Washing Machine Rules

About a time that I lost my innocence.

Washing Machine Rules 

PART 1

  I think that my parents were paranoid that my sister and I would burn the house down. This fear only expanded when they renovated the laundry room. With the rising renovation costs, a new tension between my parents arose too. At nine years old, I only saw my parents being divided by the choice between granite or marble countertops, and so, I had a stark distaste for the project. My sister was too young to think about such things, so my new puppy, Charlie, was the only member of the family to share my irreverence. During the six months that he had been with the family, he had tracked white paint through the living room, somehow gotten part of his tail coated in mortar paste, and thrown up his dinner all over the tile samples. Charlie was always happy, bouncing off of the walls, (even if they were being torn down, which was literally the case with the laundry room renovations.) and careless to the trials of the world.

   The new and improved house was governed by strict rules, enforced by my parents, especially during the rare occasion that I was left home alone. Permanently stapled to the inside of our kitchen cabinet was a handwritten list of the rules, to be rigidly followed by my sister and I when we got home from school. One of the newer rules surrounded the usage of the new laundry machine, which my parents had bought for a suspiciously cheap price. It was not yet trustworthy, and the last rule on the list read, in clear bolded letters: ‘DO NOT LEAVE THE WASHING MACHINE ON UNLESS IT IS SUPERVISED!!!’.

  I read this rule, a sour taste growing under my tongue, as my favourite red blouse hung limply in my fist, an unsightly brown stain smeared down the middle of it.

“Roouff,” exclaimed Charlie, and it echoed across the empty house. He leaped onto the counter and promptly sat on top of the list. He cocked his head at me, as if to ask what the problem was. I gave his little tan head a pat, a goofy smile spreading across my lips.

“Hey Char,” I crooned, a warm feeling blossoming in my chest as he looked up at me. “Hi, buddy. Looks like I can’t wear this shirt out, because of the stupid new rules.”

I was leaving soon to walk to my friend’s house and I had had high hopes of being fashionable. Charlie rolled over, exposing a certainly rub-able stomach, his tongue hanging lazily out the side of his mouth. I obliged his request, and dropped the soiled shirt into the sink, abandoning any hopes of having it clean in time for my departure.

I really, really, loved that dumb dog.

   After giving Charlie a satisfying belly-rub, I gathered my things and exited through the half-

finished laundry room, giving the new washing machine a vengeful glare. Charlie followed me all the way to the door, exclaiming “Roouff!”,with wide brown eyes, as if to bid me farewell.
I blew a kiss in his direction and slammed the door closed. Just as I was walking down the empty driveway, Dad’s rusty green Ford Explorer rounded the corner, the tired engine whirring loudly. He smiled broadly through the windshield. I could already smell the dense sulphurous aroma that came with the concrete that clung to his clothes, as the car door creaked open. Unlike Mum, I didn’t mind the stench, it reminded me of him coming home. He pulled a full laundry basket from the passenger side underneath his arm, which intensified the smell, and pulled me closer to him with his free hand. He was still smiling warmly, and you could see grains of cement in the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes.

“I’m throwing a load into the machine,” he said, gesturing to the laundry basket, “Do you want me to wash any of your clothes with mine, while I’m at it?”
I paused, thinking of my red blouse, but I shook my head. I didn’t like the sulphur smell that much. He shrugged and pulled me into a one-armed hug.

“Have fun, Hun,” he whispered huskily, and kissed me on the cheek.
Now, I was smiling too, despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing my favourite red shirt and despite the fact that there were stupid new washing machine rules.
My Dad, the family handyman and eternal optimist, always had an ability to convince me that everything could be fixed, eventually.

PART 2

     Thick white steam was pouring out of the laundry vent and clouding the yet-again vacant driveway when I arrived back home in Mum’s car. My sister sat in the back seat, impatiently thumbing at the buckle restraining her to her carseat. We climbed out of the car, and the sterile fragrance of Bounce dryer sheets flooded my nostrils. My sister pranced forward and stood on her toes to stick her nose in the vent; she loved that smell. Mum had one eyebrow so high in the air that it looked like it may hop off of her face.

“Well. The washer is on,” she muttered, a slight amount of venom woven into her words. “Your Father must have left it running while he went out. Typical.”

I shrugged. If we had the freedom to use the washing machine at any time, at least it was one thing I could cross off of the damn list.

“Charlieeeeee,” I chirped. The thought of that dog bounding up to me, with what was considered to be three times normal canine energy levels, drew a grin across my cheeks.
I called him again.
And then a third time.

He must be sleeping, I thought idly, although it was certainly odd that he hadn’t made himself known yet. I searched thoroughly in all of his favourite places, including all of the bathtubs and

under the beds, but he seemed to have vanished. I raced down to Mum to let her know that Charlie was missing.

“Great,” Mum drawled, rolling her eyes. “Your Father must have let him outdoors when he left.” Her eyebrows were knit together and she was biting her lip.

The search party expanded into the back and front yards. Growing increasingly worried, I called Charlie’s name until it had grown dark outside and my throat was raw. My sister helped with the search efforts as well, though she had changed into a purple princess dress and had been shrilly shouting “CHAHWEE!” from the window in her bedroom in two-minute intervals.

For the last few minutes, Mum had been grumbling incessantly in the laundry room.

“God, that new machine is so unbearably loud. It sounds like something is inside of it and is trying to claw its way out! I should never have let your Father talk me into buying this cheap, lousy, stupid piece of�"”
Her rant was cut short by a terrible shriek. A flash of panic sliced through my stomach and I bolted indoors. I barely noticed that Dad’s Ford Explorer had pulled in behind me.
I stepped into the laundry room, still bathed in that sickly sterile detergent smell. My mom was frozen, peering over the washing machine, her arms buried elbow-deep behind it.
My blood felt like it had been frozen in my veins. I took a deep breath and swallowed the tennis ball lodged in my throat.

“Mum,” I croaked, reaching out with quivering hands to grab her shoulder.
She lurched up, bringing her arms out from behind the machine.
In her hands was the lifeless, paralyzed little body of Charlie.
I failed to suppress a whimper. The cascade of tears came shortly after.
His eyes, they were haunting.
They were blown so wide; his benign soul shocked after wandering into the crushing pressure between the machine and the wall.

We had knelt down around Charlie’s body when a figure appeared in the door behind us, still ajar from my hasty entrance.
It was Dad. He held a bouquet of roses in one hand, a white plastic bag of groceries in the other.

PART 3

    The flowers got placed with Charlie, in a blue cardboard shoe box. It had been hastily buried minutes ago, in our garden, which was so under-maintained it now mostly consisted of weeds. Mum and Dad both had red-rimmed eyes, and were holding each other tightly; they had reconciled for the moment. My little sister stood with wide, mystified brown eyes, staring at the mound of dirt and rolling a single rose petal between her pudgy fingers.

The washing machine that had been rumbling away inside the house finished its cycle, plunging the garden into a thick blanket of silence. No one uttered a word; the moment seemed to speak for itself. I understood, to an extent, that no apology would make this better, but I wasn’t sure any actions could either.

I stood alone, well past the point of tears, with my little hands curled so tightly into fists that my knuckles were white.
For the first time in my life, I was bloodcurdlingly, bone-meltingly, soul-shatteringly, and unforgivably angry.

I was angry at the washing machine rules. Angry that my sister was too young to know how this felt. Angry that a dead dog had somehow helped my parents grow back together again.
I caught Dad looking at me, and jerked my head in the opposite direction.

He reached out his hand, his tough leathery fingers resting lightly on mine. I almost yanked my hand away, but I felt so numb and I really needed some of his notorious reassurance. I gazed warily from his cement encrusted hand to the mound of dirt that held my beloved companion. 

Even he couldn’t fix everything, not this time.