The Rooms That Knew
She took great care in decorating the bedroom for her little girl. A new start. A new house, new school, new town, and new stepfamily.
Ballet-pink walls with a vintage floral trim. A twin bed, with a trundle for sleepovers with new friends. Shelves lined with hundreds of stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. A white desk for homework. A bulletin board with colorful construction paper letters spelling out “J-O-E-L-L-E.” A window whose shades she would be sure to pull closed every night before her daughter would get undressed. “You never know what creeps are out there,” she’d say.
This was what she could do. An addition to her list of things she did right. She could make this home a safe and loving place; that much was in her control.
And that was my space for half of the time, per the custody agreement. My sweet little bedroom that my mother built. Like me, my room was ever-changing, shaped by new identities to be tried on for size, then reimagined with each passing season.
The ballet-pink walls were covered over, first with bat mitzvah centerpiece and camp photos, eventually with psychedelic tapestries and band posters, but the floral trim still peeked out. The desk, a graveyard for rejected outfits. The Barbies got Magic Marker dye jobs, and then they were gone —donated to little girls less fortunate. The bed for sleepovers hosted boys that would not impress my mother, but she was none the wiser as they had their evacuation strategies down to a science. The stuffed animals stayed.
My room remained exactly as I left it for years after I moved out, until the house was renovated and the bedroom of my girlhood was converted into a nondescript guest room with light gray walls and grown-up furniture. But I couldn’t bear to let my mom get rid of my stuffed animals.
On January 24th, 2023, I found myself back in that bedroom, now as a grown woman with a husband who very much does impress my mother. We are there because we learned that day at 3 am that my father had passed away. We took the first flight to New York and spent the day cleaning out my dad’s dilapidated house, where he had been found dead in his bedroom just a few hours before.
There had been a room for me in that house too. This one my dad had let me decorate myself, hoping it would compel me to feel at home there. Despite the fuchsia walls and leopard-print bedding of my choosing, I never did. Now, like my room at my mom’s, that one has been converted into a guest room, but it looks like a tornado has run through it. It’s just another room emblematic of my dad’s state of mind when he died: messy, decayed, with things you don’t want to see left out in plain sight.
When I enter my father’s house, for the first time in so many years, I am able to disconnect my body from my brain. This is nothing new, I am a world-class compartmentalizer. It is just the shell of me, floating around like a ghost, trying not to let anything penetrate. When I get to the room that was allegedly mine, I find myself holding my breath like I used to as a child when passing a graveyard, as if not to breathe in the bad energy.
This room was the setting for the darkest memories I possess. But those memories live in a separate part of me, somewhere far away that I don’t keep much contact with. Deep down, way past my lungs.
When we get back to my mom’s house that night, the relief feels familiar. Like a prisoner of war returning to the homeland. The fresh air, bright light, big house, clean surfaces, nice mommy. I used to feel like this every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and alternate weekends, coming back to mom’s after dad’s nights. Adult me doesn’t know how I used to tolerate it, but kids are stronger, because they don’t have a choice.
It is now midnight, in my same-but-now-different old room, designed by mom. With my husband, Vlad, lying next to me, asleep for the first time since we got that 3 am call. I remember how I used to cry every night that I was in this room at mom’s after spending the night at dad’s. Alone, with everyone in the house sleeping, I’d bury my face into the neck of my life-sized yellow Care Bear, and let it all out. Uncontrollable tears, snot, screams. Thinking and rethinking of what dad had done the night before.Why did this happen? Why me? I hate him. Well, no I don’t hate him. I can never go there again. How am I going to face my classmates tomorrow? I must be misunderstanding something. I need to get myself together.
And then I would do just that. I’d go to sleep and wake up in my room at mom’s house feeling safe and new. I’d go to school like nothing was wrong.
I wasn’t faking it — I felt just fine. I told you, I’m a world-class compartmentalizer. From there it was rinse and repeat. After school, I’d go back to dad’s for the night. And then back to mom’s the next night. Where I’d cry into my Care Bear.
My bear is still there, and you can probably even see the worn spot in his neck. All of my old stuffed animals are still on the shelf facing my bed. The ones who bore witness.
Maybe it’s seeing dad’s house again. Maybe it’s being back here in my room at mom’s where I used to decompress from it all.
Probably it’s the fact that dad isn’t in this world anymore. I decide it is time to wake up Vlad and tell him everything.
Joelle Golyk is an educator, writer, and startup consultant living in Los Angeles.
