Lina prepares herself for uncomfortable days with her grandmother-in-law, who is grieving the loss of her husband, when he travels for a week. On the other hand, a peculiar rule of the home compels her to make a choice between maintaining the peace and safeguarding her family… resulting in a revelation that she is unable to ignore.
When my mother-in-law came into our home, she brought with her four suitcases, a box of old photographs, and a heavy silence that transformed our house into a gloomy waiting room atmosphere.
Vera stated that she desired to be in close proximity to the children, so that she could listen to them giggling in the morning rather than the sound of her own footsteps reverberating in the large house where her husband, Tom, had passed three months prior.
Lina, she added, “The silence makes me edgy,” and she was right. I’ve given it a shot, but it’s not enough.
I was fooled by her. Loss has the power to rock even the most steady of hearts.
Although I tried to conceal it, I was not very excited about her moving in. I like my house to be quiet, not just clean but also predictable; I want nights without arguments, and I want towels to be hung up neatly on the rack rather than thrown around.
Evan, my husband, requested that I be patient and give it a few months.
He responded to Lina by saying, “Just two or three months.” “Come on, let’s find a way to encourage her to keep going, all right?”
It appeared as though he was trying to calm an anxious dog by rubbing his neck. I could hear our children arguing with each other over toy blocks in the upper floor.
I was so tempted to say no. On the other hand, I nodded.
If I had let my intuition guide me when it came to her moving in, I could have been prepared for what was going to happen.
My response was, “Alright, Evan.” “I understand why she requires this, but you need to make it abundantly clear that this is not permanently.”
Vera showed in carrying a chocolate cake and a bouquet of flowers that she had purchased from the grocery store.
As she handed it to me, she voiced her hope that I would continue to enjoy chocolate.
The smile that she gave was forced, and she failed to hit the counter, causing the box to hit the backsplash instead.
She let out a scream, laughed, and then her face contorted down as if she were going to cry.
“It’s okay,” I said in a split second. “Vera, it’s not a BIG thing! We’ll just eat a cake that has been squished.”
When I spotted her in the hallway during the first week, she was staring at Evan’s old soccer photo as if it were fresh new from the manufacturer. Even when the kitchen surfaces were pristine, she would still wipe them down first thing in the morning.
In the event that the kettle was turned off and I did not immediately pour, she would reach around me to fill everyone’s mugs, her bracelets clicking like a clock to indicate new rhythms in my home.
The restroom became a calm battleground for the rivals. Towels were made to go from the rack to the entrance, where they remained damp and cold. Apple and lavender aromas continued to linger in the hallway and the lids of shampoo bottles remained open.
For a very long time, the shower was running, but I could not hear any water hitting the tiles. I was aware of everything, but I did not express my opinion.
I had no idea at the time that a seemingly insignificant routine may give rise to the most peculiar conflict.
I wanted Evan to be able to leave without having to worry about two women arguing about where to place their towels because he was going to New York for a week of meetings.
When we arrived home from school and aftercare on the day that he departed, our backpacks were sagging, we were holding snack wrappers, and we smelled like we had been through a long day.
While I was calling out, I dropped the mail on the table in the hallway.
“Vera? ” It’s you here?
As if she were a guard barring a gate, my mother-in-law suddenly materialized in the doorway that connects the living room to the hall within the house.
She stated, “Before you settle in, I need to say something.” “I need to settle in.”
When I realized that this was going to be strange, I slowed down.
My words were, “Okay… kids, pay attention to Grandma.”
As she began, she raised her hand in a manner that was reminiscent of a teacher trying to calm down a rowdy class. “For the next week, no one is allowed in the bathroom.”
What is the matter? I blinked my eyes.
Her voice was forceful as she stated, “The bathroom with the tub.” I am being serious.
While the children were arguing over a wrinkled worksheet, they took a momentary break and looked at each other.
Because of what she was concealing in there, my entire body became stiff.
“There is absolutely no reason to go in there,” she continued.
As I waited for an answer, I appeared to stare at her, then at the children, and finally back at Vera.
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I told Vera that we had one bathroom that is completely full. This is where we are supposed to take a shower. Should you be aware that the shower in my room is broken?
She said it with a gleaming smile, as if it were quite logical, “You can use the one that is at my house.”
I told her, “Your house is located on the other side of town.” We are meant to be going back and forth during the entire week. To be more specific, on school nights?
She remarked, “There is a lack of noise there.” The pressure of the water is very high. The children are able to complete their homework there before you return.
I only saw a toilet and a basin in the teeny-tiny bathroom that was located next to the laundry area. Sink baths for a week would be impossible for us to get through.
Vera, I don’t understand why we are unable to use the restroom in our own home.
Instead of answering my query, she responded by saying, “This is also my home while I’m here.” “As for me, I get a say. When I say “no,” it means “no.”
She had that obstinate set in her jaw that I had seen Evan exhibit when he was convinced that he was correct. The look she gave me was a sign that she was not going to budge.
After becoming disinterested in the tension, the children made their way to the kitchen and argued over who would get the last cookie.
Still, Vera was not finished.
She gave the couch a slight prod, turning it so that it faced the door to the bathroom, and put two cushions in such a way that it appeared as though she was setting up camp.
That night, she slept there, under the throw blanket that we use for movie evenings, with her eyes fixed on the doorway like a watchdog waiting for something to happen.
I made a phone call to Evan the following morning while the children were eating toast at the counter. Apples were being sliced by Vera, who was humming close and behaved as if we were in a happy advertisement.
I informed him, and he immediately inquired, “She said what?”
I told Evan, “She has forbidden us to use the restroom.” “It’s almost as if the restroom is a private club, and we’re not invited to join.” What exactly is going on?
“Are you serious, Lina or what?” After a little chuckle, he ceased making noise.
“I am truly serious. This is not going to work.”
“After I finish my meeting, I’ll give you a call,” he said. Just… make an effort to maintain a level head till then.
I hung up, having the impression that this was far simpler to say than it was to execute. Considering that Evan did not call back, I decided to let it go for a day.
When I got home from soccer practice, I used a large quantity of wet wipes to clean the children. Under the sink in the kitchen, I cleaned my hair while wearing a towel that was draped over my shoulders like a cape.
I compared it to sleeping in a tent with the kids. After some time had passed, they laughed and whispered about it, but I noticed Vera looking from the couch with a blank expression on her face.
The door to the bathroom was still guarded by her, creating the impression that a thief may sneak in to take a shower.
My scalp began to itch during the second night as a form of protest. For more than a day, I had been compliant with Vera’s order; nonetheless, the inconvenience and peculiarity were beginning to wear on me.
When all of the children had gone to sleep, the house fell into a state of gentle silence. Vera’s snores were as constant as a locomotive in the distance as they traveled down the hallway.
As a precaution, I waited for a longer period of time than was required. Next, I crept my way to the hallway. There was no creaking sound coming from the couch. As if it were keeping an eye on me, the hall clock began to tick.
While I was holding my breath, I tightened my grip on the bathroom key and slowly inserted it into the lock. I flipped the light switch and opened the door to the room.
A musty, damp odor assaulted me, like if the reptile section of a pet store had been crowded into a room that was already steaming. As soon as I went inside, the icy tiles put a chill on my socks.
The shower curtain has a slight roundness to it.
It was not a towel that had slipped behind it; rather, it was something substantial and intentional that moved behind it.
The curtain was pulled aside by me.
In the beginning, my brain attempted to recognize a pattern. After that, the pattern shifted. Wrapped around, thick as my wrist, and then even thicker.
By my reckoning, there are four snakes.
There was a faint, dry hiss that filled the room when they breathed, and it was unlike the squeak that a rubber duck makes. It raised its head, the diamond pattern on its head appearing more distinct in the light.
It was a harsh sound that seared my throat as I let out a scream. I staggered backwards, colliding with the sink and overturning the toothbrush cup in the process. After that, there was a tense buzz that sounded like a warning, rather than a loud rattle like in movies.
Vera burst in, her hair tangled and her face pallid from the intense light.
She cried, “I told you to stay out as long as you can, Lina!”
What exactly is this? While pointing at the bathtub, I yelled out. “What exactly are these things that are in our restroom?”
Her tone was calm as if she were naming a dish, and she said, “Timber rattlesnakes.” The people are injured. The roadway was where I discovered them. They will be able to recuperate in the bathroom because it is cozy and quiet.
You placed poisonous snakes in our bathtub, don’t you? I made an effort to remain calm, but my voice became more agitated.
It was her assertion that they were just mildly poisonous. It’s a shame that their rattles are broken into pieces. They are overly anxious. I didn’t want you or the children to be a factor in their situation.
“Are you irritating them?” I stated it once again. How about the fact that they put us in danger? What happens if someone manages to get away?
Strongly, she stated, “They are unable to.” The gaps were all filled in. Both the door and the window are guarded. Wet towels were shoved under the door by me.
With duct tape running along the baseboard like an unsightly seam, I noticed that the towels were stuffed under the door.
The faucet in the bathtub was dripping. When I saw one of the snakes flick its tongue and taste the air, I felt a primitive twisting happening inside of me.
“Vera, they have to leave,” I stated while maintaining a steady tone in my voice. Bring them to a zoo or a rescue organization. Not in this location.”
“Lina, I enjoy snakes very much,” she remarked, her tone becoming more kind. I’ve been working with them ever since I was a child. I am experienced in this field. Because I wasn’t reckless.”
I reminded her that she had stated that she had moved in so that she could be closer to the children. “You mentioned that you couldn’t stand to be by yourself. But what about this? This is a risky situation.”
A trembling expression appeared on her face as she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.” To quote Lina: “It’s too quiet.”
I stated, “This is not a solution to that problem.” It is not safe to do this.
She exclaimed, “I was unable to abandon them.” “They are just run over by people who don’t care. That is not correct.
During the time that she was watching, I picked up my phone and contacted Evan. On the second ring, he responded to the call.
I stated, “There are rattlesnakes in our bathtub,” and they were. That’s four of them” They were rescued, according to Vera.
There is no sound. “Tell Mom to get those snakes out,” he growled, in a tone that was so harsh and unyielding that I had never heard it before. Right now. It makes no difference to me whether she visits them at her home or in the desert. They are not going to remain for another hour.”
As Vera’s arms were crossed, her eyes widened.
When she called Evan, she said, “Moving them will stress them out.”
As I put the phone on speaker, I said, “Nope, Evan has informed me that they will not be coming tonight.”
At that point, I had already made up my mind about how this would conclude.
“Mom,” Evan reassured his mother. “There is no debate.”
She appeared to be prepared to dispute, but Vera’s shoulders were slumped. Without uttering a single word, she went to the hall closet and retrieved plastic storage containers we had previously used for old toys and seasonal decorations. She then proceeded to line the bins with the damp towels.
She put on gloves used for washing dishes and transferred each snake into a container in a leisurely manner, using slow, deliberate movements.
While I was standing by the door, I gripped my hands so that I wouldn’t touch my face. Thank heavens, the children were able to sleep through it. When she was finished, she carried each of the bins to her vehicle in a sequential manner.
With a flashlight in my hand, I followed.
The light from the porch gleamed brightly over the driveway. With a loud thud, the bins reached her trunk.
She said, “I’ll take them to my house, Lina,” but she did not look directly into my eyes. “I will set up the appropriate tanks.”
“Thank you,” I said in a straightforward manner.
In her mutterings, she drove away. With a gentle touch, I shut the door, as if I were closing it on something particularly precious. As if it had been brought back to life.
The bathroom continued to smell bad. I opened the window as wide as it could go, crammed each towel that Vera had left behind into a garbage bag, and brought water with vinegar to a boil.
The bathtub, the tiles, and even the fittings that I had never noticed before were all cleansed by me.
And even after she had departed, the odor continued to keep me awake all night.
After I had finished cleaning till the clock became hazy, the odor was dissipated by the night air. Even though my arms were hurting, the work helped me to keep my thoughts steady. My mind wandered to the way that grief causes one to cling to anything that has a sense of vitality.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Vera in her large, empty house, where there was just one toothbrush stored in the sink.
By morning, the bathroom had a smell that was reminiscent of lemon cleaner and vinegar. While the children were brushing their teeth, I stood in the doorway and watched them through the window.
Ben, my kid, inquired, “Is Grandma finished with making use of the restroom?”
I responded by saying, “She is.”
On that particular day, Vera did not return. An image of a glass terrarium in her den, with a heat bulb that glowed like a miniature sun, was sent to her by text message.
Caption: “They have made their home. They appear to be more at ease now.”
“Vera, it appears to be safer,” I responded.
Evan called in the middle of the day, in between meetings.
Lina, I am truly sorry,” he expressed. When she moved in, I should have established more specific guidelines. During this time of loss, I simply wanted to be there for her.
In response to the fact that my hands were chapped, I stated, “She needs something to care for.” However, not in our bathtub. Evan, she is in need of a cat. Or a canine;”
The house was peaceful for a few days at a time. The couch was returned to its original location. While watching cartoons and nibbling on cereal, the children were splayed out across it.
In the fourth day, Vera made a phone call.
It was Lina who inquired, “Do you require anything from the store?” The tone of her voice was more light. She stated that the snakes were fed mice that were purchased from the pet store.
To what extent do you intend to maintain them? I inquired about it.
“Until they find their strength,” she stated. “After that, I’ll give the wildlife rescue a call. Lina, I am very sorry. I am aware that I alarmed you.
“You did,” I made it clear to you.
Forgiveness was not the issue. Truth be told, it was the case.
On Sunday, she extended an invitation to us to see them. Under the warm light, the tank made a humming sound, and she walked with a peaceful confidence in her own domain.
With the hope that this would be the final time that I would be concerned about what she brought into our home… On the other hand, I was uncertain.
She cautioned the children, “Do not tap the windshield.” In their eyes, it’s as loud as thunder.
In the car on the way home, my daughter Zoe gently touched my shoulder.
“Mom, will Grandma be able to return to living with us?” Asked by her.
I responded by saying, “We’re figuring it out, sweetie.” On the other hand, we must have a sense of security… Additionally, this may require that everyone be given their own personal area.
