in general for a woman. She was five foot ten, taller than the Fridge. Her reddish brown hair flowed down her slender back and stopped around her hip, I can’t picture her with anything but that smooth sheet of rusty sheen. Her hair was made all the more vibrant by her pale skin and light green nearly pastel eyes. I wondered if I would look anything like her when I grew up but I knew I looked more like my dad.

My dad was much more common looking than my mom, he blended in with so many other dad’s at five foot seven with black hair and blue eyes. His hair was that medium mens cut that was long enough to hug his ears but not wrap under them. I twirled my hair in between my thumb and index finger, pulling it out in front of my face to look at it. It wasn't quite black but it certainly wasn’t the color of my mom's flowing locks.

I jumped in my seat at the sound of the fridge swinging shut. The bottles banged so hard I imagined them breaking and exploding beer all over the potato salad mom made for the 4th of July picnic, I thought about how only grown ups would be able to eat it now. But I didn’t get to play with that silly thought for long. My mom had returned with a fresh cup of kool-aid, she ran her hand through my hair and let it fall down my back. I loved that feeling, fingers running through my thin hair tickling my scalp just a tiny bit before sliding off the ends, then for it to be followed by a warm hand on my small framed back, it made me feel safe and loved. I never knew that such a feeling would become so special because it would also become so rare.

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Shaking my head I refocused on my task at hand. The beat up laptop sat still staring me in the face, I stared back with contempt at the same image it had been on for hours. It was the login screen for my mothers user profile. The cursor blinked in the empty field marked “PASSWORD”. I pointlessly placed my fingers and thumbs in the proper typing position, left index on the letter F and right index on the letter J. My pinky darted uselessly to the shift key and back, again and again, I had no clue what the password was let alone if it would need capitalizing.

I let out a heavy sigh and slumped my shoulders. Why was it so hard to figure out what her password might have been? I knew nearly everything about her, not only because she raised me but because I had spent the last three years acting as her caretaker. How do I not know what she would have used as a password? Every morning this week I have attempted enough entries to lock it for 24hrs. I wasn’t sure how many more times I could lock the account before it locked for good. I thought about trying to do the account recovery but knew if I couldn’t figure out her password the likelihood of me knowing any of the recovery info was slim. I was almost out of time though, these were my last few attempts before I would be locked out until tomorrow morning, which would be too late.

"Food" I said out loud to no one but myself. My stress was only surpassed by my grief and between the two my appetite had all but disappeared so self reminders were necessary. "I should eat."

Opening the door to the old Frigidaire was no longer difficult, no leverage was needed to retrieve the carton of milk. The top was now reachable without dragging a chair over to climb on, making the box of cereal easy to grab. I pushed the laptop back and sat down with my breakfast trying to put the password out of my mind for the moment. My thoughts easily shifted to the silence. The only sound was that of my chewing and the occasional ting of my spoon against the bowl. The sound of the spoon brought on another memory, this time triggering instead of tender.

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After my dad left, my mother became spiteful and mean to me as though him abandoning us was my fault. Everything I did irritated her. Looking back now I think it may have had something to do with how similar he and I were as well. Not just physically but also in mannerisms, like how we ate.

"Is it impossible for you to eat without clinking your fork like that? I don’t see how you have to make so much noise ALL the time.” Her voice was always so sharp when she spoke to me.

“I’m sorry, the spaghetti keeps sliding, I’m not meaning to.” I spent so much of my time as a child apologizing for simply existing.

“It’s cuz you keep tryin to scoop it like it ain’t noodles.” She held her fork up at me signaling for me to watch as she then stabbed it into the plate making a noise louder than all my clinks put together.

“You gotta put the fork in and then twist it so the noodles wrap around it. I swear sometimes you’re as dumb as your father.” She shoved the fork full of spaghetti into her mouth.

“Okay." I stuck the tip of the fork into what was left of my dinner.

At this point I wasn't even hungry anymore. The stress of struggling to hold the prongs deep enough for the noodles to twist around but not touch the plate at all was strenuous to the point my hand shook. I managed to capture a few silent bites and nearly clear my plate. I gently set my fork down and took a drink of water, the drink became a couple gulps, washing down the food and the anxiety. Once finished I instinctively let out a satisfied sound, the cliche 'aaahh' seen in the soda commercials. My satisfaction was severed short by the sting of a smack to the back of my head.

"Damn you can't help but be over the top with everything." She stood up and began to leave. "I'm going to watch TV in my room. Make sure you put the leftovers in the Frigidaire and do the dishes." I could hear her muttering more meanness under her breath as she walked away.

I was 9 I think. Far too young to know how to advocate for myself but old enough to have defensive and defiant thoughts be all that flowed through my mind as I cleaned the kitchen most nights. I felt like her punching bag and maid, not her child. In fact it seemed like the only time she treated me decently was when we were in public but it was just for show. Like the pictures she put on the Frigidaire, pictures that were still there even now.

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I looked over at them, how she had them so neatly framed and presented like a small gallery. We never had company, there weren't ever any visitors to appreciate this mini museum of false memories. The picture of us together at some chain restaurant was my most hated. It was my fourteenth birthday, I sat at a table with a glowing cake in front of me lighting up my fake smile filled face. She was standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders and had a much more convincing smile. What the picture doesn’t show is how hard she was squeezing me. My initial closed mouth smile wasn't acceptable so she had the waitress take another photo and told me to smile like I ‘meant it’. But I almost never meant it. She robbed the joy from nearly every one of those moments.

Something came over me, a flush of rage, my breathing became heavy and hard. Anger was filling my body, a flood of all the times she hurt me came back into my mind. She stole my whole life from me, filled me with anxiety and drained me of all my youthful positivity. She made me hate myself for never being enough or always being too much. How the two were simultaneously possible I don’t know but she managed it. My heart pounded against my ribs and my blood began to feel like fire. How dare she take my childhood from me! Before I even realized it I had grabbed my cereal bowl and thrown it against the old Fridgidare.

The shattering noise was accompanied by a stomach wrenching scream. I was panting, my chest heaving with every breath and somehow I was now standing up. I looked around at the scene, broken bits of ceramic were scattered everywhere like shrapnel. Sticky sugar saturated milk and soggy squares of cinnamon toast crunch splattered against the Frigidaire. Shame started to set in and smother the anger. I rushed over to save the phony photos I was just cursing.

The frames were made of styrofoam, poster board and magnets. My mother crafted them to match the pictures they held. The first I pulled down to clean was the one from the aquarium where we were pretending to be scared of the shark behind us. The frame was made to look like waves of water. I used a paper towel to wipe off the frame and set it on the chair closest to me. I took more care and time to wipe off the photo since it was from my seventh birthday and over ten years old. With each one I took down I found myself spending more and more time appreciating the work she put into the frames and even more time making sure not to damage the photos that suddenly meant so much to me. I felt so ashamed of the mess I had made.

“Life is full of messes, be happy when all it takes is a Brawny.” I heard her voice as if she was beside me.

After almost an entire roll of paper towels all the pictures were cleaned and neatly stacked. I hadn't originally planned on taking them with me but knew I couldn't leave them now. The only photo that hadn't suffered damage was the one at the very top in an ornate gold frame with the words “My Greatest Treasure” across the top of it. We were standing on the small stage at the junior college, me dressed in my cap and gown. I was genuinely smiling in this photo, it was the happiest moment of my life honestly. She was standing behind me again with her hands on my shoulders. I stood up from where I had been kneeling and looked at it closer. She was hugging me, her face the brightest and proudest I had ever seen. How have I never noticed?

I pulled the frame away from the face of the freezer door trying not to let the photo fall. To my surprise other slips of paper slid out as well. I quickly scooped them up and started to examine them, two small sheets of paper folded to fit the 5x7 square. I nervously unfolded them, the first sheet looked like gibberish, random numbers and letters scribbled across the page with no apparent rhyme or reason. The second was clearly a letter.

“My Dearest Danielle,

I AM SO SORRY. I am more sorry than I have ever been for anything in my life. You deserved so much more than what I was able to provide. You are better than both your father and me put together ....”

I had to sit down. Wiping tears from my eyes I attempted to continue reading. As I slowly made my way down the page I learned that she really did love me in her own broken way. She apologized for specific events she knew had hurt me deeply and gave me the words of praise and encouragement I had been longing for my whole life. By the end I was sobbing uncontrollably. The tears flowed like a great river that had broken through a dam. I was not only mourning the loss of my mother but now the loss of every way things could have been different.

The sun was high above the house by the time I had collected myself emotionally. With a somewhat clearer mind I looked over the first sheet of paper again. IT WAS PASSWORDS! Passwords for all of her accounts, I could make sense of it now, she abbreviated the account name then listed the password. It had all blended together when I first looked at it but now I could see. I searched for an abbreviation that could stand for Windows or computer and found two possibilities.

I pull the laptop close to me and begin typing the first of the two options.

LOGIN FAILED

RESET PASSWORD?

I have seen that message countless times since my mother’s passing on Monday but this time it was like a punch in the gut. One last try. I slowly and carefully type in the next possibility. To my surprise and relief the screen turns a bright white and begins loading the desktop. A soothing start up tone sounds and the icons appear. I see it there, in the upper right hand corner of the screen, a file folder named “EOL DETAILS”.

The name of the file took some time for her to decide on, she didn't want something like "Final Arrangements" or "Last Wishes". I was the one who suggested EOL, it obviously stood for End Of Life but also could be Extra Orders Left like she was still bossing people around even after death. She thought it was funny and used it. I remember feeling really proud for having an idea she liked even if it was a joke on her need to give orders.

Opening the file I let out a deep sigh of relief, everything I needed was there. A copy of her Will, the contact information for the lawyer, information on her 401k and banking accounts and the deed to the house. I found myself crying again, but from gratitude.

I was so thankful to have all the documents I would need to keep the house and everything inside it, like the old Frigidaire and this kitchen table I've been at all day. I looked at the pile of pictures and my mother's note. I realized that was what I was most thankful for however, was the closure and closeness I now felt.