The room was unlike any of the others he’d passed. This room was stark, sanitary, and sterile. From the plain white walls to the barren wood floor, the only contents of this room were a hospital bed and some medical equipment. There were oxygen tanks and monitors, all wheeled into one corner with the cords wrapped neatly around them. The bed was nothing but a mattress lying flat inside its adjustable frame with chrome half rails on each side. He stepped inside the room and instantly felt its sacredness. On one wall, the wall opposite the blindless windows, was the only decoration that adorned the room. It was a huge framed photograph of mountains; snow covered them at the top, and a refreshing lake at their base mirrored them. The backdrop sky was perfectly blue with the exception of a few puffy white clouds in the distance. It took up nearly the entire wall. Logan felt his chest start to tighten. Was this the last thing her husband saw before he died? He looked at Holly standing in the doorway.
“This is a beautiful picture,” he told her somberly.
“Isn’t it?” Holly said from her spot in the hallway. She hadn’t been in this room in almost a year. After the funeral, when everyone returned to their own lives, she’d spent days in it. She would sit on the rented hospital bed and think, This was the last place Bruce was alive. Surely his spirit would linger, freed from the confines of pain, she told herself, even if only long enough to point her in the right direction. Ignoring the hospice’s calls to arrange a pickup, she kept paying the bill on all the equipment in the room and waited for a sign that would tell her what to do next. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The instructions never came, the hopelessness mounted, and she walked out of the room and into despair. She never shut the door to it though, just in case. To see Logan in the room was both amazing and unsettling. The ultimate positive life force was standing in the middle of the death room.
“Holly,” Logan asked her gently, breaking into her thoughts, “maybe you want to put this stuff in storage?”
“I don’t own it,” she replied, devoid of any emotion.
“Is it included in the things being picked up tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Would you like it to be?” His voice was soothing, his eyes full of compassion.
It only took one look at his face, and Holly knew the answer he hoped she would give. She wordlessly nodded her head, maintaining the same blank expression.
“Do you own any tools?” he asked in the same comforting tone.
“Tools?” she repeated, confused.
“Screwdrivers, wrenches, stuff like that?”
“There’s a box in the garage,” she said from the doorway. She watched Logan walk across the room to grab a monitor in each hand before joining her.
“Let’s go get it,” he said pragmatically. “They’ll never be able to get this bed out the door without removing the rails and the legs. Who needs a couple of goofballs in here scratching up your hardwood floors and banging into your walls? We’ll put everything together downstairs and it’ll all be in one spot for when it gets picked up.”
She took one of the monitors he was holding and he followed her back downstairs. They dropped off the monitors in the dining room and she took him to the garage. He made casual chatter that she didn’t hear a word of. To acknowledge she heard him would require responses on her part. She wasn’t capable of coherent responses; she was one step from a blathering mess. She wanted to be numb and focused and not bother him with further drama. She had done too much of that already. He didn’t seem to mind her being distracted. He wasn’t disapproving of the fact that she had effectively put off this horrid chore for well over a year. He picked up the toolbox; she got a Ziploc bag for the nuts, bolts, and screws; and they went back upstairs.
“I’ve got this,” he told her before going back into the bedroom, “if you want to finish up someplace else.”
She felt the look of relief spreading over her face. He knew. It was like he could feel her agony. She nodded mutely at him and retreated to the safety of her own room. An empty box waited for her and automatically she began to fill it with Bruce’s most personal effects. She started with the bathroom and his toiletry kit, which contained his electric razor, his deodorant, and the cologne she occasionally got him to wear. She removed all his prescription bottles, many half full, making a mental note to dispose of them properly. Holly pulled his toothbrush out of the holder, where it was stationed beside hers. She looked at her own toothbrush, now alone in the holder, and swallowed the lump in her throat. It seemed so final now. A toothbrush that hadn’t been used in almost two years had the power to create such a void. Holly quickly left the bathroom.
She could hear Logan down the hall. There was the metallic clanging from pieces of the bed being taken apart. There were also sporadic grunts as he tried to get stubborn screws and bolts to cooperate.
There was only one drawer left in her bedroom to do: Bruce’s underwear drawer. It wasn’t just filled with her husband’s boxers and T-shirts. It was where he kept his most treasured possessions. At the bottom of the drawer was the Saint Christopher pendant his grandmother had given him when he made his confirmation. And the science award medal he’d won in sixth grade, when he created a tiny car that ran on water and baking soda. Maybe she would send the award to his parents and the pendant back to his grandmother; she had disconnected from them in her grief. His class ring from Brown was there. He’d insisted she keep it and not bury it with him, because it was eighteen-karat gold and would be worth something. There was his favorite pair of sunglasses, secure in their case. And there was also a picture of Holly and Bruce at a Mexican restaurant in Toronto, taken with an old Polaroid instant camera. It had been his twenty-fourth birthday, his first after she arrived in Canada. Despite his protests, Holly had alerted the restaurant staff to the occasion. They presented Bruce with their celebratory gigantic sombrero and, with Holly’s full support, forced him to wear it. She remembered Bruce fretting that it could give him lice, but he put it on anyway. With Holly’s head easily fitting under the brim as well, the waiter snapped the picture and gave it to them. Holly had no idea Bruce had kept it. He even had a hint of a smile, and he rarely smiled in pictures. She wasn’t aware how long she touched and inspected each artifact. Time once again had no relevance. She finally took them all and stuck them in her jewelry box. With shaking hands and a heavy heart, she emptied the contents of Bruce’s final drawer. And then she went to her own closet and retrieved Bruce’s green flannel shirt. She placed it in the box. If she was to have any hope of making it through this night, it would have to go. If for no other reason than she wasn’t willing to go through this hurt ever again. She had all the mementos she needed.
Logan was nearly finished dismantling the bed when she passed the room he was working in. She stopped. Suddenly she wanted to be in there. She wanted to be near the person who had taken on her wretched task as his own, and in the middle of the night no less. Setting the box down, Holly took a seat on the floor, leaning her back up against the wall. The pieces he had already taken apart were neatly stacked against the wall near the door, as was the mattress. All the hardware used to connect the bed was safely in the Ziploc bag.
“You look pale,” Logan told her.
“You look like this bed is giving you a run for your money.” She tried to sound lighthearted.
“I have yet to meet the bolt I couldn’t persuade to turn,” he said. “You all done?”
“I am.” Holly looked at the box beside her. “I don’t know what to do with this stuff. It feels wrong to just throw it away. Do people want someone’s old underwear and electric razor and toothbrush?”
Logan took a moment before answering. “I don’t think the toothbrush will be of any use to anyone, but poor people need underwear and razors, too. As long as it’s not full of holes and it’s clean, I’ll bet you can donate it. Not to mention, when charities have to do this unpleasant task, I’m almost positive they take everything and respectfully dispose of what they can’t use. I think yo
u should do whatever feels right.”
“Thanks, Logan.” She smiled at him. He always seemed to know just what to say.
Logan stood up and reached for her hand, helping her to rise. “We’re almost done. Let’s bring this all downstairs.”
They worked side by side in silence, until one side of the dining room contained the majority of the contents of the nearly empty sickroom. When they went back to take the mattress down together, Holly looked at the picture.
“I have no clue what to do with that,” she said, pointing to it.
“When the time is right, you will,” he instantly replied. “You don’t have to get rid of it at all if you don’t want to. It’s a great piece of artwork.”
“Maybe Sloan-Kettering would like it?”
Logan smiled at her. “It would be a lovely tribute. But you don’t need to decide that tonight.”
Holly nodded her agreement and together they took hold of the mattress and brought it downstairs.
“You want something to drink?” Holly asked after they leaned the mattress up against a wall.
“Sounds great.”
Holly left Logan alone in the dining room. He glanced around at the boxes of men’s clothes. Cloth garment bags full of suits, jackets, and dress shirts were lying over several chairs. They were packed so carefully, stacked so neatly, as if their owner was just transporting them from one locale to another. But no; he shook his head. She was getting ready to say good-bye to them. Logan was confident Holly had given her husband the same level of attention.
He meandered back into the warmly decorated living room. Right before taking a seat on the cream-colored leather sectional, he spied it. It was on the mantel above the stone fireplace. A wedding photo of Bruce Brennan and his bride. Logan strolled over to get a better look, picking the photograph up. Bruce was, in a word, average. He appeared to be standard height, not too fat, not too thin. Hair wasn’t too long or too short. Logan would have called it brownish. He had green eyes. Not like Holly’s emerald green, but more of an indecisive hazel. Bruce didn’t have any distinctions or disfigurements, with the exception of some horn-rimmed glasses. He was handsome in a nondescript sort of way. His tuxedo fit well, always a plus in Logan’s book. Bruce looked happy enough, although more content than ecstatic.
Logan went on to study Holly in the photograph. She was beaming, radiant, beautiful, everything a bride should be. And she had been right. Even on her wedding day, she wasn’t thin. Present were the pudgy round cheeks Logan had come to know, the full upper arms, the thicker torso he had become so familiar with. But she looked healthy. There was also no denying the fire in her eyes. The sort of inherent brightness that indicates an inner life force, the life force he had begun to see in her, in his gym.
He made a quick scan of the rest of room, looking for other photos, but there were none. It seemed the gigantic house held only a single framed eight-by-ten as evidence of its inhabitants. Logan’s interest returned to the photograph in his hand. Why couldn’t he get a solid read on this girl? Why was she so unwilling to talk, leaving him with nothing to make but misguided assumptions? How was it that just when he thought he had her figured out, she seemed to take him in a different direction again? He looked up, unaware that she’d come back into the room. She was looking at the photo, too, and when Logan met her eyes, he knew right away that this time, she couldn’t hold back the tears.
“God, this is all so hard.” Her voice cracked and her fists clenched around the two bottles of water she was carrying.
“Come here.” Logan put down the picture and held out his arms, taking a step toward her.
Holly walked into them without hesitation and he took the unopened bottles from her and tossed them on the couch before wrapping his arms around her. Her tension began to ease. She felt so protected, small even. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so small. There was nothing untoward about the hug, and finally she felt the freedom to cry. Someone much stronger was holding her up, somebody sturdy and in control. Logan said very little, just the occasional “Yes, I know,” all the while rubbing her shoulders reassuringly as she released all the pent-up pain that had become her constant companion. When she seemed all cried out, he guided her to the couch and he sat down. She flopped.
“Don’t you wish,” she said as she ran her hands from her forehead downward, trying to dry her face, “that when people you love died, all their stuff would just disappear, too? Just completely vanish?”
He gave her a tender smile. “I think it’s an important part of the grieving process. You’ll be glad you did it. Just not right now.”
“You’re right, you know.” Her hands moved up through her hair and she sighed in exasperation. “Jesus, don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
“Holly,” Logan asked gently, “where is everyone, your family and friends? People to help you get through all this shit?”
She hastened to get up and pull herself together, suddenly flustered. “I’m so sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean to bother you with this. Thanks so much for coming.”
There was at least one question he was going to get answered about her. With two hands, he sat her back down. “Oh no you don’t, young lady. I’m not bothered, and if I was, it’s too late anyway. I’m here. And I’m sorry if the next ten minutes hurt, but you are going to answer me. I’ve been training you for nearly four months, and in that time I’ve learned nothing about you. Zero. Zilch. Nada.”
“That’s not true, I talk all the time,” Holly said quickly. “You’re always telling me to focus.” It was a feeble attempt at diverting attention from the topic.
Logan shot her a look that spoke of extreme tolerance mixed with fatherly reproach. “Telling me I set the incline of a treadmill on Mount Kilimanjaro is not talking. Asking me if I can see the baby’s head yet when you’re doing abdominal crunches is not meaningful conversation.”
She couldn’t help the giggle she released and he joined her with a small chuckle of his own before taking a more serious tone and asking her again.
“Stop dodging me. Where is everyone, Holly?”
She cleared her throat and took an unsteady breath. “There is no one.”
“No one,” he repeated. “You’re an orphan?”
“Not exactly.” She took another breath, this one a wind-up for the story she figured he deserved to know. “My family is very much alive and, last I heard, living in Oregon, where I grew up. Bruce was a U.S. citizen with a Canadian mother who had connections to the DCC.”
“DCC?” Logan politely asked.
“Defense Construction Canada. Think troop support and homeland security.”
“Gotcha.”
“When he graduated from Brown, he was offered a position with a technology firm in Toronto. Developing some secret stuff. Bruce loved Canada, loved the prospect of being involved in something so cutting-edge. They even offered me a job there, in the accounting department, when I graduated the following year.” Holly’s words trailed off. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
Logan patiently waited, watching Holly begin to bite her fingernails, the sign he had gotten used to seeing when she was nervous or unsure. How could she possibly tell him her history without sounding selfish and rotten?
“Holly, whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I was a change-of-life baby,” Holly finally said. “My mother was almost forty-four when I was born, my father nearly fifty. They were already set in their ways by the time I came along. And they were already old.”
“Fifty isn’t all that old,” Logan said.
Holly pursed her lips together, her mouth forming a thin line. “It is when it comes to changing diapers and chasing after a toddler full-time. Especially when you don’t particularly want to. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was little more than a nuisance.”
Logan wanted to tell her there was no way that could possibly be true but held his tongue.
Holly continued. “My parents weren’t ac
tually abusive, but they were strict and stifling. They wanted quiet, they wanted to be left alone. Like I said, they were set in their ways. Those ways did not include carting a kid to soccer or ballet.”
Logan nodded, the picture starting to get clearer. Food doesn’t move.
“They were also hoarders,” Holly said, just above a whisper, her eyes growing wide at the confession.
“Hoarders?” Logan repeated, his eyes getting bigger as well.
“Not like filthy, dead-cats-crushed-under-piles-of-moldy-food hoarders,” Holly said quickly, trying to clarify, before adding, sadly, “Mostly books and magazines and clothes piled up. It didn’t leave much room for toys, or even moving around.”
“I see,” Logan said grimly.
“By the time I was a teenager, I realized they were really sick, the kind of sick that couldn’t be helped, not unless they wanted it. But they didn’t think they had a problem. They thought of themselves as history collectors. Trying to make sense of their mess was exhausting and they resented the effort. All I could think about was getting out of there. I could tell they wanted me to.”
“Seriously?” Logan said quietly, astounded she could talk about it so casually. In all the time they had spent together, Holly had never once burdened Logan with an old-fashioned bitch fest about feeling rejected. It took him a minute to wrap his head around it. He didn’t know much about hoarding, other than it was a mental disorder that was difficult to treat, even when the patient was willing. It was hard to think of Holly as a child, surrounded by trash and unable to move, feeling like a burden to her parents. His own parents had always been his biggest advocates and it was only because of their encouragement that he was willing to take his most challenging risks. “I’m so sorry, Holly.”
“It sounds much worse than it actually was.” Holly nodded and continued with such enthusiasm; Logan could tell she was stepping back to a happier time. “Brown gave me a great scholarship; student loans took care of the rest. I met Bruce my sophomore year, when he was a junior. He was already settled by the time I joined him. I loved Canada. We loved Canada. We hiked, we skied. We loved camping. There is just so much beauty up there. Up north, with Bruce, I was able to breathe. We didn’t have many friends but didn’t care. We had each other. Bruce and I were doing fine on our own. We had eight wonderful years. Perfect, really.” Her voice trailed off, hardened. “But pancreatic cancer doesn’t have a great survival rate. He felt he had the best chance of beating it with doctors in New York. So we packed it up and moved here. And he died here. It was just so bad from the moment they found it and spread to his liver and spine so quickly. My parents did come for the funeral and they tried to talk me into going back with them. But I couldn’t be sure of their motives and so much time had passed, you know? I realized they didn’t have a clue who I was. And worse yet, I felt like I didn’t know them anymore. It was like I was talking to strangers about other strangers. I don’t think they knew just how conscientious Bruce really was. I thought he was paranoid at the time. Not only was he an expert in saving and investing, he was insured to the max. Probably overinsured, but I think he wanted me taken care of in case something bad happened to him. Little did he know. Anyway, when I told my parents I was going to stay here in New Jersey, a decision I made mostly out of grief and laziness, I couldn’t tell if they were relieved or angry. So basically Martin and Agnes Busch wished me luck, and I haven’t seen or heard from them since. I’m sure I’m nothing but a memory.”
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