“Of course, I talk to him, Mom. We’re partners,” Rachel said. She scrunched her nose up slightly.
“You’re braver than me. It took me a million years to work up the courage to talk to your dad,” Charlotte said.
At this, Rachel’s eyes turned back toward the table. Charlotte immediately regretted it. Bringing up Jason Hamner in just casual, everyday conversations usually soured those conversations in ways you couldn’t take back. It was a reminder that nothing had really gone the way they had planned, and they couldn’t get it all back.
“She’s working her magic. That’s for sure,” Gail said.
“My gosh! What is your magic, Rachel?” Claire asked.
Rachel rolled her eyes and muttered something.
“What did she say?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe we should just let it go,” Charlotte tried.
“No. She said her magic is giving him all the answers on the tests,” Abby said with a volatile laugh.
“Rachel! No! Why?” Charlotte demanded.
Rachel gave a half-shrug. “Just because he’s the cutest guy I’ve ever seen, doesn’t mean that he’s the smartest.”
“Fair enough,” Claire said.
“But, you shouldn’t just give out your answers...” Charlotte insisted.
“Come on, Mom. It’s just history,” Rachel said. “Plus, I think it’s totally unfair that someone can fail a whole class, just because they can’t remember the exact dates George Washington did something that nobody cares about anymore.”
“Hey. We care,” Charlotte said.
At this, Charlotte, Claire and their girls burst into laughter. It was all so ridiculous, so silly.
After they finished their pancakes, Charlotte took the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher. When she turned around, she found Claire’s eyes at the doorway.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Claire beckoned for her to enter the hallway. When she reached her, Claire said, “What if we try again today?”
Ah. Now Charlotte knew the real reason for the pancake day.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
“Just a few shirts. A few jackets. They’re taking up so much of your closet, Charlotte. If anything, I feel like you should buy yourself a whole new wardrobe to fill the space.”
“I don’t want to fill that space,” Charlotte protested. “Those are his things. I can’t just throw them out.”
“No. You should keep a few key items. Nobody is asking you to throw everything out. But you must see them every single day, right? It’s like a weight. You can’t escape from it.”
Claire turned around quickly and marched down the rest of the hallway toward the bedroom Charlotte had shared with Jason for a number of years before his death. Claire was right, of course: the place looked almost exactly the same as it had before Jason’s death. She had even kept Jason’s flannel across the desk chair—where he had left it the morning he had gone to go fishing. She remembered specifically thinking, when she’d seen it that morning, Oh no. He’s going to want that out there. It’s a bit chilly today.
Claire ripped open the wardrobe and splayed her arm out, gesturing toward the thick coats, the jackets, the flannels, the pairs of jeans.
“The man already had too much stuff,” Claire said. She then gestured toward the other side, where Charlotte’s trim dresses, tiny pairs of jeans, tank tops and sweaters, took up much less space than Jason’s. “I’m just asking you to try to get rid of, say, a quarter of it today. No more. No less.”
Charlotte scrunched her nose. “I know you’re trying to help,” she said. Her voice broke.
Claire’s eyes shimmered with tears. “It’s not like I would have ever wished this on you, you know.”
“Maybe we could try to do this next week? Or the one after? I don’t know. It’s almost the holidays, Claire. I can’t just... forget about him over the holidays.”
“Nobody said anything about forgetting,” Claire insisted. “But don’t you remember what Susan said about going through their mother’s things, getting rid of a lot of it, cleaning up the house? She said it was necessary for them to move on and build something new.”
“Anna’s been dead since 1993,” Charlotte stated. “Almost thirty years!”
“Are you suggesting that thirty years from now—when you’re seventy-one years old—you’ll be ready to get rid of some of this stuff?” Claire demanded hands-on-hips.
“Maybe. I think we’d better push it to seventy-five, though,” Charlotte said.
“You’re being willfully difficult. And I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is just what you do,” Claire said, trying to joke.
Charlotte perched on the edge of her bed and stared at her shoes. Silence filled the room. Finally, she exhaled and said, “I’ll get rid of ten shirts today. Ten. That’s it.”
Claire snapped her fingers and beamed at her sister. “I’ll take it. It’s a start.”
It was a difficult task, choosing the ten shirts. Claire insisted she didn’t have a memory attached to all of them—how could she have? But Charlotte said she did. She could feel all the days she had spent with Jason behind each and every one. She could feel the warmth within the hugs he had given her. By the time she had ten shirts stacked up on the bed, her cheeks were blotchy with tears. When she glanced back at the closet, she winced and said, “It doesn’t even look like we did anything.”
Claire shrugged. “What’s that expression about climbing a mountain? One step at a time?”
“Something like that,” Charlotte said.
Claire collected the shirts in her arms and directed herself toward the hallway. “You know, this single guy I know has asked about you a few times.”
“What?” Charlotte’s stomach curdled at the thought.
“Don’t worry about it if you’re not ready,” Claire said. “I was just thinking; maybe it could be interesting? To go out on a date? Just to see what it felt like to meet someone new?”
Charlotte shook her head violently. She couldn’t even articulate how much she didn’t want that. Claire heaved a sigh and said, “Very well. I just figured I would at least try. I’ll take these to my place and drop them off at a second-hand place
