Cracks in the Sidewalk(30)

“What I want,” Liz said, a stifled sob in her breath, “is to be free of this horrible thing. I want to do things for myself, get my own glass of water, stand without someone to hold me, walk through my own front door, pick up my babies, and hug them. I want to clean house and do laundry—”

A well of heartache and frustration broke and poured itself out in a cascade of tears.

“Don’t cry, honey,” Claire whispered, gently rubbing the back of her daughter’s quivering shoulders. “Please don’t cry. We’ll get through this together. Everything will work out. Give it time, Liz. Give it time.”

She wrapped her arms around Liz and held her close until the sound of sobbing disappeared beneath the rat-tat-tat of rain against the window. After a long while, Claire helped Liz into her bathrobe then into the wheelchair. On good days Elizabeth thumped from room to room using her walker. But on bad such as this, she slumped into the wheelchair and allowed herself to be pushed from one place to the next.

By early afternoon the rain had become a drizzle with an occasional splotch of sun pushing through. In the early afternoon Liz gave in to a nap. Claire sat beside her trying to focus on a magazine, hoping she’d already seen the worst of this day but remembering that misfortunes generally came in sets of three. First there was the rain, then Liz’s accident. What next, Claire wondered?

A little while later she heard noises outside: the rumble of an engine, the sound of men yelling. She left Elizabeth napping and stepped outside. A black pickup truck stood in the driveway, older perhaps than Claire and certainly in worse condition.

“Get a move on!” the driver yelled to the man standing in the truck’s flat bed. “Toss ’em out.”

“They’re gonna get wet.”

“Just do it!” the driver commanded. “We don’t get paid for dry, we get paid for delivering!”

“Wait a minute!” Claire shouted as she ran toward the truck. “I think you’re making a mistake. We’re not expecting any—”

By then the man in the flat bed had heaved two large black garbage bags onto the driveway and had a third in his hand.

“Your name McDermott?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” Claire answered. “But—”

“Then we got the right house,” he answered. “I told JT, twenty bucks if we dump the stuff in the driveway. We don’t carry it inside for no twenty bucks!”

Dumfounded, Claire stammered, “What’s Jeffrey got to do—”

But by then the truck had already backed away, leaving behind five soggy garbage bags in the driveway.

Bewildered by the situation, Claire opened the first bag: Elizabeth’s clothes. Had she not recognized the pink suede suit her daughter wore Easter before last, Claire would have mistaken it as laundry. Coats, suits, dresses, shoes, underwear—none of it sorted, folded, or stacked, everything damp and crumpled. Clothes Liz had been meticulous about now looked like a bunch of rags set aside for dusting furniture or polishing the car. All five bags were the same, each worse than the one before. The injustice of it suddenly overwhelmed Claire.

“How could he?” she cried and burst into tears.

After she’d cried for nearly twenty minutes, Claire thought of Liz. Determined that her daughter should never learn of the callous disregard Jeffrey had shown, Claire hauled the five bags into the garage. From the upstairs bedroom she gathered an armful of hangers and a hairdryer. She returned to the garage and began to sort through the bags. Piece by piece, she shook loose the wrinkles and fanned the hairdryer back and forth until each garment appeared to have been dry cleaned. She hung the slacks, skirts, suits, and dresses on hangers and put the blouses, nightgowns, pajamas, and underwear in baskets. Claire expected to come across Liz’s jewelry and treasured photo albums beneath the other things, but they were not in the first, second, third, or fourth bags.

The fifth bag contained mostly shoes that she sorted into pairs, setting aside three shoes that had no mates. Once she’d completed the task she looked around, wondering if she’d overlooked something. She gave each bag a vigorous shake, then checked inside every purse. Nothing. Jeffrey had sent clothes. Only clothes. No photo albums, no jewelry, no fur coats, no camera, not a single item of monetary value. He’d sent only what he wanted to get rid of.

With a heavy heart Claire carried the things into the house and arranged each in their proper place. She put the folded things in the bureau, dresses and such hung in the closet, and beneath the hanging clothes lined up rows of pumps and sandals like colorful soldiers on parade. With everything in place, Claire sat down to wait for the tinkle of Elizabeth’s bell.

~

When Elizabeth awoke, Claire informed her that her clothes had been delivered.

“Now you have no reason to lazy around in that bathrobe,” she said cheerily.

Elizabeth’s eyes brightened ever so slightly. “JT was here?”

“No, he had a courier service bring the things. Jeffrey probably would have come himself, but maybe he’s working.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Elizabeth answered with little conviction.

In an effort to redirect the discussion, Claire flung open the closet door. “Look at these lovely outfits! This suit was always my favorite. You look so beautiful in—”

“Mother,” Liz interrupted, “that suit is a size six. It wouldn’t fit me anymore. Not since I’ve gained all this—”