I sit in bed snacking on chips with the baby name book propped on my belly. I crunch down on the chip and Winnie glares at me from the windowsill. The silly cat is finally coming around more. She’s mostly hidden under the bed the last few months, only coming out to eat in the middle of the night. At one point I thought she’d died, but when I crouched on the floor and lifted the bed skirt, mean blue eyes glared back at me.
Animals, they know things we can’t comprehend, and I believe she understood that Ben was gone and never coming back. I think in her crazy cat brain she thought I’d done something to him and it gave her more ammunition to hate me.
“What are you looking at?” I ask her, chomping on a chip.
Her dark brown tail swishes and her eyes blink lazily. The disdain in her expression is almost hysterical. I should probably find her a new home, but she’s been with us for so long that I can’t fathom her not being there. With the baby coming it’s something I have to seriously contemplate. I can’t imagine Winnie doing well with a baby.
I flip to the next page in the baby name book. I never realized there were so many names before.
I glance at the empty space beside me in bed and my heart aches. This should be something that Ben is a part of. I feel wrong picking our child’s name on my own, but it’s not something we ever talked about.
“Bernadette?” I say, cringing. “No way.” I skim through the B names and find nothing. “Carly. Hmmm, maybe.” I scribble it down on my piece of paper. It joins a very short list of names. Granted, I’m only on the C’s so it’s bound to grow.
I make it to the H names before I have to set aside the book. I end up picking up What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It seems to be the go-to pregnancy book but most of the passages scare the crap out of me.
After reading a few pages, I yawn and decide to call it a night. I pile the books on my nightstand and flick off the light.
The boxes in the corner cast strange shadows across the walls and I find myself childishly imagining the bogeyman emerging from behind them. It’s a silly thought, I know, but it’s weird seeing the boxes there.
The last two weeks have been spent packing up my belongings. Some things will go to the new apartment with me, others will be donated, and I’ll try to sell some. The house is slowly but surely emptying out. It’s a sad process and it kills me a little bit each time I pack something away. I keep reminding myself it’s for the best.
I cross my hands beneath my head and close my eyes, willing sleep to come.
After a few minutes, I drift away.
“What about this?” my mom asks, holding up a wooden spoon. It’s stained and old, hardly anything anyone would want.
“Toss it,” I say, sorting silverware into a box. I just got the call that there’s been an offer on the house. It’s a good one, great, even, so I accepted it.
This is really happening now.
My dad and Ryder are painting the apartment today. Ryder was kind enough to ask if I needed any help so I gladly accepted. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of my dad there painting by himself. I was afraid of him falling off a ladder or something. The man isn’t exactly the most coordinated.
I finish with the silverware and move on to wrapping the plates and setting them in the box.
The kitchen and master bathroom are the last rooms I have to pack. Everything else is pretty well taken care of apart from the closet. My clothes have already been moved to the apartment—aside from a few outfits—but Ben’s clothes still hang inside. I know I can’t take them with me, but I’m having a hard time letting go. I know I’ve kept much more important things that belonged to him, but getting rid of his clothes seems monumental. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. I tend to do that.
I finish with the plates and tape the box shut before carrying it over to the front door.
The house that was once so full—full of love, laughter, and happiness—now echoes with emptiness. It’s a shell of what it once was. Sort of like me. It’s sad, really, how much this place doesn’t feel like home anymore.
I go back to the kitchen and begin sorting the pans. I’m trying not to think about the fact that tonight will be my first night sleeping in the apartment. My parents will in a hotel for the next two days before they head back to Florida. My mom is still talking about moving back here. I told her I don’t care if they do, as long as it’s what they want, but not to move because of me. So, we’ll see.
“You’re quiet,” she comments as we work. I sit on the floor, going through the bottom cabinets while she works on the top ones, sorting glasses.
“I have a lot on my mind,” I say with a sigh. It’s not a lie. I’m all torn up inside.
Life is a confusing melody and right now I can’t hear the music.
Nothing makes sense and I only hope that one day I hear the music again.
“That’s understandable,” she says, wrapping a glass. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and lay a pan on the donate pile. I don’t know if the hospice will even take pans but it’s barely used so I figure it’s worth a try. If not I’ll just toss it. “Why don’t you let me finish this and you can go do your bathroom?”
I know what she’s really suggesting—clear out Ben’s things.