The bookcase stood jam-packed. Listening to the vacuum cleaner whirring in the living room below, I scanned the titles: Rebecca, Wuthering Heights, Emma. I remembered in high school and college practically inhaling those stories as the words transported me to a different time and place. But it was unlikely I would read them again. I could imagine Nicole and her fifteen-year-old daughter sorting through the books, and decided to let those two take what they wanted. Then I might donate the rest to a charitable organization.
On the bottom shelf lay my high-school annuals. I folded my legs and sat on the Chinese hook rug, a backdrop for many childhood games, and spent several minutes browsing through my senior yearbook, something I hadn’t done for decades. I glanced at my photo and was glad to see I wasn’t the only girl with a less-than-perfect complexion or a hairdo once known as dorky. I turned the page and noticed that next to her photo a girl named Carol had written, You’re the best artist in the school. I’m jealous. A few pages further a boy with long sideburns had written, Remember me when you’re famous. Okay? I hadn’t seen either of those people since the ten-year class reunion. On that evening, both had asked about my career in the arts, and they’d seemed disappointed to learn I was just a mom and a realtor. “I love real estate,” I’d said, handing them each a card. Then I’d escaped to the other side of the room.
I’d elected to skip the twenty-year reunion. I told myself the only person I cared to see was Candy, whom I got together with often enough. I’d dated a few guys in high school, but nothing serious. When I met Phil I was grateful I’d saved myself for the one true love of my life. What a laugh, I thought, slapping the album shut and shoving it back into the bookcase. I didn’t feel like carting the yearbooks home, that was for sure. Where would I store them? Anyway, I wanted to forget the past and only think about the future. I considered discarding them in my parents’ garbage can, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, just like I clung on to everything. Maybe if I ignored them long enough, Dad would get fed up and toss them out for me.
The vacuum cleaner noise came to a halt. As I descended to the first floor, I heard Mom open the kitchen door, then walk outside onto the back porch. Quietly, I continued down to the basement. In the back of the storage closet, jammed in with Dad’s old hip waders and other fishing gear, I found the familiar wooden box. My fingertips stroked the dusty surface, once lacquered and smooth, now scarred from years of use. I remembered standing by the ocean in fragrant salty air and listening to the steady roaring and crashing of the surf, my paint box spread open like an unfurling flower.
I unlatched the metal hook. Partially used tubes of acrylic paints and half a dozen weathered brushes lay inside, as if frozen in time. Both hands exploring, I gave several tubes a gentle squeeze. Some felt rock hard, but most were still pliable. As I closed the lid, I noticed a smallish, unused eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch canvas on the bottom shelf.
Hoping to take the box and canvas to my car unnoticed, I mounted the stairs with them in my arms. In the kitchen I found Mom removing two cups from the shelf. I felt shy, like a child caught playing with dolls after she is too old for such games.
“I’m taking some of my old garbage out of the basement,” I said, trying to carry my booty inconspicuously.
“Great. But don’t run off.” She insisted I sit down for a cup of tea, which was steeping in a pot on the kitchen table. “We certainly enjoyed your friend the other night,” she said, pouring the mahogany-colored liquid into our cups. The smell of lavender hung above the table, a sure sign she’d prepared Earl Grey.
“He’s just my drawing teacher. I told you that. A friend of Phil’s.” I gulped my tea too quickly, burning the tip of my tongue. “I am dating a man named Tim. I’ll have to bring him over.”
“That would be fine, Marguerite. But do invite Henry back.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.” I could guarantee it. “On another subject, I’m glad to see you’re doing better now. I guess all your worries about Dad were for nothing.”
She raised her cup to her lips and blew across the brim. “We haven’t spoken about it.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
She returned her cup to the saucer without drinking. Her lips pursed, whitening from the pressure.
“Everything is on an even keel again, isn’t it?” I said.
“Not exactly. I told your father I’d leave him if he ever sees Alice again.” Her eyes were melting behind a film of moisture, but she blinked the tears away. “I should have put my foot down years ago, but I was afraid of being left alone.” Her head fell into her hands; her shoulders began to tremble. “Last night he confessed everything, how for years he snuck off to see her, and even brought her to dental conferences with him.” She pulled herself erect. “I told him to go ahead and marry the woman if he liked her so much. ‘I won’t stand in your way,’ I said.”
I tried to envision Dad kissing another woman, and my stomach twisted with revulsion, as if I’d tripped over decomposing garbage.
Mom let out a sob, then blotted her eyes with a paper napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“Mother, you have nothing to be sorry for.” I reached over and grasped her hand. “But don’t rush off and do
