My mother makes the sound of a bomb going off when she sees the van.

She lives in our basement suite, following us from house to house, zipcode to zipcode. I don't remember why, except that everyone else refuses to rent to her because she is morbidly obese.

Her collection of Hotwheels lines every shelf down there, and some are even in some of the cabinets between the boxes of cornmuffin mix and buttercream frosting. Maybe if she moves out, I will suggest turning it into a museum for the neighbourhood boys.

She drives the shittiest specimen of a Ford Aersostar the world has ever seen and has a boyfriend half her age who drives over every weekend to drink her liquor and steal her candy and jewelry to pawn.

When I hear the van starting up, I watch it disappear around the bend and run down, opening the French doors we had installed to her living area, and I clean her dishes, vacuum, dust. I pick up the various glass bottles and napkins she throws over bugs and leaves for weeks in a panic to suffocate them.

I don't know if she notices, but she does bring up a monthly check along with cabbage soup or banana-walnut bread sometimes.

I never touch the cars.