Oh, joy.
“Okay, Mom. Bye.” I wander into the closet, trying to decide if I really have to do any laundry before I leave for Tybee Island in the morning. It’s only a four hour drive down to the coast, so taking my own car is a much cheaper option over flying and renting a car once I get there. I peruse the clothes on my side of the closet. I’ve got enough clean outfits to make the trip.
Involuntarily, I turn to face Jake’s side of the closet. His clothes are still in place, hanging right where he left them. They’re relics from a history that seems just out of reach, but it might as well be light years away. Sometimes it seems like a thousand lifetimes have come and gone since that night. Then again, sometimes it seems as if I can close my eyes, breathe deeply, and slip right back in time as long as I try hard enough. But my eyes always open, bringing me back to the present, and I find myself wondering if I ever really had him in the first place. I find myself wondering if I really had my perfect, simple little life or if I had dreamed it up and hallucinated the whole thing.
His uniform shirts are still in the ticketed plastic wardrobe bags from the cleaners. A fine layer of dust has blanketed his clothes and it’s just more proof that he’s gone. He’s been gone for some time, but the ache in me hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s intact, deep in my chest, and seems to grow more every day.
I peer down to the basket on the floor beneath Jake’s clothes. I cover my mouth with my hands, trying hard to choke back my tears. I try to ignore the last outfit he wore sitting in the dirty clothes hamper. It hurts looking at them just laying there, waiting to be washed and worn again. They’ll wait there forever in vain. Just like I’ll wait forever. I hate seeing them there, but I can’t bring myself to wash them, or throw them out, or give them away.
I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do with these cargo shorts and department softball team jersey. There’s no manual with instructions for this type of thing. There’s no rule of thumb or guideline or even suggested course of action for handling your deceased husband’s dirty clothes, so I do what I’ve done for the last two years. I flip off the closet light and walk away from it. At least, for another day.
***
I’m standing in the kitchen, sipping soda, when the doorbell rings.
“Sadie, we’re here,” Mom drawls as she opens my front door.
I turn and set my soda on the counter and head to the door. “Hey,” I say softly as I hug my mom then my dad.
“So how was Charlotte?” she asks, wasting no time in pushing me to discuss the trip.
“Wow, Mom. Cut right to it, huh?” I shake my head, one of my typical dry smirks working across my lips. Turning on my heels, I head back down the hall to my room, knowing that Mom and Dad will follow me.
“I’m sorry, I’m just curious how it went.” Her tone tells me that she’s two seconds from getting ass hurt and crying if I snap at her again.
I drag in a ragged breath and decide to just tell her what she wants to hear and get it over with. “It was okay. Terry and Ellen met me for dinner and everything went fine.” I shrug as I sum up the visit in two sentences while dumping the contents of my suitcase on my bed.
Mom is standing in front of my dresser with wide eyes, waiting expectantly for more than that vague synopsis of my trip. “Just okay? Did you ask about the transplant? Are the drugs working to keep his body from rejecting?”
I sigh heavily and roll my eyes. “No, Mom, I didn’t ask about his medication. I didn’t ask how he’s enjoying his second chance at life. And I didn’t ask how often he thanks God that Jake died so that he might live. Okay?!” I snap in my usual manner.
It’s behavior that I’ve come to expect from myself. That doesn’t mean that I’m proud of being a raging bitch when provoked, it just means that I know how I can be when someone pushes the wrong buttons. Mom not only pushes my buttons, she jabs them over and over with her overbearing, insufferable hovering. It’s a game of Hunt and Peck gone terribly awry.
“Sadie!” she scolds, clearly affronted by my response.
“June, don’t pry,” my dad warns from his spot at the door.
Mom scoffs…or chokes. The strangled noise that just came out of her mouth could have been either one. I turn to face her with one hand propped up on my hip. She turns to face Dad with both hands propped on her hips. And we both end up looking to him to play referee like he has on so many occasions. He’s the voice of reason. He always has been.