The moving van was there when I got home from school. My dad had moved out by then, he was staying at a hotel, and my mom was handling the move, alone. She said it was easier that way, and I didn’t ask, didn’t want to know what was easy about it. Anyhow, we were spending Christmas with Gram, so Mom decided she wanted to get the move over with before we drove down to Bethesda. She said she wanted a clean start for the new year, and I was just like, It’s going to take more than a move to do that, Mom, but whatever. I didn’t say anything, and really what was there to say?
The plan was I went home after school, the last day before winter break, and soon as the movers were done, we’d follow them to the storage unit Mom had rented for all our things. She’d been offered a job as a paralegal in some town, upstate, so she drove up one day to meet with them. Of course the whole time, I was hoping and praying she’d hate it there, so we could at least stay in Poughkeepsie, but no such luck. When she came home that night, she’d tried selling me on it, saying the town was so beautiful and safe and clean. She said we’d stay in a motel, hotel, whatever until we got settled, and that we’d go apartment hunting together. Isn’t that fun? A whole new life, she said.
Can we just not talk about it? I said, eating pizza at our kitchen table, the night before we moved out, and she looked hurt. But I mean, really, what did she expect? Did she think I was going to be like, Great, can’t wait for a whole new life! She acted like I had such a bad attitude, but come on, I loved my old town. I loved my old house, all my old friends. I loved my old life, and just because she didn’t, I’m sorry.
We’ll give it a year and see what happens, she said, returning to the table with a beer, and for a moment, I don’t know why, but out of nowhere, I just wanted to hurt her. Honestly, for a second, there, I wanted to say, Yeah, well, I might end up living with Dad, so you can give it a year or however long you want. But of course, soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew there was no way. Living with my dad? For real? No, no way.
I got up to carry my paper plate to the trash, which at that point was a black Hefty bag on the floor, in front of the back door, and the rest of the kitchen was packed. There were boxes stacked everywhere, all very clearly marked in my mom’s handwritten, and it looked so sad. I didn’t understand our things, boxed like that, but, then again, I didn’t understand anything, really. There was so much space, but it was hard to breathe, so I started walking upstairs, wanting to be alone, and my mom called my name.
What? I said.
Come here, she said, and I stood on the staircase, wanting to say no. Thea, come here, she said, I was just so annoyed, and I wanted to scream. I don’t know why, really, but I was annoyed with her all the time by then. So I rolled my eyes, turning around and walking back into the dining room.
What? I said, not asking her, telling her, making sure she knew how annoyed I was.
Good night, she said, looking like herself again for a second, with that look in her eyes, telling me I knew better, because we always said good night, especially the last night in our own home.
Good night, I said, turning around. I think that was the last time I saw my mom, I mean, the woman I remember her being. It didn’t hit me until I grabbed the rail, and then, walking upstairs, I felt like I was going to cry all of a sudden. I made it to my room, and I closed the door, and I really wanted to—I even sat down on the side of my bed, ready for it, but then nothing came. Guess my tears got packed, too.
The next day, when I got home from school, the movers only had a few boxes left to load into the truck. It only took about five minutes for them to finish up, while Mom and I stood in the living room, looking at it, nothing to say for ourselves. So when we heard them open their doors, we locked up for the last time and we got in Mom’s car, ready to follow the moving van to the storage unit. Mom wanted to make sure everything was unloaded and properly stacked in the storage unit, before heading to my Gram’s. I’d been thinking about that moment all day, all week, for a couple weeks, actually, and to be honest, I was glad they’d taken the boxes away, because it was just too painful. But once we got in the car and I put on my seat belt, looking at our house one last time, I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready to go.
Wait, I said, and I told my mom I had to pee. I held my breath while she reached for her purse and took some Kleenex out and handed them to me with her set of house keys, because I didn’t even have my own keys anymore. I don’t know if she knew or not, but I didn’t have to pee, I just wanted . . . I wanted to be in our house, alone, for a few minutes. I guess I wanted to say goodbye in my own way.
The thing is, when I walked in, it didn’t feel like our house anymore, and I guess it wasn’t. I’d never seen it like that, so empty and naked and . . . lonely. Our house had never been lonely before, you know; it always had us there. It was too much, so I went upstairs, heading toward my room, but before I got to the end of the hall, I stopped in my parent’s bedroom, their old bedroom, whatever, facing the driveway. The curtains were still there, because mom was just too burned out by the very end to pull them down, and she didn’t want things from that room anymore, anyway, she said. So I walked over, and I stood, looking out the window. My mom had gotten out of the car, and she’d turned her back to the house, leaning against her car door.
She was smoking. She’d started smoking again. We’d gotten into it a few times, and then she gave me, Who’s the mom here, you or I? I said, If you have to ask, that’s a problem, don’t you think? She knew, at the very least, she couldn’t smoke in the car, because I get carsick, but still. It was gross, and it was needy, and to me, it just seemed like she was turning into this sad, old divorced woman, overnight, and it made me so angry. Everything was making me so angry, and then, catching her, sneaking in another smoke, I wanted to knock on the window, yell down at her, but I didn’t. I just stood there watching her exhale clouds of smoke, her shoulders relaxing.
It’d only been two weeks since my dad moved out, but honestly, I barely recognized her. I mean, she didn’t look like my mom anymore, she just looked fragile, hallowed. I’d never seen her like that, and I didn’t like it. I wanted my real mom back. The whole time, she kept trying to put on a brave face, but the thing is, it wasn’t brave. She’d looked lost since that I night I walked into our house, the night they told me they were divorcing, more or less. And then she kept repeating these affirmations, trying to put a positive spin on it, like, When one door closes, another opens. She said that to me, and the first time, I didn’t know what to say, so I let it go, but the second, third time, forget it.
Mom, we don’t have a door to our name, much less two, I said.
It’s an adventure, she said.
Also known as homelessness, I said, wishing she’d just leave it alone. The situation sucked, why pretend otherwise? I pushed my plate away, leaving half a piece of pizza.
You blame me for this, don’t you? she said, but I couldn’t answer, because I knew it wasn’t her fault. Hearing her ask, I knew she was right, that I was blaming her for something that wasn’t her fault, really. Then again, it was.
Yes and no, I said. It hurt her, hearing that, but the fact is, it was true. That’s how I felt, and I told her so.
She took a moment, thinking it over, and then started to say something, and then she looked down, thinking it through, seeing the consequences, and then she closed her mouth, changing her mind. I think about that moment sometimes, what she was going to say. I think I was something private, something about the two of them, my mom and dad, that she decided I was too young to hear. But what could she tell me about them that I didn’t know by then? It all came out, what was left? I don’t know, but I still wonder sometimes if it would’ve made a difference between the two of us, Mom and me. I thought about that, watching her, as she started to turn around, get back into the car, and I stepped back.
You know they must do something, real estate agents, to get the old juju out. I mean, you don’t just walk into an empty house where people have lived ten years and not feel their presence. It’s not the same as ghosts, but it’s still haunted in a way, because if you ask me, the living can be as haunted as the dead. I mean, their lives are in the closets and the walls and the carpet, it’s a not a clean, tidy ending, just because the boxes are gone.
Looking around their bedroom, I thought, How do I say goodbye to my own life? You want to know? I’ll tell you how: in as few words as possible.
When I was a little girl, I used to play in the curtains in my parent’s bedroom. Don’t ask me why, but I just loved the feeling of these huge pieces of fabric, covering my whole body, and I’d twist it around in a curtain, wrapping myself up, pretending the curtain was a ball gown. And on nice days, whenever there was a breeze, I’d stand in front of that very same window and open my arms, pretending I was Supergirl, imagining myself flying through our house.
Silly, I know, but it was one of my favorites games of make believe, and another thing I realized I would never do again in that house, or any other, probably. Standing there, I knew that part of my life was over, but then I decided to flip a coin, leave it to chance to determine if I would fly through my house one last time. So I opened the window, and I raised my arms behind the curtain, waiting for the wind to decide.