A half hour later, pulling into the driveway, I sat for a moment staring at our home in all its avocado puke-green glory.
I wondered if there was enough money in the budget to paint the entire house?
For reasons I never understood, my mother loved that color and bathed the house in it—inside and out. She even used it as her signature color in just about every outfit she wore.
Walking up the path to the front door, I was pleased to see the gardener was still doing his job. The Boxwood hedging had recently been trimmed, forming a perfect border under my mother’s bay window. The Chinese Maple was in full bloom, and tiny multi-colored impatiens grew in a massive cluster underneath.
Climbing the pink sandstone steps, I was reminded of all the years I flew up them two at a time, throwing the door open to announce, “I’m home!” But walking in today, I was overcome by a dispirited feeling. While things were just as we left them in their perfectly appointed places, the house felt bitterly cold, even on this hot July day. It was empty of human warmth, and the silence screamed, “Nobody lives here anymore.”
“Okay, girlfriend,” I said to myself, feeling the need for a little company. “Put on your realtor hat. This is no time for emotion. You have a big job to do, so let’s get it done.”
Our home was your typical ranch-style, 2,300-square-foot building with four bedrooms and two baths. There was a formal living and dining room, family room and kitchen combo, and a small laundry room down the hall. In the two-car garage, cabinetry lined the walls and on every shelf, stuff had been stored. Wondering what room would be the least emotional to clear out first, I went straight for the kitchen.
“Remember, most of this is junk,” I said out loud. “Create piles: save, give away, and throw away. Just like all your other listings, if you follow the pattern, you’ll get through this with ease.”
In my youth, the kitchen had been my favorite room in the house, and not just for the obvious reason of food. It was where our family gathered for dinner and talked about our day. It was also where I began to grow close to my mother in junior high while she’d prepare the evening meal. Up until that point, we were mother and daughter, but not friends. She was always busy keeping order in our crazy home, and I was content to stay in my room and play with my dolls, hiding from the carnage my brothers were creating. But, when puberty hit, I Velcroed my body to the only vessel of female hormones in the house. Two women were better than one, especially when up against an army of four—my three brothers and father.
Sitting on the counter, watching her chop, we’d find time for girl talk with no interruptions from the male species. There we discussed makeup, the latest fashions, even sex.
“Mom, Mary said she saw two kids over in the creek naked,” I huffed and puffed one late afternoon in the seventh grade. Sex Ed had yet to be a staple in the school curriculum, and I was a bit of a late bloomer in body and knowledge.
Putting her knife down, my mother turned to look at me, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Yeah! She said they were having sex and that he was sticking his thingy inside here,” I fumed, pointing to my own underdeveloped woman parts. “Isn’t that disgusting?”
I could tell by the look on her face and her pause that something about what I had said was leaving her speechless, and my mother was never speechless. Confused by her lack of response, I continued on. “That’s not how it happens, is it?”
She pushed the knife further away on the counter, her face turning as red as her apron. Shifting her body weight from one foot to another, she stalled.
“Mom?”
Moving in close for this most intimate of all mother-daughter conversations, she cupped my innocent face in her hands and said, “Yes, honey. That’s how it happens.”
“No! Really? That’s gross.”
A twisted smile appeared on her face as her hands now steadied themselves on my knees.
“Don’t tell me you and Dad do that?” I blurted before she could give me some God fearing version of the birds and the bees.
Kissing my cheek to calm me down, the only words she could muster were, “Yes.”
Instantly, I wanted to go run and hide under my bed and pretend we had never had this conversation.
“God! It all sounds disgusting!” I screamed. Positive the only reason to copulate was to have babies, I asked, “So you and Dad did it four times? Then I’m only having one kid.”
Standing in the middle of the kitchen more than fifty years later, remembering the moment as if it were yesterday, I began to laugh hysterically. Years later I’d grown to understand the joy in sex and, just like my mother, I did it four times, plus a lot more.
But, just as quickly as I had giggled, I instantly became saddened as I opened the kitchen cupboards. The food I loved as a kid had vanished. Instead of Oreo cookies, Tostitos Corn Chips, Fruit Loops, or Kilpatrick bread, several boxes of oatmeal sat in their place, along with rows and rows of canned peaches, pears, and pineapple.
Turning to the shelves below, I was shocked to find enough plastic to fill a recycling center. Tucked away were twenty Cool Whip containers, thirty Tupperware canisters of all shapes and sizes, at least fifteen I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter buckets, and too many cottage cheese tubs to try to count. They were all missing lids.
There were enough containers in here to store two Thanksgiving dinners. Why did they save all this?
But remembering a village once lived here too, it made sense.
Next came the shelves filled with chipped plates and saucers that were no longer a set, Libbey glassware fogged up from too many showers through the dishwasher, bud vases with the necks broken off, and one coffee cup. Having done this before for other clients, I created a staging center on the kitchen table for what would be kept or thrown away. Sadly, all this would be thrown out.
Then came the pots and pans and, finally, the refrigerator.
Opening the double doors, the reality made my heart sink.
“Oh my!” I sighed out loud. “Smells like someone died in here. I don’t need just a pair of gloves, I need a HAZMAT suit to clear this all out.”
In the corner, a half-eaten chicken was now showing signs of petrification. More little containers were scattered on each shelf, housing a spoonful of moldy peas, a dollop of scalloped potatoes covered in a green film, and canned fruit complete with spores swimming on top of the juice, all with dates written on pieces of masking tape dating back two months. Dad had only been living with me a little over a week and these leftovers had expired long before.
Closing the doors quickly, knowing I’d need a pile of cleaning supplies to handle the job, I decided I’d tackle the fridge at a later date. This was going to take time, thought, patience, and a nose plug.
Two hours later, I returned home to find my dad in his chair, maintaining his daily position, mind wandering elsewhere behind closed eyes.
“Hi Dad,” I called, approaching his recliner. “I’m back.”
Instantly, he opened his eyes, smiled, and asked, “Did you sell the house already?”
Knowing this wasn’t just some silly question but a moment of his dry wit, I kissed his cheek and chuckled. “I need a little more time. You have a lot of stuff in there.”
“Wait till you see the garage.”
“Oh, great!” I giggled. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Your mother just couldn’t give anything away.”
Rubbing his eyes, Dad wiggled his stiff body attempting to get comfortable, then asked, “How long do you think you need to get it ready?”
Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, I came up with a timeline. Despite the fact my father’s body had abandoned him, his mind was still sharp. This was his home and he deserved to be involved in the process and have a say in how things went.
“You have a lot of stuff I need to clean out. Is there anything special you want me to keep?”
I could see by the look in his eyes he was perusing every room, remembering what was left behi
nd.
“I don’t need anything, but I want you children to divide up what you’d like. The one thing I do want is for my books to have a new home.”
My father had a passion for the written word. I often wondered if he licked the ink right off the page as he devoured a book a week. There was not a day in his adult life that at some point, a novel wasn’t in his hands. As his world became limited in those years after my mom’s passing, he spent his time eating, napping, and reading. He read so much that his stack of books reached half way to the ceiling on the fireplace hearth, and that didn’t count the other pile next to his bed.
“That’s a lot of books. Even if we divided them by four, I doubt any of us could read them all.”
“One day you will. What do you think we should price the house at?”
Smiling, I realized that despite his world of memories, he was still interested in the bottom line and the almighty dollar.
“I’m not sure yet. It’s going to take me a couple of months to get it ready. I have to find places for all your things, then paint, carpet, and stage. It’s July so I hope to have it ready by the middle of September.”
With a nod of his head, we were in agreement. For the next two and half months, I put my head down and focused. There’d be no room, or time, for emotions. I had a job to do.
The following day, well-equipped with boxes, bags, and cleaning supplies, ready to tackle the dreaded refrigerator, I showed up at 9:00 a.m.
“Okay,” I announced, opening the doors again. “Get ready, old food. You’re out of here.”
Looking at the freezer first, I saw that there was enough food to feed an entire nation. The only problem was it now had frostbite. Dumping it all into the plastic bags, I heard my mom yelling at me, “That’s wasteful! And waste is a sin.”
Sorry, Mom. But this has got to go.
Next, donning gloves up to my elbows, I took my arm and swept each shelf of the fridge into more bags: all the dishes, containers, cans, and tin-foiled-wrapped-somethings I was afraid to open. Seven bags and an hour later, off to the garbage can it all went.
“Okay, that’s done,” I announced, proud of my accomplishment. “Where to next?”
Because my energy was waning, I decided my room would be easy to tackle. After my grandmother left for the nursing home, my mother decided to move in and give my father a break from all her moaning and groaning during the night. Shortly after she passed away, I cleared out all her belongings as well. I expected a fairly clean slate, but I was horrified when I opened the door. While it had seen its fair share of use after I moved out, Enemi had completely destroyed it when she moved in.
“My beautiful furniture!” I screamed. “What was she doing in here?”
On the tops of my dresser and desk, evidence of spilled nail polish smeared the varnish with various shades of red, purple, and blue. A thick layer of dust, looking like gray snow, coated the furniture, and the white rug was covered with food stains.
“Even the curtains are ruined! How does someone wreck curtains?” I said, aghast.
The frilly white shades that once framed the window to the world beyond were now tilting sideways and hanging in shreds.
“Did she have a wild cat in here?”
Gripping my fingers into a tight fist, anger began rising to the surface. I had to let it go. Again, this was no time for tears.
Two hours later, the drawers were empty of debris and the closets were cleared of paper bags, shoeboxes, wire hangers, mismatched socks, and a few forgotten undergarments. My curtains were taken down and the furniture wiped off as three more trash bags were added to the pile outside.
As the days and weeks blended one into another, every day the routine was the same. I meticulously went through each drawer and box, opened every book to make sure no money was hidden inside (my mother had a habit of saving for a rainy day in secret places), and systematically found homes for fifty-two years of stuff. It was exhausting and led me to not just a glass of wine at night, but the entire bottle.
But one day, while clearing out Dad’s office filled with tax returns dating back to the 1950s, I discovered a treasure.
There at the bottom of the pile rested a tiny envelope addressed to my mother: a note from him dated on their wedding day.
Dear Lassie, You’re the only girl I love, the only girl I ever loved and will ever love.
Stunned to see his handwriting on this small card, I knew it must have come with his wedding gift to her, a string of pearls that I now treasured. Instantly, I became misty eyed.
“How sweet is this? Thank God I didn’t just throw stuff out. I wonder if there are other letters hiding.”
This brought new commitment to comb through things carefully, adding several more weeks to the already laborious routine. And, with each new purging came priceless treasures: pictures I’d never seen before, love letters from Dad to Mom, and the script from the play “White Cargo” my grandfather won awards for acting in.
Finally, the day came—time to get it ready for market.
“Okay! Let’s get this puppy painted, staged, and carpeted!”
In just two weeks, the house was transformed into a beautiful showcase. Floors once hugged in green carpet became a sea of realtor beige, complemented by neutral colors covering the walls. All our personal photos and knick-knacks were removed, and in their places sat contemporary Pottery Barn furniture.
The home lasted on the MLS for two days before we received three offers. As expected, my father gave the home to a young Catholic couple that did not make the highest offer, but were about to start their family with the promise of sending their children to St. Charles, just as he had.
“So, are you happy?” I asked two days before escrow closed. A whopping check of $950,000 was about to be put in his bank account. “Not only did we do better than expected, but I know they will love the home just as much as we did.”
Smiling from ear to ear, he nodded. “I’m very pleased.” Then, he said the unexpected.
“I’d like to see it again.”
CHAPTER 9
Time to Say Goodbye
Surprised that he wanted to see his home again, I suddenly became worried. It didn’t look like the house he remembered.
“Why do you want to see it?” I asked, hoping to make it sound like a bad idea. “It’s such a long drive and you know how tired you get sitting in the car.”
Looking into my eyes, his face softened. I could see by the gentle expression this was important.
“I want to say goodbye.”
Thinking of past clients who’d sold their homes of forty or fifty years and returned to them one last time, I knew most left saddened by the experience. Scared it might upset him, I asked again, “Are you sure? It doesn’t look the same.”
“Please.”
The following day, Enemi loaded him up in her car, wheelchair safely tucked away in the trunk, and off they went as I drove behind. I knew I’d have my own goodbyes to say and wanted to do them alone. Up to that point there’d been no real tears. But, like with any true grieving process, not only did I know they would come, but I wanted to do justice by them.
Pulling up behind, I saw that Enemi had parked inside the garage where I’d had a wheelchair ramp installed three years before, once it became clear he couldn’t manage the stairs.
I took the spot on the street.
“Okay, Dad. Let’s get you inside,” I said as I met them.
Maneuvering up the ramp, first into the laundry room and then around the narrow corners of the hallway, we headed straight for the living room. With his chin resting on his chest, I allowed my fears to diminish when I remembered his vision had deteriorated. Maybe he wouldn’t truly see how much the house changed.
Enemi smiled at the changes, while my father’s gaze went straight to the light from the window as it danced on the floor.
“How your mother loved that bay window,” he said finally, with just a hint of a smile.
Rubbing his back, I a
greed, “Yes, Dad. That was the best addition to this house you ever made. I remember how she used to love to lie on the couch and look out.”
Again, silence. With a job to get back to and an escrow to close, I needed to get a move on. After a few minutes, I asked, “Are you ready to see the rest of the house?”
With his nod, we turned to travel down the hallway, past the bedrooms where his four children once slept, and finally into the master suite that he shared with his wife for over half a century: his sanctuary where, like his daughter, he too hid from the world when it became stressful or unkind.
He looked around the room from one side to the other without saying a word. This room held the most memories for him, for it was within these walls he and my mother connected both verbally and physically. By the look on his face, I sensed he was pleased with being home once again. It was the same look he gave me every time I walked into the room to spend some time with him.
Turning in my direction, he reached out his hand to grab mine and with a tender squeeze, he asked, “Can I see the rest of it?”
“Of course, Dad. Let’s go.”
He quietly nodded as we passed each room again.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, wondering what was going on in his quiet mind.
“Just how I used to love watching you kids sleep. I could stand there all night as you dreamed away.”
Smiling, I found myself remembering the nights I couldn’t fall asleep and became aware of his head peeking in on me. When I was in the sixth grade, I developed a nasty case of insomnia. Fearful of flunking my subjects, I’d lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling.
Knowing I was struggling, he’d often come in, sit on my bed, and pat my arm. First, we’d talk about whatever test I was about to take, then he’d hand me my rosary. “Hold it close,” he would say. “It will take your fears away.”
Finally, we reached the family room and kitchen. By now, I was becoming antsy. I needed some input as to what he thought; was he upset or did he like what I’d done to the place? I knew he was happy with the price because he received $50,000 more than expected. I couldn’t wait any longer and broke the silence.
The Promise I Kept Page 8