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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v110) (the September 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Falling (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 230 page Sept. - Dec. 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

I Can Do This

Kathryn Leetch

    I feel like I’m traveling through scenes of bad movie when I realize that we have been on the same chalky, rocky, gravel road for the last hour. The scenery looks the same...plain, grass on the right, a tree or two every mile. The music we try to listen to is easily overpowered by the sound of rocks clinking and clanking the metal contraptions used to make an undercarriage on my 1997 Nissan Altima. What used to be a shiny black paintjob is now covered by the dust from this stupid gravel. I realized that they lived out in the middle of nowhere, but damn, they weren’t joking. My boyfriend, Chad, and I had come to the conclusion that we have seen maybe three houses on this entire thoroughfare. It’s spring break, and I can’t even listen to music.
    Clinton, Missouri. What a town. Nothing more than a Wal-mart and a couple historic museums and a couple thousand people (maybe). Podunk. We pull off of one gravel road, and turn onto another. My mom’s driveway. The first thing I notice is my mom. Relaxed, slouching in a green and white striped lawn chair, and in her hand a cigarette, a habit she recently picked up. I see my mother and I think about why she left. She left me, my brother, and my dad- but took my sister. I felt rejected. Was I not good enough for my mom? I may not be six years old, like my sister, but I was still her daughter. I guess she had other things on her mind, like her 27 year old boyfriend, her now husband. Jake. That name just sounds young.
    We get out of the car, stretch our arms and take a big yawn. I grab Chad’s hand. We take a deep breath. I look at him. I say, “We can do this.”
    “Hey twinks!” my mom says, as she looks up from hugging Lauren. I still don’t know why she calls me that, but I have lost interest. Too many years have passed, too late, now, to ask.
    “Oh, hey mom...” I say as I take my turn to embrace. I smile, and watch as she moves on to hug Chad.
    “How was the drive?” she asks, implying that it might have been interesting in some way.
    “Oh, you know. As good as it can be in a little, old Nissan.” I reply, resorting to my normal sarcasm.
    I put my sunglasses on top of my head, acting as a temporary headband, and start toward the house, anticipating the tour my mom promised. The outside of this “farmhouse” was, well, hideous. Mom claims it used to be white, but I don’t believe her. Green moss had overtaken at least one side of the house, and mold was obvious as well. Untrimmed bushes, weeds, and dead flowers surrounded the outside. Disgusting, but nothing compared to what lay within.
    We walk through the old screen door, which slammed behind us, startling both Chad and I. My mom begins “the tour”. The first room we walk into from the door is the kitchen. It sort of reminds me of what I thought a fraternity house would look like before I came to college, wooden floors, dirt in the cracks, dust in the corners, is lined with cases of five different kinds of soda (only in a fraternity, of course, it’d be cases of beer, right?), and an old dresser top that serves as a shelf for wine and beer glasses. No dishwasher, just a pile of plates and cups needing to be cleaned. The wooden dining table takes up more than half of the space in the room, making it almost impossible to walk around. Surprisingly, the kitchen smelled magical. My mom was an incredible cook-one of the many things I miss about having her around. I could always count on her to make a great meal, one that could mend broken hearts, or soothe stressed minds. The smell of a pot roast and potatoes in the oven, crispy golden brown. Perfection on a plate. Well, not on a plate yet, but soon. One room down, how many to go?
    Next, the living room. Two black leather couches, a glass table, and our old television, half fuzz, half picture. I’m not exaggerating. It was literally one-side fuzz. The green carpet screamed at me when we first entered the room, but that is the least of my worries. At least this room was halfway normal. We walk to the next room, still the same green carpet, but this time, no furniture. The “office”, my mom announces, was hardly that. I remain unconvinced. There was a computer, but it was probably the oldest one I have ever seen. An old clock, folding chairs, stuffed animals, nick-knacks, and pillows all collected dust on the floor. I guess this was a storage room, too.
    She was so proud of this, excuse my language, shithole, and it amazed me, and still does. What pride could she find within these walls? I feel as though she only acted this way to make me feel like she was doing alright, and that she knew this may be a temporary situation. She was putting up with her house, and fronting like she loved it here. I just don’t get it. Why wouldn’t she want to be truly happy where she lived, and who she lived with? Why does she feel the need to lie? She’s good at convincing herself of things. So good she almost convinces me.
    I didn’t feel like asking questions. We were back to the kitchen. It didn’t look any better from this angle, though. In front of me was the kitchen, and to my right was a set of stairs. Past the stairs was the laundry, a bathroom, a pantry, and my mom’s room. The washer and dryer are buried under clothes and random items that probably hadn’t been moved in quite some time. The bathroom is crammed in the corner, next to the pantry which consists of crackers, chips, snack cakes, a few cans of vegetables, and other not-so-healthy items. And we wonder why my sister is diabetic at the age of 6.
    When I first see my mom’s room, words escape me. I honestly don’t know what it looked like because it is covered in clothes. I couldn’t see a bedspread, sheets, pillows, anything. I am just assuming those were all under the sweatshirts and dirty jeans. My sister comes running over to me, and grabs my hand, begging me to come see her room upstairs. Thank God. I pick my jaw up from the ground, and follow her.
    A sign on the door to the steps says “Lauren’s Apartment,” I was in for a good time. My sister is 6, a first-grader, and sometimes I think she is smarter than I am. She holds my hand as we walk up the old wooden steps. They creaked as we took each step. I cling tightly to the railing, holding myself up with a small piece of wood and a few nails. The wallpaper in the hall is a light salmon color, bubbly and torn in some spots. The first thing I notice in her room is the bright green walls- perfect for a 6 year old girl. She has everything you could imagine: a fish tank, a T.V., a boom box, stuffed animals, and many other toys. She’s got it made. She shows me an assignment that she got a good grade on, and then some cool new toy that she had just gotten. It was at this moment that my heart began to quicken. I looked around, examining Lauren’s room, seeing the magic that hid within these walls. My mom has given her everything she could want, but is she happy?
    Lauren goes on to tell me that she has even more toys in the room across the hall, her “play room.” We walk over to it, and I stand in the doorway, shocked. Toys were everywhere. More stuffed animals, kitchen sets, Barbie’s, dolls, an Easy Bake Oven, everything a little girl could ever dream of. I gaze around the room, my jaw on the floor once again. Awestruck. I slowly take a look around the room. From right to left, I look at the toys. Dolls I never had. Toys I begged for but never got. And a toilet? Yes, in the middle of this magical little place, surrounded by a ten by ten foot patch of linoleum, sat a toilet. I laughed when I first saw it, but then I realize that this is so many different kinds of wrong. I wanted to grab my sister by the arm, and walk out of this house as fast as I could, taking her out of this awful situation. But I can’t. Instead, I listen to why there is this toilet in the middle of her playroom. Apparently, the lady who lived there before them was older, and intended on finishing the room, but never got around to finishing it, and so it sits. I wish I could see the humor.
    A tear comes to my eye when Lauren looked up at me and told me this story. I asked myself, yet again, why my mom left. She left a perfect life in suburban St. Louis, for this? An old house, with mold and dust and bubbly wallpaper and a toilet. I know I have issues with commitment sometimes, but am I this bad? My heart hadn’t felt the way it did at this moment, in a long time. I thought I was ready to forgive my mom, but I wasn’t. Not after seeing this.
    I take my sisters hand, grip it tight, take a deep breath and think to myself, “I can do this.”

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