I mean, I know. On some level I know this needs to happen. I’ve known for a long time.
When the medical bills started rolling in after that summer, past due turned into WAY past due in the blink of an eye. My dad did everything he could to keep it at bay. Everything but give up the house.
He never said it, but I think for a long time he felt like if he let go of the house, he had to let go of her. I think it’s why he fought so hard to keep it.
Maybe longer than he should have.
A month ago, though, it all caught up to us. I found him sitting at the kitchen table a little before midnight, still in his dirty clothes from working his third overtime shift that week, eating reheated pasta from another dinner he had missed out on.
“Second mortgage was denied,” he said, the ripped-open envelope still sitting in front of him, his eyes glued to the rejection letter. “I’m going to go into town tomorrow morning to talk to a real estate agent.”
“Summer is almost here,” I said, desperate. “I’ll be able to work more! I can take on some extra shifts, and I can pay the electric bill, and—”
“Emily.” He cut me off, his voice firm. “It’s done. It’s over.” He pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor underneath them. “It’s time to let go.”
He got up from the table and it was like a light switch. He couldn’t part with anything, and now it feels like there will be nothing left. Every day there’s a new pile of boxes, filled to the brim with stuff to donate. It’s like because he was forced to get rid of the house, he’s also fine with throwing out every reminder of her.
And he wants me to be fine with it too.
But standing here, holding this tiny, pretty insignificant piece of my mom that I can’t give up, it suddenly feels impossible. There’s a part of me that can’t let clothes just be clothes and can’t let a house just be a house. This disconnect between knowing what is good and right and what has to happen and this feeling like I’m losing her all over again.
Just differently this time.
I slowly loosen my grip, my fingers letting go one by one until the cardigan falls from my hand into the box, landing at the bottom with a soft rustle.
“How’s it going in there?”
I start, peering out of the closet to see Blake wearing the same white Ron Jon T-shirt from earlier, another empty cardboard box tucked under her arm.
“Uh, fine!” I call back. I pull myself together and quickly scan the clothes in front of me before grabbing a shirt with a price tag still on it and tossing it into the box at my feet so it isn’t completely empty. “About to… get started on the shoes.”
My eyes travel over the floor-to-ceiling shoe rack as I let out a long exhale. For some reason, shoes feel at least slightly less sentimental.
Black cardigans: definitely cry inducing, strong potential for an existential crisis.
A pair of brown loafers: instantly ready to be put into the garbage disposal, will burn if given the chance.
Blake appears in the closet doorway, leaning against it as she drops the box behind her with a thud.
“Well, I am here to help!” she says, her voice a little too awkwardly cheery, just high enough to tell me she knows how weird this is. I see her cringe at herself out of the corner of my eye and can’t help but crack a small smile.
“Sounds good,” I say as I scoop up a pair of heels, tossing them on top of the cardigan and the unworn shirt.
“Anything off-limits?” She eyes the shoe rack, her hands on her hips.
“No,” I say, but my voice cracks unexpectedly. I clear my throat, trying again, firmer now. “No.” The new place won’t have space for a bunch of clothes that no one will wear. And if I start picking and choosing, I’ll want all of it.
We get started, pulling out the shoes by twos, the rack slowly emptying. I don’t know if it’s because we tried to blow up Santa together or the fact that our dads have such a strong bromance, but a comfortable silence settles over us, the hum of the air-conditioning in my parents’ bedroom the only noise. Every now and then our hands brush lightly against one another, but it’s just for a second and then she’s pulling away, redirecting to another pair of shoes, her movements smooth and focused.
I notice a leather bracelet around her tan wrist, seagulls flying around the perimeter of it, stretching their wings alongside small teal circles. I watch it move as Blake reaches out to grab a flip-flop and attempts a backward shot into the box, but it smacks off the corner and lands on the ground in between us.
“Nice try, LeBron,” I say as I bend down to grab the flip-flop. I duplicate the shot. This time it makes it safely inside.
She laughs as she rolls her eyes at me, and I notice the dark circles around them have faded slightly since yesterday.
“How’s the jet lag?” I ask her.
“Better! The donut definitely helped.”
“I didn’t even know Nina’s was on Yelp,” I say, eyeing her as Paul’s words from earlier come back to me.
I almost expect her to be embarrassed, but she laughs and shakes her head. “It’s not. I just remembered your dad said you were working this morning, so I thought I’d swing by. It’s not like I have anything else to do.” She tosses another pair of shoes into the box. “I mean, what do you do for fun around here?”
“This year… I’m not doing much. Just working at the bakery and… waiting for school to start.”
The past friendless weeks have been beyond boring. My usual days off would be spent lounging at the Huckabee Pool, eating cheese fries from
