Chapter Twenty-Six
Alex
There are large piles spread out across the basement. One for donating, one for trash, and one for keeping. It doesn’t look like we’ve done much. In fact, it looks ten times messier than when we started. No wonder people pay professionals to do this.
I’ve packed up apartments, barely, considering I really don’t have all that much, but never an entire house. I hardly remember moving out of our tiny Cincinnati apartment, other than the mountain of boxes that took up most of the living space. But this is crazy. It makes me wonder how we accumulated so much crap and why we never thought to purge it all before now.
When Mom told me she and Richard were planning on selling the house, my immediate reaction was a spiral of sadness and panic. For the past seventeen years, this has been my home. I know every floorboard that squeaks, which windows stick, and the way you have to jiggle the handle on the back door just right in order to get it to lock. The thought of never coming back here again felt like another deep loss I wasn’t ready for. I didn’t want my house going to someone else, not when it was stillours.
Then Mom and Richard offered it to me. It was mine if I wanted, a rent-to-own sort of situation. They would keep it and sell it to me through the proper channels once I was settled and had the money to purchase it.
It was tempting.
So tempting that I actually thought about it. Like, really weighedthe pros and cons. That’s when I realized, it’s not the building that makes it our home but the people who live within in it. Without Mason or Mom, it wouldn’t be the same. As badly as I want to cling to what was, I know it’s time to close that chapter of my life and start a new one.
Two months later and with most of my stuff in storage, I’m officially moved back. Sort of. I don’t have a job or place of my own, but until I can figure that out, I’m glad I’m able to help Mom and Richard box up so they can start their own new chapter.
Mom stands with her hands on her hips and looks around. “I’d say we made pretty good progress.”
“That’s an optimistic outlook,” I tell her, flopping on the worn sofa that definitely needs to go to the dumpster.
Mom sits beside me and pulls out her phone. “How would you feel about Richard bringing home some pizza?”
“From Pizzano’s?” I ask excitedly. I’ve been back in the States for a few days and have yet to have pizza from my favorite pie joint. “With bacon and pepperoni and extra cheese?”
Mom wrinkles her nose and pokes at my side. “How do you stay so skinny?”
“Lots of sex and cocaine.”
She glares. “One of those better not be true.”
I lean in and arch an eyebrow. “Yes, but which one?”
“Still so funny, I see,” she says fondly. Her fingers fly over her phone screen, and once she gives the order to Richard, she pats my leg. “You doing okay, kiddo? I know this has been tough.”
“Only going to get tougher.” So far, I’ve packed up most of my bedroom and helped with the dining room that Mom used as an office. We’ll finish the basement tomorrow, but we’ve yet to even step foot in Mason’s room. The basement is bad enough, since this is where we had ourMario Kartbattles and he and Richard would have their jam sessions. But the moving truck is scheduled to come late next week, so we don’t have the luxury of procrastinating. I suppose that’s for the best.
“Deb offered to help. It’s okay if you want to focus on your own stuff.”
“Thisismy stuff. I want to be here.” As hard as it’s going to be, I don’t want anyone else to do it.
Mom seems to understand because she pats my leg again. “Okay, but take breaks. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
“It’s kind of a sprint,” I remind her.
She sighs. “Maybe I’ll have Deb help with the kitchen. It takes forever to wrap every single plate and glass.”
I wince because, yeah, that sounds horrible.
The old secondhand Nintendo sits on the ground in front of the couch, unplugged and ready to be packed in my own keepsake pile. I pick up Mason’s Zelda wireless controller and drag my thumbs across the worn-out buttons. I think about all the games ofMario Kartwe played here on this couch and all the games we will never again get to play. How he always wanted to be Princess Peach.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
My voice cracks, and a wave of guilt crashes over me.
“Come here.” Mom pulls me to her chest and wraps her arms around me. Her comforting embrace triggers a fresh set of tears. Something that continues to happen to us both at the oddest of times. “I know it hurts, and I know you have regrets. I do, too. Hindsight can be cruel. But you did nothing wrong. Okay?”
I shake my head because it doesn’t feel that way. In fact, it feels like every decision I’ve ever made has been wrong. “Younever left. You took care of him. You shouldn’t have had to do that all alone.” That’s the worst part, I think. Of all my regrets, and there are many, leaving Mom to deal with all the hard stuff by herself is by far the worst.
