I sank down onto the camper’s narrow bed, remembering Mom’s funeral, and all the family members who crowded around and swore to keep in better touch. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years, the uncles who’d once helped clean her house rafters to cellar, church friends and family friends and neighbors and former teachers.
Trish and I, though we’d been distant since I moved out, stuck close together those few days. We seemed to have been appointed Chiefs of Grief, being the daughters and thus her closest kin. It might have otherwise been Dad, but in divorcing her he’d bumped himself down the ladder somewhat.
The relatives accosted us the most. Trish seemed to, well, not enjoy the attention. But she did seem comfortable. She gratefully returned the tearful embraces and cried on other people’s shoulders. She found times to laugh through her tears when someone would try to cheer us up. One of our cousins had a baby, and Trish spent as much time as she could making googly eyes at the baby, being rewarded with drooly toothless grins.
I stiffened every time someone hugged me. My return hug was an awkward pat on the back. I tried not to visibly blanch at them coming at me with tissues soaked by tears and snot, the way they touched me all over my clothes, even my hair sometimes. For some of them I was still four years old and thus available for manhandling.
I went to the bathroom so often anyone who noticed would have thought I had a bladder infection.
I would close myself into a stall, sit on the toilet, and then sob silently into my hands. The effort of sobbing so hard, without sound, made my throat feel raw and heavy. Then someone would come into the bathroom, and I’d have to get up because if I stayed too long they would eventually notice and wonder what was wrong and come after me.
It was one of the few times people seemed to keep careful track of my doings, and instead of welcoming the attention, I resented it. I wanted to scream, Don’t you people know I’m grieving here? But of course they did know, and in a way that made sense to everyone else in the world but me, they were helping. So on went the hugging.
After the service, a grim receiving line of sorts formed as people filed out across the front row of the funeral home, past us Chiefs of Grief, giving us platitudes and pats and, for God’s sake, more damn hugs.
When I got home, I threw my funeral dress in the garbage, along with the pantyhose, underwear, and shoes I’d been wearing, though all of those things represented more than $100 of my own hard-earned money.
I wonder what Seth would say about that; what would he write in his little shrink notebook if I were a patient?
He’d come to the funeral, too, the only welcome face in that entire grueling ordeal. He hadn’t been able to fight his way through the scrum of mourners to get much time with me, but when he did, he embraced me tightly. Call me if you need anything, he’d said. His hug was the only one I’d returned with feeling.
Many nights I stared at my phone, thinking of Seth’s offer as sleep eluded me, but it was always in the wee hours of morning, and by dawn it no longer seemed like a good idea to violate our annual call tradition and intrude on his regular life.
So I finally did take him up on his offer. True, it was fourteen years later and outside the scope of the kind of help he thought he was offering, but even so. He’d honored his offer, like the true gentleman he’d always been.
Chapter 25
I watched Mary retreat into the camper, head down, and I thought, for the love of Pete, if she’d learn to stand up for herself once in a damn while, she might not be so infuriating. Her and her “sorry” all the time. She must think she’s being so sweet and nice, but the thing is, there’s a dark side to it. It’s her sneaky way of saying, You are so mean to me, you make me feel bad all the time.
Maybe she does feel bad all the time. She always did shrivel up in the face of conflict.
Am I mean? I wondered, regarding those boxes again. Did my stuff make me mean?
I considered Ron’s tools, this old stuff he had when we were first starting out, before he was able to buy newer, nicer, faster things. Seeing the tools made me think of him in his grubby work pants, his big strong hands, his reddish hair not going gray at all. The way he used to smile at me, just for me. Because all in all, he wasn’t a real smiley kinda guy.
Would Ron want these tools anymore? If it were me, I’d keep them as a memento of how things were when we were just starting. I’d remember buying those tools full of hope for the new business. They’d symbolize how far I’d come. I was so proud of him when he could finally buy a new truck with money from his jobs! His dad had always been running him down, saying he wasn’t ever gonna make it because he didn’t have a head for figures and all he could do was bang a nail. But Ron taught himself figures, well enough to get going anyway.
These tools were still good, too. He could keep them around the house, for home-type repairs.
I bent down and shoved the boxes to the side of the garage. Pulled a Sharpie out of my pocket and marked them as Ron’s things. He’d have to decide. I certainly had no right to make the call about his stuff.
Why couldn’t everyone have that respect for me?
My phone chimed. A text from Drew.
Called to check on Jack. Seemed cheerful. All OK.
I couldn’t hardly let go of Jack last night. Jack was wiggling around like a little worm while I hugged him. Normally he’s not embarrassed, so I don’t know why he was so bothered. I just wanted to hug him extralong, I said, to store up extra for a few days.
Drew had been coughing and shuffling his feet, his own coat in his hand, planning to make his hasty exit at the same time. I made to hug him, too, but he gave me only a quick one-armed squeeze and he was gone like a puff of smoke. He was never too good with good-byes.
I couldn’t resist texting Drew my question. Are you coming back today?
The answer came back immediately.
Nah. Stuff to do.
So you’re not going on vacation? Or what?
No answer. I stuffed my phone back in my pocket. How was it OK that he wasn’t going to tell me his plans? My own child and I don’t even get to know if he’s going to be in the state or not.
Nor could I say what Jack was doing right this minute. I sat down in my garage on an old broken office chair and wondered how the hell this happened, that a once-married woman with two children ended up so goddamn alone.
When I heard tires crunching on the gravel, I was in the kitchen, feeling dizzy with the papers in front of me. They all seemed equally important. Receipts would be needed for tax purposes. Jack’s school papers mattered to me, showing his progress as they did, and in fact—I should have thought of this before—Ron should see them, too. No reason he should be updated only twice a year on report card day.
I dropped the papers and beelined for the door, catching myself amazed again I had a straight path instead of a maze to navigate.
My shoulders slumped. Not Drew. A shiny black car, looking to be a . . . Lexus? Not sure why that would surprise me, but it did, even so. And I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of job Mary’s friend had that he was off work in the middle of the year with nothing better to do than go help a stranger clean a house. And if that work pays enough to drive a Lexus, how can I get that job?
Mary had been sorting in the garage. My piles had started to meld together the way spots of mold will, so she’d been pushing them back apart again. We both made it to the driveway at the same time to see this guy, this Seth.
“Mary, it’s good to see you,” he said. She looked down at the ground, of course, not having enough sense to smile back or look pleased.
“Thanks so much for coming,” she said, like a Realtor at an open house or something. Honestly.
“I’m Trish,” I said, holding out my hand. Seth was bald, but it was the purposeful kind of bald that men our age do when a retreating hairline gets too embarrassing. I could see plenty of fine stub
ble. He had a nicely shaped head for it, at least. His eyes were a faint blue, and he looked like he didn’t get very much sun. He wore glasses, the kind with the rims that are practically invisible. He was wearing track pants and a shirt advertising some kind of 5k run.
“Seth Davis,” he replied. “Glad to meet you.”
“I really am glad you’re here,” I said, as earnestly as I could, to make up for the time coming soon, no doubt, when I’d lose my temper in front of him. “This is such a big job, and it’s great to have some help.”
I caught Mary staring at Seth. “What happened to your hair?” she asked.
He startled, grabbed his head, affecting a look of shock and horror. “Oh, no! Where did it all go?”
For half a beat Mary looked horrified, too, then she turned pink and giggled. Giggled just like a twelve-year-old. Seth dropped the act and ran his hand over his head. “Would you believe it’s cheaper than shampoo?”
Then we all stood there like three morons, glancing at each other.
“OK, well,” I announced. “So here’s what I’m doing. I’m sorting papers in the kitchen, and Mary probably needs help in the garage getting those piles straightened up. We’ll need to package up some of the recyclables. It’s garbage day tomorrow. And, uh . . . we’ll see after that.”
Seth nodded and moved to follow Mary into the garage.
“Oh, one more thing? Just so you know? Don’t throw my stuff away without asking. Even if you think it’s junk. ‘One person’s trash . . . ,’ right?”
I watched Mary freeze and try not to react, try to stuff down whatever she was going to say. This time I was glad she kept her mouth shut instead of giving me crap.
Chapter 26
In almost fifteen years, his hair had disappeared. His eyes had fine lines like arrows pointing at the corners, partially hidden by the stems of his eyeglass frames, though his smile hadn’t aged a day. He was both so much the same and so different that I was rendered mute and helpless, grappling with how much time had rushed past me like so much river water.
I finally managed to explain what I was doing, trying to neaten up the piles.
Neither of us commented on how large the Keep pile was compared to the Sell and Donate piles.
He asked me how the cleanup had been going, and I answered, “Fine,” reflexively. He asked me about work and I told him the store closed. I could hear him pause in the hefting of boxes to look at me, but I kept working with my back to him and asked him instead about his daughter, who, according to the last postcard, was in grade school by now.
In this way small talk continued, and I snuck another look at him.
He looked stronger than I remembered. I could see defined muscles where his T-shirt sleeve stopped. His baldness made him look older but not in a decrepit way, rather seeming to connote wisdom. As if he were too smart to bother with hair.
When I felt sure Trish was busy enough inside that she wouldn’t come out for a while, I walked up to him, screwing up my courage. Seth put the box down he’d been holding and stood watchfully next to me. I was so close I could smell the minty tang of his aftershave.
“Thank you. For helping.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“And . . .” I said, my voice as soft as it could be without whispering. “Trish doesn’t know what you do. That you’re a psychologist.”
He just stood there. Waiting.
“So,” I continued, “I don’t think we should tell her.”
Seth rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and stared up at the rafters of the garage. “I don’t want to lie.”
“I’m not asking you to come out and lie. I’m just saying that you don’t want to treat her or anything anyway, right? It’s unethical? You said you’re only here as a pair of extra hands.”
“So why can’t we be honest? Why the subterfuge?”
“She’d flip out. She’d accuse me of treachery. She would never believe in a million years I didn’t do this on purpose.”
I caught my breath and held it. Seth could insist on coming clean to Trish, and she could throw him out. He could be upset with my duplicity, spin on his heel, and walk right out. I could lose the last friend I had, right here.
“It’s manipulative,” he said, folding his arms. I didn’t know if he meant manipulative of him, or of Trish, but I dared not ask.
“I’m just trying to help her,” I said, aware of the begging in my voice, and not minding, because if it’s one good thing about having very little pride, it’s being able to humiliate yourself for a good cause. “She could lose her little boy over this.”
He dug the toe of his running shoe into a crack in the garage floor, staring down, silent.
Finally, he looked up. “She needs to get some help. When we’ve avoided this imminent disaster. Because if she doesn’t, no matter how clean we get this place, she’ll do it all over again.”
“You think so? She’s so motivated this time.”
Seth said in a detached, cool voice, almost reciting, “When the threat is gone, the fear will fade. If fear is the only thing keeping the house clean, it will not last.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“So I’ll only agree to this if you promise me, and I mean swear to me, that you will let me refer her to someone when this is done. And not me. She needs someone who specializes in OCD or hoarding. Like I said, I’m surprised the CPS people haven’t already lined something up for her.”
“OCD? She’s got OCD?”
“Sort of. The latest thought is that compulsive hoarding works in a similar way. The difference is that people with OCD don’t enjoy their compulsions, they’re just trying to rid themselves of an intrusive thought. But hoarding brings a kind of enjoyment. So I’ve read, anyway.” For an instant I flashed back to Seth with hair, scooping in eggs at the dorm cafeteria while Rebecca slept off a hangover, telling me about something really cool he just learned in his psych class.
I cast a glance around at the dusty, smelly piles. Enjoyment? Then I remembered the way she lit up at Target, the way she fought me to buy those stupid boots. Well, cocaine is pleasurable too, in some ways, I supposed.
“I thought you said this wasn’t your area.”
“It’s not, but I did some reading.”
“I thought you didn’t want to treat her?”
“I don’t. But I wanted to be prepared. So what do you say? I’ll keep quiet about my job if you promise you’ll talk to her about getting real help from an expert.”
“It’s a deal,” I said. “I promise I will. I’m out of my depth here.”
“You and me both,” muttered Seth. He turned away and retreated to the far corner of the garage.
At lunchtime we gathered back in the house, with Seth following us in. With him behind me, I couldn’t tell what he thought of the house. I looked at it again with the eyes of a newcomer.
The living room had once been a waist-high mass of clutter with curved paths in and out, like an ant farm. The shades had been drawn tight against the outside. Now the remaining piles were pushed back to the walls in the living room. A coffee table was visible, though I noticed it was sprouting new piles I hadn’t remembered last week. Fresher papers, it looked like. Mail, some newspapers. A plastic grocery bag. The carpet, a tan Berber, was visible under our feet. The wear pattern was strangely uneven, and it was faded in unusual spots.
Boxes, full of things Trish hadn’t quite sorted yet, were stacked up along the walls. The kitchen table was still coated in a thick layer of paper, and new piles on the floor represented Trish’s latest attempt at sorting.
I saw Trish stare at Seth, gauging him. Seth walked in the house as if he’d been here twenty times, striding to the kitchen. “I’m just going to wash my hands,” he called to us.
I saw Trish’s shoulders relax, and she smiled sadly. She cast me a look that seemed
like gratitude. But I could have been mistaken.
I followed into the kitchen and saw Seth drying his hands with paper towel. An open roll peeked from a shopping bag. He was looking around as he continued to dry.
“Oh, put it here,” Trish said, dumping some things out of a plastic shopping bag and holding it out. “The regular trash is full anyhow.”
She dropped the shopping bag on the floor and then turned to the refrigerator, yanking the handle.
A block of cheese fell out and Trish jumped back, nearly banging into Seth who was standing too close behind, but he had no choice as his feet were hemmed in by bags. I realized that in my visit last weekend we’d eaten out the whole time. We’d never eaten anything from inside Trish’s house.
I peeked into the fridge and stifled a gasp. It was almost a solid wall of food. An odor wafted from it as well. Sour, pungent. I stole a look at Seth who was now puckering up his forehead and peering inside with intensity.
Trish shoved the block of cheese back into the gap from which it had fallen, and then she retrieved some lunch meat from the crisper, and some mustard from the door. She bashed the fridge shut with her foot and bopped it with her hip for good measure. I wondered what she’d say if I told her most people don’t have to slam their fridges shut just to keep from being buried in a waterfall of expired food.
Seth caught my eye and glanced down at the lunch meat. I remained confused for a moment until it registered; he wanted me to check the expiration date. I had to be the one to raise the question.
I picked up the turkey and turned it over, searching.
“It’s not rotten,” Trish barked, and I dropped the package. She’d been pulling some bread out of a bag on the floor. “I’m not disgusting. I’m cluttered. There’s a difference.”
Keepsake Page 17