Page 3 of Lost and Bound

I don’t need to carry around the keepsakes anymore; I got them immortalized on my skin the day of my parents’ funeral, but that doesn’t mean I can easily part with them either.

Returning them to the small, and very used pencil case that holds them, I leave my most prized possessions on the table, still trying to figure out if I can bear to leave them in one of the boxes or take them with me. With no decision made, I spend the next couple of hours finishing the other cartons I’ve been putting off.

Thankfully, the moving company will be able to work around me not being here in person when they finish packing up the house. I know my limit, and seeing our lives boxed up in the back of a truck is it.

The plan is that I’ll leave for work, the packers will do their thing, and I’ll meet them in the afternoon at my new, much smaller apartment. And because everything is pretty much done, I give myself one last night on the sofa, watching reruns of my favorite baking show. Then I fall asleep there, like I used to do when I was a kid.

The quiet of pre-dawn is shattered by the sounds of enforcer sirens, and so are my plans of sleeping until the sun has risen. I get up and enjoy—or rather endure—all the “lasts” in my family home.

By far the hardest is sitting on the swing my dad made for my birthday. “I know it’s a house, but it will always be our home,” I say, talking out loud like I do. Though I have to blink the tears from my eyes and rub my hand down my chest a few times before I can go on. “I know you’d want me to do this, but it’s hard, you know. Please don’t leave me.”

The leaves rustle in the breeze, and I take it as a sign from them. It’s funny how grief makes you look for messages or signs in everyday things. I used to worry it meant I wasn’t coping now I know it means I am.

In a slightly better headspace, I race through our old family home, triple-checking that I have left nothing behind. At the last minute, I decide to pack my pencil case of treasures, storing it at the top of one of the boxes, before I grab another change of clothes and pack them in my backpack in case I don’t want to open any boxes tonight.

I don’t say goodbye, nor do I look back. I pedal as hard as I can and ride away from everything I’ve ever known. Instead of getting caught up in my head, I distract myself by listening to the news reports from last night. Given the lack of anything substantial, it looks like the enforcers did a gallant job protecting us from the others again last night. On a full moon too.

The back gate to the center is open when I arrive, and a delivery van is already being loaded. Clearly, I’m not the only one ready to make up for the time we lost yesterday.

After parking my bike, I get a couple of hugs and lots of waves on my way through the community center. Putting my backpack in a cubby and grabbing a clean apron, I wash my hands as soon as I walk into the kitchen. Even before I’ve stopped, Gertie, the kitchen supervisor, is grinning mischievously. “Maya, you’re with Mr. Kenney downstairs. Apparently, we’ve got mice again.”

Everyone else has the same expression on their face. I’ve been set up. Not that I mind.

“I’m going to talk him into getting a cat this time,” I mutter before coming to a complete stop as I stare down at a plate of cookies.

My stomach drops and I don’t even get the chance to take a breath before I’m engulfed by one of her infamous cuddles. “It’s okay, Maya. Sweetheart, spending time with them was more important than making cookies.”

“I will not cry, I will not cry,” I blabber against her shoulder.

The saying that it takes a village to raise a child can also be adapted to dealing with grief. Everyone at the community center became a pillar of strength after my foundations were ripped out from under me. As soon as word of the accident spread, I had a support network that still refuses to let me shoulder anything alone.

“You can come back and cry all you like, but only after you tell him we voted.”

I slip out of her cuddle, wiping my eyes. “You voted? On what?”

“We want an orange cat, and we’re going to call him Ted.”

The distraction doesn’t go unnoticed, but it’s their way of reminding me what’s important. I’ve also been around them long enough to know how it works and effortlessly join their conversation. “And if the cat is female?”

“Still Ted. And if it’s neutered, we’re still calling it Ted. Now, stop standing around and go get us our cat.”

I get lovingly shoved out of the kitchen, and if I’m honest, I’m kind of glad. I mean, I really enjoy cooking and helping get everything ready, but I also like doing things just with Mr. Kenney. For starters, it’s a lot quieter.

I find him in his office, and before a word is spoken, I slide the plate of cookies onto his desk, trying not to feel guilty.

Much like the bunch upstairs, Mr. Kenney pays no attention to who made them. He gives me a wink as he takes the biggest one off the plate, before pushing the plate back in my direction. “We’re not getting a cat, by the way.”

“Oh, my god. Already?” I laugh, taking a cookie.

“I don’t even think there are any mice down there,” he grumbles, as he waves me out of his office.

He goes first, and we zigzag through the utility room until we come to the basement door. I wait while he unlocks it, then as soon as the lights are on, we start going down.

“Watch the stair.” He points the area out unnecessarily as he steps over it. “I need one of the maintenance team to come and fix it.”

“You asked them last week. I’ll do it,” I offer as we both take extra care moving around the place he pointed to.

He makes it safely past, but then he shouts something just as I’m stepping over the damaged area. I land without wobbling, as something launches up the stairs toward us from the basement at a rate of a hundred miles an hour.