Surfside Sisters(60)
The room was adrift in an ocean of papers. Piles and piles of papers.
“Mom.”
Her mother came out of the kitchen and stood slumped, unable to meet Keely’s eyes. “I know. I’ve let it get away from me. But I have a plan. I do. I’m sorting through all the papers and boxes from the bedrooms and basement. Have you heard of ‘Death Cleaning’?”
“What? No!”
“It’s Swedish. It’s on all the television shows. It means decluttering your house so your children don’t have to when you die.”
“Yeah, well, this doesn’t look like decluttering to me.”
“I know, but they say you can take your time. It doesn’t have to be done all at once and you can slow down and look at what you’re getting rid of and appreciate the memories. I know this looks like a mess, but I’ve got a system. Come over here.”
Keely obeyed her mother, wading through piles of paper to sit next to Eloise on the sofa.
“Now look.” Eloise held up a construction paper collage of Christmas images Keely had made in first grade. “Isn’t this pretty? How can I give it up? And you’ll want to have it when you’re settled in a house.”
“Mom.” Keely took the paper from her mother, set it aside, and took her mother’s hand. “Stop a minute. Look at yourself. Look at this room. It’s like—” where a hoarder lives, she almost said, but stopped herself. “Don’t you wonder what I’m doing here? Why I just showed up like this?”
“Well, honey, you know I’m always glad to see you. This is your home. You don’t need any special reason to come visit.”
“But I have a special reason. Brenda called me. She’s worried about you. When’s the last time you got together with Brenda? Or with any of your friends? When have you gone to a movie, or to a concert, or to the library?”
Eloise yanked her hand away from Keely’s. “I’m busy, that’s all. I’m busy!”
“Too busy to wash your hair?” Keely leaned in closer, inhaling the unpleasant scents of body odor and hair that desperately needed washing. “Too busy to bathe? Or wash your clothes?”
“Why does it matter?” Eloise folded her arms over her chest in a classic defensive pose. “I never go anywhere, except to the grocery store. I’ve got too much to do here. So much stuff to throw out. All my life to throw out.”
“Oh, Mom.” Keely tried to put her arm around her mother, but Eloise pulled away, her mouth in a childish pout. Keely persisted. “We both know if you throw away these papers, you won’t be actually throwing away your life. I mean, this Christmas collage, well, we can toss that, right? I certainly don’t want it.” Eloise bristled, but held her tongue. “So. I’m going to put my luggage in my room, and then I’ll come out here and we can make a start.”
“Keely—” Eloise struggled to say the words. “It might take more than a few days.”
“Okay, well, that’s fine. I can write every morning and help with the papers in the afternoon. I’ll just get my stuff organized.”
She walked out of the living room and down the hall between the three small bedrooms and bathroom.
The hall was filled with stuff. Clothes. Books. Clocks, lamps, pictures, mirrors, small boxes of God only knew what. And not piled neatly in a grouping, but all mixed together in a hodgepodge of odds and ends.
She looked in her mother’s room. More stuff. Mostly clothing and shoes, much of it Keely’s father’s. A pang of guilt cramped Keely’s heart. She should have helped her mother sort her father’s things years ago.
She found her own room as chaotic as the rest of the house. Her parents had given her twin beds so she could have sleepovers with friends. Both beds were hidden beneath jumbles of fabric. Wading through old skirts, sweaters, and sneakers, Keely pulled her luggage to the closest bed. She picked up a wad of clothes and tossed them on the floor. She was determined to get down to her sheets and her mother’s hand-embroidered lilac quilt and toss them in the wash before she tried to sleep in this room tonight.
“Keely? Darling?”
“I’m in my room, Mom. Gosh, I have a lot of books to take to the library for the book sale.”
Eloise stepped into the room. “Oh, darling, don’t do that. I might want to read some of them.”
Keely started to argue, but held her tongue. It broke her heart to see her wonderful mother looking so—so lost. Unwashed and shabby and lost.
Lost in her own home.
“You’re right,” Keely said. “We’ll do it together and you can decide which books can go and which can stay.”
Her mother stubbornly faced forward, chin lifted defiantly.
Keely thought desperately and came up with the perfect solution. Islanders called their dump the Madaket Mall because so many summer people dropped off their cast-offs at the Take It or Leave It shed. A few minutes’ search on the bookshelves and tables could provide new hardback mysteries from England, available a year before the American publication. The wealthy summer women had their help drop off clothes with the tags still on them—if they hadn’t worn them that summer, they didn’t want them; they wouldn’t wear anything a year old. Antique chairs, slightly scratched, Italian majolica dinner sets that didn’t work out for the summer house, wicker armchairs with one strand of wicker missing—the dump was like a mad hatter store. Many islanders stopped by there at least once a week, partly to cruise the shed, partly to visit with friends, because so many islanders were there. One of the great things was that when you met up with friends at the mall, you could be wearing old saggy clothes, crazy hair, and no lipstick and it didn’t matter—everyone looked that way at the Madaket Mall.