Egg Washed

By Caroline Der

The persistent presence of the past manifests in strange ways.

Months after we moved out, the property continued to smell of eggs. I tried intensely to purge the house of such an incessant smell. I painted the walls, bought the most expensive air freshener sprays, then potent incense sticks that left me dizzy. One day, I even left the windows open overnight, rushing there the morning after to check if the interior had been brutalized by a thief in the night. The house was perfectly intact, and with it, the smell. It was as if the very essence of eggs had fused with the house, had intimately embraced the fibers of the walls and would forever cling to them. Like a lover’s lingering perfume, the scent was stronger in some places and fainter in others but always, always present. 

Amid my fruitless efforts, my father called me from a payphone in Đà Lạt, and demanded I sell the house. “I’m running out of money here,” he said. 

“How?” I asked. Southeast Asia was supposed to be cheap; that reason had been why he chose to move there. That and to exploit women, I suspected. His wife had disappeared and, subsequently, his conscience. 

“Never mind how. You know what, I’m starting to think you’re purposely holding onto the house.” 

“For the good memories?” I replied, disgusted. There was a pause. This subject was the only one he would walk on eggshells for. 

“Well, anyway. One of the guys I used to play golf with was a real estate agent. The only thing is, I’ve lost his number…” 

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” 

“Alright. I’ve gotta go. Bye.” The last word had a tinny, almost nostalgic quality to it, like a telegram. I was reminded of how far away he was. 

So I headed to the realtor’s office. Mistaking my boredom for something more profound, the agent shot me comforting smiles as we finalized details. 

“I just want it to sell fast,” I told her. Her demeanor shifted a little bit, less matronly and more business-like. 

“Of course it will. It’s nice your mother ran a bakery in the store downstairs. The industrial kitchen is an attractive factor.” 

I nodded absentmindedly, looking at the listing description she had written. I was thinking about the future family that would move in. In my head, the family had two children. The stench of eggs seeped into their clothes and they were badly ridiculed for it. In fact, they were friendless. 

When I looked up, the agent was staring at me pityingly. Her eyes flitted to the paint specked, tattered clothes I was wearing. It’s my laundry day today, I wanted to say. “If you’re worried, perhaps about the money, please don’t be,” she urged, staring at me meaningfully. “It will sell for a very high price.” 

After this, I began to have a recurring dream. My mother and I were in the old car, a second hand Honda Civic with a badly dented bumper. She was driving down a highway and, every so often, she would glance at the backseat where I was. I knew in the dream I was very young because of this, because I hadn’t sat in the backseat in years. As the scene unfolded, I would feel increasingly uneasy. There was something wrong and, eventually, I remembered it was because my mother did not know how to drive. At this point, I would ask her where we were going. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? She’d say instead. 

My voice would waver “chicken”, and she’d shake her head. We’d start to accelerate. “Which one? What were you? What are you?” 

“I don’t know,” I’d cry. 

“Egg,” she’d declare, grimly. “The most monstrous of all membranes.” Suddenly, I’d get the urge to scan my hands. Yolk would be oozing from my pores. 

Two weeks passed like this. I strained my mind dredging up murky memories to muster up explanations for the dream. I got a call from a payphone again from Đà Lạt, in which the woman on the other side coolly informed me my father was seriously ill and that I should come see him. I booked a red-eye flight and was waiting in the airport when the realtor called me. 

“Hello?” I said. Everyone in my gate was asleep. A plane twinkled into existence from afar. I watched it glide onto the runway. 

“I’m sorry to call at this hour, but did you ever smell eggs when you were at the property?” she asked nervously. 

“Is there something wrong?” I was suddenly and irrationally afraid to check my hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened. There was an explosion. Apparently, gas was leaking for a while. The firefighter kept asking me, ‘Did you ever smell anything?’ and I couldn’t think—” she let out a sob. 

“Thank God,” I said out loud, exhaling. 

It was then that the loudspeaker announced the plane was boarding passengers. People began to stir around me. I rose from my seat, drifting toward my destination.