Keepsake

by Kristina Riggle

  Chapter 6

  I walked back into my town house and savored a long, deep breath of clear air. I turned on all the lights. I lit a candle and let the scent of vanilla unfurl.

  In the bathroom mirror I could see my hives had receded, but if I looked carefully, I could see the faint outlines of the splotches.

  And I had just volunteered to willingly go back in there. Where I wasn’t even wanted. Trish saw me, and Drew, as invaders. Betrayers.

  I braced myself on the bathroom counter, letting my head droop. Hopeless. Utterly, utterly hopeless.

  Trish didn’t want help any more than our mother did. She was only permitting us in her house under threat of losing the only thing that might matter more to her than stuff, little Jack. I say “might” because I would have thought our mother would have ranked her daughters over things but she did not. In the end, she did not.

  I was still living there when her things began to creep down the hall, and one day I found a box of hers in my pristine room. We held a battle over that box. I kept putting it out, and I’d go off to school and it would creep back in.

  One day I came home to find a pile of shopping bags in the corner of my room, right on top of my beanbag chair where I liked to read.

  I wouldn’t have thought Trish would blame me for leaving. She was mad, too. She complained all the time about the mess and the stink and how humiliating it was. Mom cluttered the yard, too, for the whole world to see. We were forever fending off nuisance complaints from City Hall via our disgusted neighbors.

  No one ever called social services about us. Maybe it wasn’t the thing to do then. Or maybe no one cared if a pile of stuff crushed us, or if we got sick from all the bacteria and cat urine.

  In any case, I left before any of that could happen. Trish left, too, eventually, so why was this my fault?

  I wanted to call George. If the store was still open, I’d go into work early and we’d hash it over with some coffee before opening the doors for the day, and he’d be sympathetic and listen and agree that yes, it’s terrible.

  But now I’d have to invade his private home space to hear his voice, and he’s probably with his lady love.

  I thought about calling Jamie, from the store. She was always my favorite. She looked like a punk kid but was wonderful with the customers and knew the location of just about any book we had, instantly.

  I walked to the kitchen phone and dialed her number by heart.

  “Hello,” she said distractedly, with a little bite in her voice. I looked at my watch. Oh. Much later than I’d thought.

  “Hi, Jamie. It’s Mary.” Pause. No response. “From the bookstore.”

  “Oh. Yeah, hi. What’s up?” Jamie sounded wary, like she was going to get called on the carpet. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t recall a single other time I’d called her at home that wasn’t about work.

  “I just . . . I wondered . . .”

  “Yeah?” Jamie prompted.

  “I’m having a bad day.”

  “Unemployment can do that.”

  I heard a voice in the background, Jamie hushing it. In the silence when I tried to marshal some words, I heard her hiss, “my old boss.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” I muttered into the phone and hung up.

  Jamie and I used to talk, didn’t we? Laugh sometimes, even? That made her friendly, but not a friend.

  I set the phone down on my counter and looked up. I could see there on my refrigerator a postcard from Seth, sent from a psychology convention in New Orleans. In our college days I sometimes had a coffee with him in the dorm, or ate lunch in the cafeteria with him, but since graduation our contact had dwindled to postcards and birthday phone calls, the latter tradition emerging when we discovered we shared a birthday, along with Ralph Macchio and Walter Cronkite. It was many months away from November 4.

  And then I felt thirteen years old again, hanging around the cool kids’ lunch table, listening to their plans for Saturday night at the movies and waiting for one of them to say, “Hey, Mary, you should come.”

  It was too late to call Jamie or George or Seth, but not too late for my dad, the chronic insomniac. His wife, Ellen, would be in bed already by now, one of those greet-the-dawn types.

  He picked up with his constant greeting, “Hey, Peaches.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How’s my girl?”

  “Fine. How’s Ellen?”

  “Getting along OK.”

  We chatted about the store’s last day, which he’d already known about. When my dad and I could pretend we were the only two people in the world, our chats went very well. But sometimes we were forced to acknowledge the people around us who complicated everything.

  “I saw Trish,” I ventured in a lull, during which I could hear the squeaking and shouting of a basketball game.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s pretty bad.”

  “I expect it is.” Dad sighed as he said this, a great whoosh of air.

  I caught him up on recent developments, all of which he listened to silently, until he said, “This feels very familiar. Too damn familiar.”

  “I know. I’m going to help her clean, though. She says she’ll take the help.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high, Peaches. Remember when I took Mom to Florida?”

  “I know. I don’t think she’s there, yet. Anyway, this is different.”

  “I hope it is.”

  “Want to come and help?”

  “You think she’d stand for it? She’d chase me off her property.”

  “Maybe not, Dad. She’s a little desperate.”

  “If she asks for me herself, I’d come. But hey . . . Maybe Jack shouldn’t be there at all. If he got hurt and now she’s being investigated?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he should come stay with us. Or with Ron.”

  “He doesn’t want to be away from her, Dad. He’s already away from his dad most of the time, and Drew doesn’t even stay at the house most days. Trish is all he has.”

  “And for that Trish just has to look in the mirror.”

  I sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better if you don’t come.”

  My dad continued, “Honey, take care of yourself. She’s gonna turn on you at some point. You have to decide how much you can take.”

  “It’s for Jack, Dad. Your grandson.”

  There was a silence. I heard him take a shaky breath. “I know,” he croaked.

  We said our good-byes. “The week Mom went to Florida.” Our family euphemism for when it all blew apart.

  I decided to make myself go to bed and read something old, dense, and classic, something so removed from my own life I could pretend the real world didn’t exist. I was turning pages in Anna Karenina until past 3:00 a.m., which upset me until I remembered I didn’t have to go to work.

  No one was expecting me anywhere.

  Chapter 7

  The loudspeakers at Target were playing Mötley Crüe, and I was crooning along softly “I’m on my way-ay-ay . . .” and the sheer pleasure of the nostalgia, the cheery store lighting, the cart full of useful things, and Jack bouncing along merrily next to me with his tasty shopping bribe all helped me to forget two things.

  That the rebellious music of my youth was now soothing music in my favorite store.

  That soon my family would descend on me to start getting rid of my things.

  “Home sweet home!” Jack chimed in with Vince.

  I was pushing the red cart out of the cleaning products aisle. I’d already loaded up on paper towels, cleanser, trash bags, rubber gloves, and in deference to my sister’s apparently delicate constitution, breathing masks. On the way out I’d pick up more plastic storage bins. To help organize.

  I noticed jeans were on sale in Jack’s size. He was s
o hard to fit, so thin and lanky. I grabbed a couple pair, then a couple more. He was tough on his clothes, always wearing out the knees. Spring was coming soon, so I picked up a couple of bright T-shirts, too. I noticed socks on sale—another thing he wore out constantly—and threw a few packs into the cart.

  I strolled past the home decor section, my mind popping with bright images of my tastefully decorated, clean home. That whimsical clock with the oversize numbers would look so cute on the living room wall. I peered at the price tag. On sale! Twenty-five percent off! And there was only this one.

  I slid it off the shelf and tucked it on the bottom of the cart, underneath the basket.

  My whole body hummed. This clock would be my treat for finally getting my home in order. And surely when Ronald saw all the progress I’d made, he’d not only lay off me about the home’s “safety” but maybe even come home again.

  I wheeled past the baby section, looking away from a cooing bundle peeking up from an infant seat. “Mom . . . wait up,” Jack said, trotting along, his sack of miniscones pinched awkwardly under his elbow.

  “Here, let me hold that,” I said, taking it from him as I selected a checkout aisle.

  Target was busy and we had to wait. A woman in line in front of me with silver spiky hair turned to Jack and gave him a little frown. “Oh, too bad about your arm, kiddo. Did you have an accident on the playground?”

  “Yep,” said Jack, looking at the floor.

  “I was a teacher for thirty years,” the woman declared, still staring at Jack. “The way these kids play on the playground it’s a surprise they’re not hurt more often. You rambunctious boys!” She turned to me. “I only had girls and I counted myself lucky when they were his age. But then, as teenagers! Not so lucky anymore.” The woman laughed at her naive younger self. “Do you have girls?”

  “No,” I said, swallowing hard. The store felt hot then, the store lights overly bright. “Excuse me, I think a line just opened up.”

  I yanked the cart back so fast the clock started to slide out of position. I bent down to push it back and cracked my head on a candy shelf. The woman was saying, “I don’t see an open line . . .” and Jack was saying, “Mom? Are you OK?”

  Jack trotted to keep up with me as I shoved the cart as far away as I could, to a different line with oblivious teenagers in front of me texting and talking and buying clothes.

  I dared not look back at the woman and what she must have been thinking about this crazy lady with the injured son, a freak who panicked and fled from her at the simplest conversation.

  Jack reached up with his good hand to hold mine and squeezed.

  They’re here!” crowed Jack, stumbling over the pile of Target bags by the door. The large, flat clock was balanced on the pile of blue storage bins next to the television.

  I was not prepared for them just yet. I was still working myself up to the idea of them coming in here and touching my stuff.

  I opened a box of donuts, which I’d placed on the stovetop between the burners, and fished some napkins out of a shopping bag on the floor. They were bringing coffee, they said.

  “Hi!” I heard Mary call with fake cheer. Drew didn’t announce himself, just shuffled in. I heard another high-pitched voice, and I froze in the act of wrangling my hair into a bandanna.

  I stepped out of the kitchen to see Miranda, her fingers twined into Drew’s. When I spotted them, she was planting a kiss on his cheek for no obvious reason, the kind of gesture women make when they’re proving to the world they own their boyfriend. Like a dog pissing in his yard.

  “Hi, Trish!” she chirped. “I wanted to help.”

  Drew stuck out his chin at me. This was my first test, so it would seem. Mary caught my eye and gave me a quick cringe-face. So at least my sister wasn’t in on this. Also, though she looked pale, she wasn’t vomiting or going into anaphylactic shock. Progress.

  “Hiya!” Jack said, skipping over to Miranda, this girl, and hugging her. I wanted to rip him out of her arms.

  Her hair was dyed an aggressive orangey red. She was wearing a long shirt over tight leggings and flats, the same kind of clothes I wore at her age. All she needed was a Swatch and DayGlo socks.

  I looked away from my son’s aggressive stare and his perky girlfriend and counted backward from ten in my head. “Want some donuts?” I called, now using my own fake-cheer voice.

  We busied ourselves with treats and coffee for a few minutes, jammed together in my kitchen by the wall of bags at our feet. No one mentioned anything about it. We prattled about exams and spring break. Miranda mentioned her family was going to Gulf Shores and she was hoping that Drew would be able to come, too.

  I swallowed and said, “We’ll see,” and realized if he did this, I’d be entirely alone for the week of spring break.

  “Well,” Mary said, wiping sugar off her hands over the sink. “Let’s get going.”

  She led a procession of us out to the bags of supplies I’d plopped in front of the garage and started handing out plastic gloves. The weak March sun was not yet above the thick, leafless trees. Our breath made clouds in the air.

  She handed out garbage bags to all of us.

  “What are you getting these out for now?” I asked. I’d pictured the dirty paper towels going in there. Used-up dust rags.

  “Trash, Mom,” announced Drew, as if I were a moron. “Hence, trash bags.”

  Mary interjected, “For really obvious garbage, you know. Food wrappers and whatever. Stuff that’s too ruined to use.”

  “Do you think I’m some kind of pig that I’d have food wrappers and ruined stuff?”

  Everyone froze like that childhood game where you can’t move until someone taps you.

  No one talked, so I kept going. “Look, what’s the plan for stuff that’s not garbage? Because, believe it or not, I don’t live in a landfill. We’re not just going to dash in there and start whipping things into bags.”

  Mary and Drew traded looks again. Mary said, “Um, OK, there’s a tarp in here? We’ll put stuff we’re saving on the tarp.

  Drew nodded. “And we can put donation stuff in the driveway.”

  “Donations?” I said. “Who said we’re donating stuff? If it’s perfectly good and usable, we’ll just organize it and put it back.”

  Drew was opening his mouth, but Miranda tugged on his arm, and when he turned to her, Mary jumped in again. “Let’s just put stuff in the driveway if we think about donating it. We can always change our minds; it’s not permanent.”

  “So you’re using the royal ‘we’ now?” I shot back. “Don’t say ‘we’ when you mean ‘You, Trish, the disgusting slob pig.’ ”

  Mary flinched and I bit my lip. We hadn’t even started yet. I said, “No, never mind, fine. The driveway is fine. Let’s just get going here.” Ayana would be back Tuesday.

  To prove to them I was not a total lost-cause loser, I went back in the front to the first pile and started throwing papers into the bag. I looked at the first few, then got impatient and used my arm to sweep the whole pile into the sack.

  I pointedly marched out, shouldering my way through the trio of them, and tossed the bag onto the grass. “There. Happy?”

  With this I grabbed a new bag and plunged back into the house, the rest of them following behind me, silently.

  A system emerged as we began cleaning. One of them would call, “Trish” or “Mom” and I’d look up and say “keep” or “toss” to whatever they were holding up.

  While we were doing this and I made myself recycle years-old People magazines, a thought kept twisting around in my head like an earthworm trapped on a hot sidewalk. What had really been in that bag I filled all hasty and carelessly, just to show off?

  There could be photos in there, old photos of my kids. . . . And not necessarily digital photos I still have copies of, either. I was scrapbooking in that room for a
while. I did see an envelope of scrapbook paper in there.

  No. I forced myself to inspect a bag full of yarn right in front of me. The yarn had gorgeous color and texture, and it had been a steal on clearance. True, I hadn’t yet managed to learn to knit, but if I did, what gorgeous sweaters I could make. Or if I couldn’t use it, maybe someone I know could. I must know some knitters. Or! It would sell at a garage sale. I’m sure it would.

  My heart was lugging in my chest like an engine in low gear. I hauled the yarn bag to the Keep pile on the tarp, and then looked over my shoulder. No one right behind me.

  I knelt in front of the trash bag and fumbled with the knot on top. I’d yanked it too tightly in my haste before. I ripped it open at the top, hoping to knot it back up without anyone noticing. I started combing through the papers.

  I found a flier from my cell-phone company telling me I could get an upgrade, a drawing of Jack’s, and while no pictures, I spied an ATM envelope. I seized it and opened it to see $100 in twenties.

  I clutched it to my chest. I could not afford to throw away money, certainly.

  “Mom?”

  I looked up to see Drew looming over me, with the rest of them trailing after.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  “Look!” I held up the ATM envelope. “There’s a hundred bucks in here I almost threw away!”

  He grabbed the cell-phone flier. “And this? Is this worth a hundred bucks to you?”

  “Why, yes it is,” I shot back, standing up in my circle of papers. “I could save that much on a new phone so, yes, give it to me.”

  “Is it worth losing Jack?”

  “Stop being so dramatic. It is one piece of paper, one! And I need to save money!”

  “You just tore through a bag of garbage!”

  “And I found a hundred dollars!”

  “By the way, what was a hundred dollars doing in a pile of junk in your living room?”

  “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to leave it there.”

  “Hey,” interrupted Mary, “you know, it’s cold out here, and we’ve only got so much time.”