Bring Me Back(80)

“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.

I set a pot in the keep pile. “It’ll go faster if it’s both of us,” I reason.

She clangs a glass against the countertop and I look up at her. “B,” she says sternly, “you’re avoiding.”

I look away. She’s right. Moms are always right. It’s like they’re gifted special magical powers or something.

“Fine,” I grump. “I’ll go do it.”

I wobble as I stand, still not used to the growing belly in front of me.

Boxes litter the downstairs, labeled with either room names or the word donate. I tiptoe around them and up the steps.

The master bedroom is empty, the furniture already gone. I sold it online—I hadn’t wanted to take it with me. The new stuff was delivered yesterday to the apartment. It’s slightly more feminine in style since it’s just me. I figured since this was a new start I might as well get new stuff. Besides, a lot of the things Ben and I bought together would never fit in the apartment.

I grab an empty box off the floor and head into the bathroom. Things like towels and washcloths have already been packed—except for one set while I stayed here—but all the toiletries are still there. I pile them into the box. There’s no rhyme or reason to my method. I just want to get this done and face the last obstacle.

It doesn’t take me long to fill the box with hairspray, shampoo and conditioner, and various body washes and deodorants. Ben always made fun of me for hoarding deodorant, but it’s one of those things I never like to run out of.

I carry the full box to the doorway and grab two more empty ones.

I fill one with things from the medicine cabinet and that ends up being all that’s left in the bathroom. My heart races as I pick up the other empty box.

I pad into the closet and flick on the light. It’s empty except for the one side. My breath catches at the sight of all of Ben’s clothes. They hang there, waiting for him to return, only he’s never coming back. I have to accept that fact.

I step forward with determined strides. I drop the box on the floor and then grab a handful of button-down shirts still on the hangers and shove them in the box. My breath catches when I look down at them but I keep going. I shove everything that’s left of his—jeans, socks, boxers, shirts, all of it—into that one box. The box overflows, unable to hold that much stuff, but I don’t care. My throat catches and I choke on a sob. There’s a sweatshirt on top of the pile. One from our high school with his last name spelled out across the back. He got it for playing football. I pick it up and cradle it to my chest. The baby kicks my stomach, like she feels my turmoil.

I sink to the floor on my knees and sob into his sweatshirt. I remember his sweet smile and kind blue eyes. I feel the whisper of his lips against my cheek and the stroke of his fingers through my hair.