I pick my way through newspapers, clothes, books, teacups, bottlecaps, and mismatched socks that reach to the ceiling. They surround my bed the way a moat surrounds a castle. I walk around the booby traps so I don't set them off like Mrs. Bainesworth, my housekeeper, had done.

Mrs. Bainesworth insisted that she declutter my bedroom. I tripped and fell against her, pushing her into a piece of twine I rigged from a tower of objects to my desk. Seventy pounds of my collection crashed down upon the unfortunate woman and killed her. It is too much work to dig her out so I left her there. However, over time, the smell of decomposition became ghastly, so I filled the bedroom with scented candles and air fresheners. When the stench worsened further, I covered her up with more of my treasures.

Mrs. Bainesworth has been buried beneath all manner of objects for a year. I see her skeletal legs poking out from beneath the rubble. Her pink slippers have fallen off, but I leave them there in case her feet get cold. The situation benefits both me and Mrs. Bainesworth; she rests comfortably, and I enjoy a companion who is no threat to my peace of mind. If it weren’t for Mrs. Bainesworth, I would have no personal relationships, as I am terribly busy with work.

I manage to climb over a chair that is holding dirty towels and sweatpants. Magazines and newspapers blanket my bed even though I don’t buy newspapers anymore. Like everyone else, I buy digital subscriptions. The newspapers are fourteen years old, the same age I was when Mom bought them and when I ran away from home. I shove half of them off the bed onto the floor where they land with a thump.

The mattress is old and stained with piss since Mrs. Bainesworth occasionally refuses to let me use the washroom. She thinks it’s fitting punishment for leaving her beneath the rubble. It doesn’t really matter since the toilet is usually clogged and overflowing with urine and feces, and I can’t call a plumber into the house.

I’m in fourth grade sitting in class with a painful bladder infection. I have to urinate for the second time in forty minutes, but when I ask for a washroom break, the teacher refuses. Urine trickles down my white tights, fills my shoes, and overflows onto the floor. I reach inside my desk and pull out my language arts textbook, placing it over the puddle of pee beneath my feet. Intense shame washes over me as I cross my fingers, hoping no one will notice and tell the teacher.

Tiny rodent droppings smother the carpet and I have to pick them out of my socks when I sit down. I spray the room three times a week, but I can’t kill the army of insects and roaches that press ever onward. A roach crawls onto the mattress, heading towards me. I wait until it’s close enough to climb on me, then flick it across the room where it lands on Mrs. Bainesworth.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. B.,” I say.

“That’s alright dear, these things happen. Do you need to use the washroom?”

A four-week-old bagel on the floor is growing mold and somewhere in the mess are plates with food so old it’s caked on. I can’t put the plates in the dishwasher or the hot water will sear the food onto them even more; but that makes no difference because I can’t use the dishwasher. It currently sits overflowing with pots, pans, containers, books, food, pillows, and a teddy bear I won at a carnival when I was twelve.

I pick up my tattered Raggedy Ann doll sitting at the end of my bed. I was five when my father gave her to me before he left us forever. Her hair was bright red and smooth then and woven into perfect braids. Her fabric face wore bright colors, and her dress was frilly and flouncy.

I hold my new Raggedy Ann doll as I sit on the stairway and watch my parents fight and my father picks up his suitcase.
“You can’t leave us like this! What will Bethany do without a daddy? Where will the money come from?” Mom wept.
“I’ll send money and you should get a job, Dolores,” Daddy replied.

My job is curator at Beaux Arts Gallery situated in downtown Toronto in a ritzy area called Yorkville. The gallery has priceless, original collections of work that are ever-changing. We host new artists, established artists, and emerging artists. Attendees at the openings are invitation-only. The press and art critics never miss a show and applaud the collections I choose. Since I took over the gallery, we’ve never had a negative review.

I decide what to include and what to discard in our collections. At my behest, my assistant books and interviews the artists throughout the year. My boss, and the woman who owns the gallery, is Trina Berkenstein. Trina is an elegant, gray-haired lady in her fifties who went gray when she was eighteen and coloured her hair golden-blonde for thirty years. Now she wears her own color and I can’t imagine why she ever dyed it.

“Bethany, I need you to work your magic and organize another show for me,” Trina tells me during my coffee break. “We have Liu Wei who, as you know, is based in Beijing. He’s on a worldwide tour promoting his latest works and I want to welcome him like royalty.”

“Absolutely.” I smile and puff out my chest. I don’t want to commit even the slightest faux pas with a great artist like Wei; I’d never recover. “This collection will put all the others I’ve done to shame.”

Trina smiles and says, “That’s a tall order, Bethany. Your work is impeccable.”

An hour later, I leave work and when I get home, I find a letter in my mailbox from the City of Caledon. I assume they want ten dollars to license my dead cat. I’m guessing that, like Mrs. Bainesworth, Ms. Tingles is buried beneath a collection of mine, but I haven’t been able to find her since she vanished six months ago.

When I tear open the letter, however, I find a notice that gives me a chill and I have to sit down hard on the floor. Most of the letter is a blur.

Dear Madam,

It has come to our attention that, due to an excess of items, your house is a fire hazard. Under the City of Caledon’s Property Standards By-law 654-98, the city reserves rights relating to property conditions. As such, you are hereby given thirty days notice to remove all unnecessary materials, including furniture, unused appliances, and any redundant items  from the premises, or face eviction.

We have enclosed the Certificate of Compliance issued under Section 15.5 (1) of the Building Code Act 1992, S.O. 1992. Under this proviso, the city will evict you from your home within thirty days from this notice unless you take immediate measures to rectify your living conditions. You may appeal this notice by filing a motion to set aside an Exparte Order with the City of Caledon within ten days of the date of the eviction order.

I run to the washroom on shaky legs and throw up. Thirty days to declutter my entire house? I don’t know what the city means when it refers to redundant items in my house because there are none.

I’m nine-years-old sitting on the floor in my bedroom playing with my beautiful, pink and blue dollhouse. My stepfather storms into my room and stomps all over my dollhouse, shattering it to pieces. He kicks the dolls and breaks off their heads.
“Liar! I’m not a goddamned pervert!” He bellows, leaning into my face.

I call my therapist, Nuunda.

“They’re going to evict me.” I say in a shaky voice.

“Who?”

“The city says I have to clean up the house or they will evict me.” I try not to cry.

“What will you do?” Nuunda asks.

“I don’t know, Nuunda, that’s why I’m calling you!”

“I’ll see you Monday morning and we’ll talk about it then.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“We’ll work with the city and draw up a plan together.”

“Okay.”

I hang up the phone, feeling sick. Work with the city? What does that even mean? I head to my bedroom, tripping over the dollhouse I bought eight years ago that looks like the one I owned as a girl. There is a mother and a daughter doll inside it but no father; he came with the house and I threw him away.

A week after I bought the dollhouse, I went shopping at a hobby store and bought more furniture. I added a bed, pet dog, a dining room table, two chandeliers, drapes, shingles for the roof, and two rose bushes for the porch. I bought more and more items for the dollhouse until it became as cluttered as my own. I can’t find the girl doll because she is buried somewhere in the rubble.

After I get to my feet I accidentally step on a baby doll who squeals loudly, “Mama! Mama!”

It’s Christmas Day and a tower of gifts from Santa Claus sits beneath the tree but they hold no joy for me. My stepfather has left the house and I feel safe enough to tell my mother what he did to me in my bedroom the previous night. She looks at me without speaking for several seconds, then returns to her tea.
“Do you like the presents Santa brought you?” She asks, her hands shaking as she struggles to keep her teacup still.

On Monday morning, I am a half hour early for my appointment with Nuunda. My heart is pounding, but I’m excited that we’re taking on the city like David and Goliath; the minion versus the giant. Everyone knows the outcome of this remarkable story and I feel like a woman empowered.

I burst through the door and exclaim with a dramatic flair, “Let’s go to war against the bastards! I won’t be defeated!”

Nuunda’s office reminds me of Beaux Arts Gallery, as it is a breathtaking work of art. Nuunda covers her window with a magnificent imitation Abdoulaye Konaté; long, colorful swaths of leather attach to the ceiling and trail down to the floor. Nuunda’s Persian rug is a Kashan import.

Nuunda is as beautiful as her artwork, with her rich skin and dark almond eyes that mesmerize me. She wears her natural, black, curly hair hidden inside a colorful, silk turban. Gold and wooden earrings hang from Nuunda’s earlobes.

Nuunda smiles. “I take it you had a good rest this weekend?”

“No rest for the wicked, Nuunda; I was busy with another opening,” I grin.

I pass her a Starbucks latte spiced with nutmeg, and she nods in thanks.

“Have you thought of a plan of attack for me?”

Nuunda sips her latte then puts it on her desk. Her burgundy lipstick imprints on the rim of the cup.

“Bethany, that’s not what I meant when I said “plan.” You need to organize and declutter the whole house, like the city says.”

My jaw drops open, then snaps shut, and I’m not sure if I heard Nuunda correctly. I have to distance myself from her and I slip out of my chair to walk over to her bookshelf, examining the titles. How to Tell Hoarders They’re Nuts and Pawn Shops – A Hoarder’s Worst Nightmare.

I squint and the titles have changed. Beyond the Mess: The Power of Kindness in Supporting Hoarders and Unburdening: Finding Liberation in Letting Go.

An image enters into my head of Nuunda buried beneath the clutter in my room rather than Mrs. Bainesworth. Her long, black legs protrude from the massive clutter, her earrings are strewn on the floor and her tongue is lolling out of her mouth.

I walk back to my seat and ask Nuunda, “Are you working for the city?”

“I want you to keep your house, Bethany.”

“It’s my business how I live, Nuunda!” I scream suddenly as if it were her fault.

“I don’t know how many different ways I can tell you that it’s the city’s decision.”

I eye her coldly.

“Work on one piece at a time in the house so it won’t overwhelm you,” she says.

“Where do I start?”

“In the smallest room in the house.”

I ponder this smart-ass comment, but I manage to keep my temper.

“Bethany, are you taking your hydroxyzine?”

I know the medication is poison and I’m not stupid enough to take it. Over time, it will surely kill me and this will benefit the city.

“Yes, I take it.”

Nuunda gives me a dubious look and says nothing.

For the first time at work that week, I miscalculate a formula in Excel and cut the wrong cheque for a client. Trina calls me into her office.

“Are you okay, Bethany? You’re always so organized and I completely rely on you.”

I recognize a bullshit sandwich when I hear it, but it still works. “I’m distracted, Trina, and I’m going home early.”

I walk into the house and plough my way through the clutter in my room. Mrs. Bainesworth’s muffled voice soothes me with promises that she will help me. I pick up Raggedy Ann and lie down on the floor beside Mrs. Bainesworth.

“Get your head in the game, Bethany. We’re a formidable team and they won’t win.”

For an hour I try to sleep, but escape evades me, and I finally get up and walk to the smallest room in the house, being the hallway closet. I stand still and stare at the door, feeling my knees shake and bile rise up in my throat.

I’m seven-years-old when my stepfather enters my room and shakes his head at my mother.
“You’re spoiling her, Dolores! No child needs all these toys and they’re making a mess in here!”
He gathers up my favorite belongings; my baby doll, teddy bear, puzzles, doll clothes, and storybooks.
“Let’s go, Bethany!” He orders me outside to the trashcan behind the house where no one can see us. He throws my toys and belongings into the trash can, pours gasoline on them, and lights them on fire. The flames explode from the trash can, licking their way greedily along my treasures until they are burned into ash. I watch helplessly then scream and throw myself on the ground, kicking my feet, and tearing up clumps of grass. My stepfather’s eyes gleam and he smirks at me.

The hallway closet is crammed with newspapers, puzzles, children’s storybooks, crafts, a television set, file folders, a child’s tricycle, an old encyclopedia, and a birdcage. I need the birdcage in case I buy a bird, so it stays. I won’t throw out the television set in case l find a repairman who can fix it. The 1971 encyclopedia is a valuable resource.

I pick up my dog-eared copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. I wrote my Master’s thesis on it because, of all her writings, this one spoke to me the most.

All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved.

I have a house of my own and money of my own and yet I have no room. Woolf doesn’t tell the reader that she was sexually abused by her cousin for eight years, but her angst speaks through her writing. I run my finger down the spine of her book.

I’m eight-years-old and it is Christmastime. I lie in bed waiting for Santa Claus with the night light on. The door creaks open and my stepfather’s silhouette fills the frame. He enters the room and stands over my bed. I don’t understand what is happening until he reaches for his fly and tugs down the zipper.

By midnight, the closet is still full but at least the cereal boxes are in the garbage with the file folder of papers. I will give the tricycle to the Sally Ann, but it’s a half hour drive into the city. The traffic is dreadful so I probably won’t bring it to them, but if they make the effort and come to me they can have it. That is unless I’m not home when they arrive because I’m at work or someplace else, which is no one’s fault.

I shove my body against the closet door to close it. Before I go to sleep, I turn on my nightlight but I can’t doze off. I get up, walk outside the house and go to the neighbor’s trash bin. He is used to me scavenging through his garbage so he doesn’t react anymore. I pull out a pair of women’s scuffed shoes, a baseball, a tin cup, and a broken picture frame. I bring them inside the house and put them in the hallway closet, then push my body against the door to close it again.

Virginia Woolf’s book blocks the door and I move it aside with my foot. Her tragic death wasn’t an accident. She filled her overcoat with rocks, waded into the River Ouse, and drowned herself.

I’m thirteen and standing at the bathroom sink. I open the medicine cabinet and throw bottles, pills, and toothpaste onto the counter. I find the razor blades I’m looking for; I tear open the pack and grab one. I slice the razor into my arm, digging as deep as I can. The pain stuns me with its beauty. I gouge along my vein, opening my skin as blood oozes out of the wound and trickles on to the bathroom counter.

I walk into the kitchen and find the letter from the City. I see a codicil I didn’t notice earlier: p.s. you should be locked in a cage of your own making.

I hold the letter over the kitchen sink and light it on fire. I go to bed and wish Mrs. Bainesworth pleasant dreams as sleep descends over me like a cloud. I drift away, safe within my fortress, and wrapped in the deep velvet of night.

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