Burn Our Bodies Down(5)

I roll my eyes. “Better than ever.” I wonder if I’ll ever mean it.

Frank sets the receipts down and leans forward, his arms braced on the display case. “Well?” he says. “What’ll it be?”

I should’ve counted my money outside. But I forgot, and now that I’m in front of Frank I’m not about to empty my pockets. It’s a pair of twenties, probably—Mom doesn’t pay our rent in singles anymore—but I know better than to let Frank see. “Not sure yet,” I say, backing away and meandering toward one of the cases where Mom’s stuff usually is. “Just browsing.”

“Her shit’s not out here,” Frank says, coming around to stand next to me.

“What do you mean?” Frowning, I turn to see an array of ratty baseball cards and a pair of fake diamond studs where some of Mom’s stuff used to be.

“I mean,” Frank says, impatiently, “that you two were the only people buying it. Not exactly running a wide margin here, am I?”

“So where’d you put it?” I can’t hide the panic tight in my voice, the fight already stirring in my body. If it’s gone, if he’s ditched it, it’ll be my fault somehow.

He gives me the same look most people in town do once they’ve met my mother. Disbelief, and a little bit of worry—which I hate more than anything else, because what right do they have to worry about me? She’s my mother, and when I hurt, I know she does too. “Just put it in the back, that’s all,” he says, and nods toward the door behind the register. “Take it easy.”

“Sorry.” I swallow hard, force myself to relax. “Can I see?”

He gestures for me to follow and heads to the back room. It’s stacked so high with junk it’s probably supporting the whole building. Clothing, books and enough watches to cover both my arms all the way up to the elbow. At the far side of the room, a table that looks antique but is probably particleboard is covered with five or six battered boxes, the sides peeling away from each other. Nielsen written on each one in fading black ink.

“There,” Frank says. “Told you.”

“Thanks.” I shift from foot to foot, suddenly cold. “You don’t have to stay in here with me.”

“So you can smuggle half your mom’s stuff out under your shirt?” He sounds like he’s joking, but he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Something about the sight of his kneecaps poking out below his cargo shorts makes me feel sick. “Figure out what you want. Prices should still be marked.”

I ease toward the table, trying not to let Frank see that I’m nervous. They’re Mom’s belongings, things she decided she didn’t need. I’ve never really looked through them before—she does it herself, has me wait where Frank is standing now. And whenever I’ve come here without her, it’s been for myself, usually to see if Frank’s willing to sell me a better phone for half the marked price. He never is.

“Any day now,” he says, grabbing one of the tagged watches to tap it impatiently.

“It’s not like you have a bunch of customers waiting for you,” I say. Meaner than he deserves, but I’m on edge, and it’s true. “Just give me a minute.”

I open the first box and peer inside. It’s mostly empty except for an odd assortment of silverware and a frying pan coated with something unspeakably pungent. I cough, my eyes watering, as Frank lets out a delighted laugh behind me.

“That one’ll get you,” he says as I turn to get a breath of fresh air.

“Why the hell would you buy that from her?” I ask. “I didn’t take you for a charity.”

“Shows what you know,” Frank tells me, his chest puffing up proudly. “I’m the nicest guy in the world.”

I look back at the boxes of Mom’s stuff. If the others are like the first one, Frank might be right. It’s junk. All of it junk. And it’s sad, really. My mother’s life. Thirty-five years. This is all she has to show for it? She had me young, I know that, but it’s hard to remember that when she’s as far from me as she is. Hard to realize that in the eighteen years before I came around, she barely had a chance to live at all.

I ignore the tightness in my throat and tug the smallest box toward me. I’ve never seen this one. Inside is mostly fabric, and at first I think it’s clothing and maybe we could take it to the tailor, like I planned. But then I tug one piece all the way out and it’s not clothes. It’s a blanket. Small, and soft, and a pale new pink.

“That’s what you want?” Frank says. “Cheap enough, I guess.”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. This was mine. It has to have been mine. There’s no monogram in the corner, no name written on the small white label, but this box: these are all my baby things. A catch in my throat, a prick in my eyes. The very beginning of me, packed up and sold, and she couldn’t keep it and couldn’t get rid of it either. Just the way she is with me.

“Not this,” I say, my voice rough and low.

“Fine. Hurry up, then.”

I set the blanket down on the table and root through the rest of the box. Here a board book, bright colors and no text, the edges warped with humidity. Here a T-shirt, cut up and stitched haphazardly into a onesie for someone unimaginably small. You, I remind myself. This was for you. But it stings too much to linger. This was a bad idea. I should go.