As we entered the kitchen, pain shot through my abdomen, on the lower right side. It was so severe, it felt like I’d been stabbed with a knife. Without thinking, I doubled over, grabbed my side, and moaned from the sudden agony of it.
Max and Andy stopped talking.
With worry in her voice, Maggie asked, “Are you all right?”
I stayed crouched over for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the pain disappeared, evaporated into thin air. I straightened up, feeling embarrassed. First day in the field and I’d managed to behave unprofessionally. I couldn’t read Andy’s face to determine if he was shocked. He was looking at me without much of an expression.
I answered, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just had a sudden sharp pain. Not sure what it was.”
Maggie said, “I think you wiped Squirtle’s poop on your shirt.”
Oh, damn. There was poop there all right! I felt super-annoyed, but worked hard to hide it. Man, Squirtle was the perfect name for that bird. A squirt here, a squirt there. Ugh.
The kitchen stank so badly, I held my breath while we crossed through it. The smell of rotting food permeated the air.
The bathroom was worse. I almost threw up. I fought really hard not to hurl. The toilet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Thin swirls of brown sludge lined the bowl. Orange mold ran along the inside rim. The seat was up, so I got a horrifyingly good look.
The sink was so disgusting, I almost didn’t see the point in washing my hands. Black mold circled the drain.
Maggie turned the faucets on for me. She said, “They stick sometimes.” Fumbling around on a shelf behind a striped curtain, she produced a bar of antibacterial soap and handed it to me.
Placing my hands under the warm water calmed me. I lathered with soap and rinsed. I asked Maggie, “Do you have any paper towels or anything, so I can clean my shirt?”
She rummaged around in the cabinet and came out with something even better than paper towels: Clorox Wipes! She said, “I bought these last week. I always keep some here.”
After I cleaned the bird poop off my shirt, I looked around for a place to throw the wipes. I ended up adding them to a pile of garbage spilling out of a plastic can. They added disinfect smell to the putrid one monopolizing the air. Washing the Clorox off my hands, I wiped them on the back of my shirt to dry them.
As we stepped into the kitchen, I suggested we join Maggie’s father and Andy.
Max looked small and broken. I wondered who he’d been as a young man. He’d married. He and his wife had raised three children. His file said he’d been a painter, painting homes for income and artwork to fulfill his passion. I knew what it felt like to lose someone close to you. Losing my mom had broken me, but not completely. I was still young. I had my whole life ahead of me. Max did not.
As we approached the men, Andy put down the newspaper he’d been trying to convince Max to throw away.
I tried a different approach. I asked Max about his painting. I tried to imagine his home with a fresh coat of paint. It must have been a gorgeous house at one time. The living room was turquoise with a white ceiling, although the ceiling had taken on a gray tinge. The kitchen was yellow with the same color ceiling.
Max said, “I haven’t been able to paint lately.”
Andy, relentlessly pursuing his goal, said, “There’s no room to paint in here. Where are your paint brushes, anyway? Could you even find them?”
Max replied, “Mary was my muse. It’s not the same now.”
I asked, “Did you ever paint her? Ever do family portraits?”
Max said, “Yes.” The look in his eyes was one of sheer torment.
Maggie said, “Dad, would it be all right with you if I showed them your paintings?”
Max said, “Sure, sure…” Then, anger rising up inside him, he shouted, “But don’t give any of them away, you hear me, Maggie? Those are never to be given away, even after I’m dead and gone! OK?”
Placing her hand on her father’s shoulder, Maggie said, “Don’t worry, Dad. Those paintings mean a lot to me, too. Our family will always hold onto them.”
Turning to me and Andy, Maggie said, “C’mon. The paintings are out in the barn.”
Andy told me, “You go. I’ll stay here with Mr. Davenport.”
Making our way through the maze of boxes to a back door, we exited into a huge backyard with a barn at the top of a grassy incline. I felt short of breath and had a throbbing pain in the lower right side of my abdomen as we hiked up to it.
Unlocking a side door and flipping a switch, Maggie flooded the interior of the barn with light. This space was different than the interior of the house. There was room to walk. No piles of cardboard boxes. However, this was still a hoarder’s domain. The barn was filled with tables and the tables were piled high with stuff. There were all kinds of things hanging from the rafters: hoses and tools, blankets, deflated balloons, stained glass panels suspended from metal chains, canvas paintings on decorative ropes.
Walking past quite a few tables, I noticed there seemed to be a theme for each. Piles of books on one, balls of yarn on another, a few tables filled with kids’ toys, others filled with machinery parts.
Maggie took us to the far side of the barn. Several mannequins stood guard over wooden chests. The space had an eerie feel.
Once again, pain shot through my abdomen. Sitting down on one of the chests and bending over my thighs, clutching my knees, I let out a scream. I started apologizing, but my words were swallowed up by torment. I managed to say, “I’m sorry…”
Maggie said, “Don’t apologize. Can I do anything for you?” I felt horrified by my lack of professionalism. A client’s family member should not be tending to the Social Worker.
As had happened in the kitchen, the pain stopped in an instant. Just like that. Taking over my mind and body like some alien creature, and then gone in the blink of an eye.
I stood up. “I’m really sorry. I have no idea what just happened. I had another episode of stabbing pain, but it’s gone now. I’d love to see your dad’s paintings.”
Taking the lid off a wooden box about five feet tall and two feet wide, Maggie pulled out a large canvas painting. In it, five dogs were running around playing. Maggie said, “These are the dogs we owned when I was growing up.”
I moved closer to inspect it. I commented, “I don’t see Lucky.”
Maggie said, “Lucky’s new. My mom and dad got him at a shelter a few years ago.”
All the dogs in the painting looked healthy and of normal weight. I asked, “Was Lucky always so thin?”
Returning the canvas to the box and pulling out another one, Maggie said, “No. My dad needs help. He forgets where he put the dog food. Or he thinks he’s fed the dog when he hasn’t. His mind is completely clouded by losing my mother.”
I asked, “Maggie, do you have any idea what might have happened to your mother?” I had a feeling that things weren’t exactly as they seemed, or her mother had met with some kind of tragedy. If she wasn’t dead, someone should have noticed her by now. Unless she had run away and was hiding from family. Or she had been kidnapped. Or she’d gotten lost in the woods or had a car accident and couldn’t remember who she was. Had this family hired a detective? How hard had they looked?
Maggie said, “I don’t.” Tears streamed down her face. “I’ve offered to hire a detective, but my dad refuses to go along with that.”
That shocked me, considering the pain in her father’s eyes. Chills ran up my spine. Had he done something to harm his wife, maybe killed her accidentally? I had an active imagination. I tried to put a lid on it. I said, “Why don’t you hire one, anyway? It’s best to look for a missing person as soon as possible before…” I didn’t finish the statement.