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“I’ve got tape here.” She points to the side table. “And there are lots of packing materials in the other room. Anything you don’t want, you can leave. I’ll donate it or throw it out.”
My head bobs up and down in agreement.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says with more speed than finesse, before she escapes into the hall.
I drop onto the bed and survey the room.
Not much has changed since I moved out. It’s a little surprising. The main rooms of the house have been redone countless times. I always assumed the first remodel was to expunge my father’s presence. After that, I think it was just a way for her to keep busy.
When we were young, she allowed my sister and me to decorate however we wanted. Kelsey loved redecorating and took every opportunity to transform her space.
I took comfort in familiarity. The flower bedspread has been on my bed since my eighth birthday. The dresser was part of my nursery furniture, and the shelves were installed by my father—before he walked out, obviously.
The shelves still hold my two measly swimming trophies, along with a smattering of photographs—of friends I never see anymore—and books. The books are packed tightly and organized alphabetically by author.
When I go to the dresser, I discover the drawers are mostly empty. A few old t-shirts are in the bottom one and a stack of papers is in the top one. I take out the papers but leave the shirts.
The closet is stuffed full of formal dresses. There are so many that I have to assume some of them were Kelsey’s. They’re preserved with care in plastic bags, and I can’t fathom why my mother saved them. I have no use for old prom dresses, so I leave them where they are.
On the shelf above the dresses are a couple of shoe boxes. I pull them down to find that they are filled with junk. I set them aside to be thrown out.
Opening drawers and moving things around doesn’t release any dust into the air. It isn’t surprising that my mother has kept my room clean. However, it does make me more emotional. Why would cleanliness make me feel like crying?
I fold the first box and slap some tape across the bottom. There’s no space in my apartment for more books, and yet, my heart can’t handle leaving them, so I pull them, one by one, from the shelves. The ones I don’t remember, I set aside for donation. The ones that bring an immediate rush of joy, I put in the box. For too many years, books were the only way to escape the constant tension in the house.
I tape up a second box and fill it, too. I’m just lifting it to judge how heavy it is when my mother walks back into the room. “What did your father say?”
The words were stuck in my throat all day on Wednesday, and when I got to the restaurant, I couldn’t bring myself to release them. “I haven’t told him.”
“You don’t have dinner anymore?” The note of pleasure in her voice is unmistakable.
“We do.” I turn and pull another book off the shelf.
She’s silent for a second. “You decided not to tell him.”
I drop the book I’m holding onto the bed. I don’t want to lie. “No. I…”
She waits, her hands hanging loosely by her sides. She looks uncertain, which is so unusual that it throws me further off balance.
“It took eighteen years for you to refer to him. Maybe I’d like a week or two to decide whether I want to tell him.”
“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
She’s never asked for forgiveness. “For what?” I say defiantly, daring her to respond.
“For your father leaving.” She heaves a breath.
“I don’t blame you for him leaving. I blame you for shutting us out when he chose to leave. I wasn’t at fault any more than you were. I was a child.” My volume increases with each word.
For a split second, surprise flits across her face.
“I didn’t blame you.”
“You shut doors in my face. You pretended he didn’t exist. You refused to allow me to even talk about him.” The very night he left, she removed every photograph of him from the house. For weeks there were bare spots on the walls, and empty spaces in our photo albums.
Over time, she filled the physical spaces, but the emotional ones stayed barren.
“I dealt with his betrayal the only way I knew how,” she says stiffly.
