Page 57 of Taking The Virgin

“See how bad it canget?”

“No. That’s not it atall.”

I smile at him, trying to assure him I’ll be okay. Then, as he restrains himself, I venture inside.

I leave the door open with Owen standing nearby, calming down enough to fold his hands behind his back, doing everything he can to not pull me back to what he considers the safety of the outside world.

I don’t go too far into the house—I can’t. Jeez, I just can’t. The stench is hardly hidden by some old air fresheners that his parents seem to be hoarding in a clump near a wall of shoeboxes and a clutter of milk cartons.

Mrs. Gregory comes out of the kitchen, her posture slouched as she carries a gray, steaming mug. A teabag hangs limply out of it. I accept it with another smile.

“Thank you.” Is this really me, staying so composed?

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” she says, sitting on the one clear spot—the arm of a couch. The rest of the couch is hidden beneath piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes.

Mr. Gregory is already squeezed next to her, leaning on his cane, and he gestures for me to jointhem.

On the armrest.

“Oh, thanks so much,” I say. “The thing is, Owen and I are just dropping by. But I appreciate your hospitality.”

I look down and notice some roaches scurrying in and out of a pile of trash bags that sit just a few feet fromus.

There are small rows that they’ve cleared within the mess, and these narrow aisles allow someone to sidle slowly in between the rotting husks of garbage and junk that fill every other spare inch of the house.

“She’s so sweet,” Mrs. Gregorysays.

I glance back at the door, but Owen isn’t standing there anymore. The odors, the sight, the tragedy of all of this mixed together is probably more than he can take. It almost is for me, too, except that I don’t want to make a scene.

His mom sighs, and in that moment, I know that their politeness is only a cover for something else. They know exactly what’s going on with themselves—they know they should look younger, should be healthier, but somehow the hoarding got out of hand and claimed them like the creeping disease itis.

“Owen’s gone, isn’t he,” Mrs. Gregory says softly.

“Yes,” I say. “But I know he still wants to talk toyou.”

“I’m sure he does.” She adjusts her broken glasses. “He tries with us. He really does. But he doesn’t understand that most of our collections will be worth a fortune someday. He’ll never have to pay us a penny to supportus.”

Whoa, maybe they don’t have any idea of what’s really happening here. “I’m sure he would gladly give you anything you needed.”

Mr. Gregory chuffs in much the same way I’ve heard Owen do on occasion. “We don’t need his money. Like Mrs. Gregory said, we’re sitting on a fortune, and that doesn’t even count everything here that has sentimental value.”

I glance at the junk mail around me, the things that probably couldn’t even be sold at a yard sale for a total of a dollar.

Surreal. This is a disorder, and it must kill Owen that, as a doctor, he can’t do a thing for his own parents. Are they delusional? Or do they know something is very wronghere?

Mrs. Gregory picks up an old cereal box from next to her. “Look at this, for instance—there’s points on the box top so we can collect prizes someday.”

“We’ve got a million of them,” says Mr. Gregory.

The smell is really getting to me, and I don’t know how long I can stay, but I smile at them again. “I understand, but can you see how Owen might be concerned aboutthis?”

“Oh,” says Mrs. Gregory, “he’s always on us about cleaning up. His three brothers aren’t nearly as pushy, but they’re all such neat freaks.”

“Three brothers,” I repeat, because, until today, I had no idea he hadany.

She shrugs. “Owen rarely sees or speaks to them. Liam told us that seeing them makes Owen remember the way he grew up here, and he hates dwelling on that. As I said, all of them try to stay away because they’re rather finicky.”

Either they’re refusing to admit that Owen could’ve been traumatized or they don’t really getit.

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